

Published by The Olympic Pen

threepricegirls.blogspot.com

Copyright © 2013, 2018 Price Girls

All rights reserved. No part of this book can be used or reproduced in any form without written permission by the publisher with the exception of brief quotes in reviews and articles.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, events, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

Originally self-published as an e-book in 2013 under the title Marimar Daughter of Light and later re-published in 2014 under the title A Daughter of Light (A Light onto the World).

Girls, Price

The Merging of Shadows: a novel / by Price Girls. – First edition, revised.

This book is dedicated to our amazing parents Sonny and Any who always told us to be a light onto the world, and to Sage Sterling Price who is always looking out for us.

In loving memory of Oscar (Tito) Abel Lemus and dedicated to Anamarie (Tita) L. Gálvez in whose eyes we can do no wrong.

To our feathery and furry babies for bringing joy into our lives.

In loving memory of Mr. V and Elise who have inspired us to trust our instincts.

And to all of our loving family members.

Dear Reader and or Fellow Paranormal Geek Hiding in the Closet of Normalcy,

Approach this book with caution. Sleep with the lights on and your cross in hand, because unless you're twelve—which you best not be because this book contains a fucking shit load of F-bombs and other offensive material which some parents or schools may deem "inappropriate" or "satanic"—it is not cool to jump in bed with your parents. 'Cause that would be weird. And awkward.

Take it from three paranormal geeks who wrote the book and our editors who bravely proofread it through all hours of the night, this book will scare the crap out of you. That gentle nighttime breeze whistling against your window. Whispers. The dog wagging his tail on the wall outside your door. Ghostly knocks mocking the holy trinity. The five-year-old waking you up to crawl into bed with you at three o'clock in the morning. A freakin' demon child.

In fact, this unholy book was birthed from a nightmare and our healthy fear of the dark. Yet, ultimately, the material within these pages can be traced back to the experiences we have had over the years with those hiding behind the merging of shadows within our bedroom walls.

So, if you still intend on reading this book, thanks for letting us share our nightmares with you. Sweet dreams.

Love,

CONTENTS

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Epilogue

1 THESSALONIANS 5:5

YE ARE ALL THE CHILDREN OF LIGHT,

AND THE CHIDLREN OF THE DAY ...

I was told by an early age, around the time I convinced myself that the silhouette of the witch with the pointy hat who resided in the corner of my room every once in a blue moon—supposedly cast from the merging of shadows from the surrounding furniture—was definitely going to get me, that I shouldn't go looking for things that aren't there, to just ignore it. So I did. I ignored or more or less hid under the covers from the witch who magically reappeared by the closet even after Mama and Papa had rearranged all my bedroom furniture and had announced that there were no such things as witches, monsters, or ghosts before having turned off the light and leaving me alone. I didn't go looking for the witch. Just like I didn't go looking for the thing lurking in the dark. In fact, it came looking for me.

And it all started in that damn house.

Drip. Splat. I count another drop. So far I've counted three drops in as many seconds. Sweat drips onto the page of my book. I let out a deep sigh. I can't concentrate. The only thing I can think about is how hot and sweaty I am. The damn air conditioner in the minivan is busted. It stopped working about a hundred miles back, it just went kaput. When Papa rolled down the window it was as if the air blew in straight from the devil's mouth. Zero relief. We're all practically baking in here. Papa says he'll get it fixed tomorrow. That's not soon enough.

"Someone please ..." I moan, dropping my book The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in my lap. Hot, listless, eyes brimming with tears of frustration, I clutch my sweat-dampened head despairingly and continue addressing my fellow prisoners, "... shoot me. Put me out of my misery." I drop my head back and stare at the mundane ceiling that has been mocking me with its grey coolness and heave empty sobs.

"Sorry, baby. That only applies to lame horses and the elderly," Papa says flippantly, ending in a chuckle.

I drop my hands and narrow my eyes at him.

"What? I thought it was funny," he directs to Mama who returns his comment with a shake of her head and a hint of a smile.

He takes hold of her hand and jiggles it playfully before bringing it to his lips and giving it a kiss.

"Mmm-hmm," Mama murmurs.

Annoyed, I direct my attention to the long stretch of dirt road bordered only by endless fields. Occasionally I'll spot a Texas LongHorn. I rest my elbow on the side of the window.

"Ouch!" I yelp, rubbing my now angry red skin.

"Woof, woof!" Trevor, my six-month-old yellow pup, barks in my ear from the seat behind me.

"Trevor, hush!" I reprove, waving him off. Undeterred in his efforts to pester me, he stays put and breathes hot dog breath down my neck. "Trevor," I say, patience waning. I turn away from the window. "What? What do you want?" Eyes fixed with the ardor of puppy love, he smacks his furry lips together. Don't. You. Dare—! Before I can react he lunges at my face and assaults me with his massive, sticky tongue. Licking me across my mouth and the left side of my face.

"Trevor, stop!" I order as I push his head away in frustration. Eww. Great. I'm hot, sweaty, and I smell like dog drool. Can this day get any worse?

"Yuck, Tweevow!" my five-year-old baby sister giggles; unable to fend him off properly since she's strapped into her booster seat. Marisol has a speech impediment, what she meant to say was Triever. You see, Trevor's a golden retriever which is where his name was derived from, sort of. When we first received him as a parting gift from our next-door neighbor, Marisol called him a golden tweevow. Papa thought Tweevow sounded pretty close to Trevor so Mama and I went along with it. I was just happy that we were getting a dog. The only reason they agreed on letting us keep him was due to the idea that he would help us in transitioning to our new home.

If only we could get out of this freaking car! I think as Trevor decides to give up on trying to lick off the blue Slurpee stains tracing Marisol's mouth and instead takes up the hobby of licking my arm. Then hers. Then mine again. Basically, he's using us as his own personal salt lick.

Marisol resumes her idle chatter. She has not stopped talking the whole car ride. Even before the Slurpee—although, admittedly, that didn't help. I'm talking, I haven't seen her mouth stop moving since we crossed Texas state lines seven hours ago. Around the same time the terrain became flat and dry and predictable and sightseeing seemed to have lost its Little House on the Prairie charm. Ever since then she has been chatting away with her imaginary friend, Gabriella. Or, as she calls her, Gabby, with whom she seems to be in a very profound conversation with at the moment.

How serious can a five-year-old's conversation be? After a moment of trying to decipher whatever-the-hell she is talking about I give up on listening.

Picking up my book I start the task of straightening out the pages I had crinkled when the car suddenly becomes devoid of sound and motion.

We have stopped.

Mama and Papa turn around in their seats and smile, faces flushed and glistening. More so Papa's. He's always teasing both me and Mama that he wishes he had a perpetual beachcomber's tan like us because he always complains that he can get a sunburn just walking to the car. And right now he's reached a shade of pink I didn't think possible.

"Car ride's over girls, get out," Mama says.

"Buh-bye, now," Papa adds, smile still widening.

"Tut. Already?" I reply. I unbuckle my seatbelt eager to escape. I don't want to be in this oven a minute longer. Swinging the door open I am about to hop out when I hear Marisol struggling with her seatbelt, so I go over to help her unbuckle out of her booster seat. In which time Trevor takes the opportunity to jump into my seat, just clearing my head, and takes off.

"Trevor," I huff. "You're free," I say to Marisol, unclicking the buckle.

"Yay!" she says excitedly as she slides down from her seat and jumps out before me. I shut the door behind us. I dab the sweat away from my forehead with my shirt. My whole body seems to be covered in sweat, drenched. I don't even have a lot on. I'm wearing a tank top, sandals, and a pair of shorts—as short as I'm allowed anyway. Papa is all about "not showing skin." I had styled my curly hair into a messy bun, but after an hour with the windows down I got to drive through my new town donning a frizzy mess. Papa and Mama say our bodies will adapt to the weather, but I highly doubt it.

"Oohhhhh," I groan quietly in frustration. I feel so gross. More sweat forms on my forehead. I give up on wiping it away. More will just form. The salt stings my eyes. Don't I look attractive? Good thing I'm not wearing any makeup or my face would look like it's melting off, kind of like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz ... At least nobody saw me, nobody I know anyway. As soon as I get in I'm taking a nice cold shower. Cold. Hmm.

Employing my book as a fan, I get my first official look of what I am dealing with here. Aside from the horde of flies and the swarm of bloodsuckers who have surfaced to greet their latest victims, the house is not bad. It's much larger than the last one we owned in Corvallis, Oregon. Apparently homes here in Valentin, Texas, are much cheaper. I wonder why? Another drop of sweat splashes onto the gravel below. Oh, yeah, that's why. A lot of people can't stand this sort of heat and I'm one of them.

Coming around to the back of the trunk I grab a box and make my way to the house. As I walk along the stone steps leading up to the porch of my new home I notice that the house has a deserted air to it. I mean the house looks great and all considering it's a late eighteen-hundred Victorian-style farmhouse that was fully updated by the previous owners. It's not falling apart or anything like that, it's just the yard. Dried vines and weeds surround the wilted roses—which obviously couldn't withstand this heat. Dead vines still latch themselves partially up the sides and front of the house; weaving to and fro along the porch railings and pillars. They must have given a cool pastoral appearance to the place, but now it gives the place an even more forsaken look. Creepy.

Dispersed around the yard are semi-naked trees. The grass is brown with some missing patches here and there. I expected as much—the realtor told us Texas is supposed to be in a drought. Great. On top of that, it's just the beginning of summer and summers here are apparently sweltering. I'm surprised the birds haven't dropped dead from heat stroke.

Squinting, I optimistically inspect the sky for any indication of relief.

Only sparse white fluffy clouds and a wide-open blue sky with tints of yellow from the blazing sun meet my eyes. Please, let it not be like this for the whole summer. No way am I hanging outside willingly. Bye-bye, beachcombers tan. Hello, vampirine complexion.

"Nice clouds, aren't they neat?" Papa teases, setting down the three large boxes in his arms so he can unlock the massive wooden door. I make a face at him. "C'mon, baby, I don't want to let all the cold air out," he says, urging me up the steps. Past the panting yellow pup.

Too hot and lazy to move, Trevor doesn't bother to lift his head when I walk by but instead resorts to watching me with his eyes.

"Marisol, come stand next to Mama," Mama says to my baby sister. Attempting to steal a peek through the long and narrow window panes, she is currently blocking the keyhole by hopping up and down in front of it.

"Why?" Marisol huffs, landing on her toes. She brushes her sweat-laden blonde curls from her forehead.

"Because you make a better door than a window; that's why," Papa answers.

"I don't get it," she replies, as Mama catches hold of her wrist and pulls her to the side. Trapping Marisol's face in her hands Mama kisses the top of her head.

"It means I can't see the lock when you're hopping up and down in front of it," he says, getting to work.

"Oh," she says thoughtfully. "I still don't get it."

"You don't need to, my token blonde child," he says, mussing up her already messy blonde curls as she bounds past him. "Don't worry, Mar, you're our honorary blonde child."

"Very funny," I mumble out, before playfully elbowing him in the gut as I enter.

"Did you see how your daughter treats me?" I hear him say behind me.

"Not like you weren't asking for it," Mama says. Then I hear a lot of kissing sounds and a few comments both blush-worthy and cringe-worthy pass between them which I am going to pretend to unhear. Starting now.

Ooh, air conditioning. Aahh. I am so happy that Papa had everything turned on before we arrived. Everything being the utilities and the cable.

"Damn," I breathe, having opened my eyes and glancing about. Seeing it in person is a lot different than taking a virtual tour of the house. Stepping inside truly shows the size of the place. The house has four bedrooms upstairs, three bathrooms—two upstairs, one downstairs—and three staircases—one leading upstairs, one leading to the attic, and one leading down into the cellar-slash-basement. Everything about the house is great, as long as you don't mind the heat, the humidity, or the fact that there aren't any neighbors unless you count the local businesses.

Our house is on the edge of town with a large field separating it from the nearest building. Fingers crossed there aren't any Texas chainsaw massacre wannabes scouting the area or we'd be screwed. Correction, they'd be screwed. Papa would hunt their asses down and bury the bastards before the cops even showed.

"What was that?" Mama asks, taking the box from out of my hand and placing it on top of the other boxes—which we will be living out of for the next few days—that Papa had stacked against the wall.

"Impressive," I correct myself. Technically I'm not allowed to curse even though I am practically an adult, being sixteen and all. Never stopped me before. Marisol's currently zipping around the room so there's no way she heard me.

"See, Mamí, living here won't be so bad," Mama says cheerfully. Coming up behind me she hugs me to her chest.

"I'm going to miss the cold and watching the rain from my bedroom window."

"It rains here too, you know," Papa comments, unloading another round of boxes.

"Clearly."

"Marisol, get down from there! You know better than to climb that. Banisters are not for sliding they are for holding, and holding only," Papa says.

"But, Tom and Jaywey do it!" she protests, referring to her favorite cartoon characters.

"Tom and Jerry do a lot of things they shouldn't," Mama replies. "Now get down."

"Oh, okay," she sighs. Sitting down at the top she scooches on her butt all the way downstairs, before speeding down the hall to explore. The sound of her voice advances and recedes as she bounces off the walls.

"Where was I?" Mama asks me.

"You were saying how this place doesn't suck."

Mama frowns back at me, hands on hips.

"A little help?" Papa calls out from behind us. Setting down a couple more boxes.

A couple flies enter in through the open door.

"I'm going to—" I say, retreating to the door.

"Yeah, you do that," Mama answers, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I found it, I found it, Mawimaw!" I hear screamed shrilly at a glass-breaking level from the top of the stairs.

"Found what?" I shout back, pausing at the entrance.

"Marimar Filomena Utterson," Papa reproofs from beside me, "In my ear?"

"Sorry."

"I found ouw woom!"

I bite my lip and look entreatingly over to Papa.

"Go," he dismisses me.

I follow the sound of her voice upstairs which leads me to the second room on my left. The room is large, with wallpaper dating from the nineteen-hundreds depicting the tale of Mark Twain's, The Adventure of Tom Sawyer. The room is furnished with a large dresser, a desk, a rocking chair, a rocking horse, a large window with light green heavy curtains, a nightstand beside the bed, an armoire which appears to predate the built-in closet, and a large bed with a bunch of stuffed animals and toys surrounding it. The second I step into the room my stomach drops and the floor feels as if it's going to break from under me. For some strange reason, I'm sensing some major stalker vibes going on in here.

The faces on the walls must be creeping me out, I tell myself. I could swear their eyes are following me ... And, God, what is that smell?

"Isn't there any other room you might want? Maybe you might want to look at the bedroom across the hall?" I ask, struggling to get my words out because I'm choking on the nauseating smell. Where is that smell coming from?

"Nope, this is the one," she says decidedly to my dismay.

"Doesn't that," cough, "smell bug you?"

"Nu-ah."

"Where is it coming from?"

"I think Gabby did it," she states matter-of-factly. Conveniently, Gabriella also serves the dual purpose of entertaining and taking the heat off of Marisol. "I'm gonna go play now," she says unbothered, before running into Mama outside in the hall.

"Where do you think you're going, stinky?" Mama asks.

"To play," she informs her.

"No, you don't. It's bath time."

"Aww," she complains, being led back into the room by the hand.

"Speaking of smells, it stinks in here," I say.

"Old houses tend to do that," Papa replies, entering the room sideways. Scraping both mine and Marisol's duffel bag—containing our clothes and other essentials—against the doorframe as he carries them in on each broad shoulder.

"No I mean it really stinks. Like something died."

Mama sniffs around, her nose involuntarily scrunching up as she draws further into the room.

"Phew. I blame the dog," Mama says, fanning the smell away. She peers over at the far corner where Trevor is lying.

A fly buzzes overhead and crawls into the crack of the closet.

"Walter, call the dog outside to go potty."

"No thanks."

"Walter."

"Alena," he mimics, swinging our bags down onto the mattress.

"Walter," she warns.

"As you wish, master," he sighs, heading to the door.

"Thank you," she says oh-so-sweetly.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Trevor, heel." Trevor doesn't budge. Papa whistles. "C'mon, dog." Nothing. Not surprising. He's been with us for about a month now and he still hasn't figured out his name. We suspect he's dumb.

Actually, now that I think about it, the only word he does come to is ... "Treat," Papa says, and the dog comes running. Maybe he has selective hearing?

"That's the last time we're feeding him fries. Crack the window open and let it air out a little in here. Oh, and I left the box containing everything you need to take a shower on the toilet seat. I'm going to start unpacking some boxes if you can get your sister bathed?"

"Sure, no problem."

"I'll be downstairs if you need me."

"Come on, let me draw you your bath," I say, heaving the window open. Grabbing Marisol by the hand I lead her to the bathroom in the hall. I draw the bath with lukewarm water and start pumping in the suds. I throw in a rubber ducky for good measure. She gets in. I then strip and step into the separate shower. I shiver under the ice-cold water but begin to unwind.

A little hand grasps my shoulder as Marisol leans on me for support while she tries to get her leg through her Hello Kitty pajama bottoms.

"There," I say, giving her leg a clap, "all dressed." Her sea-green eyes stare down at me under a curtain of brown eyelashes as she grins. Bending over she throws her arms around my neck, and gives me a hug, nearly knocking me over in the process.

"Mmm," I murmur, hugging her tighter. "Okay, go play. Wait," I say, capturing her by the wrist as she whirls back around. "Give me a kiss. Mwah. All right, go on now. Shoo."

"Close the door. I have to get dressed," I add too late.

Standing up I adjust my robe and close the door. The stench has left, but the overwhelming feeling that I am not alone still hovers.

How am I supposed to sleep if I feel like I'm being watched? I think as I quickly slip on my underwear. Hey, where'd my shirt go? Laid out on top of my duffel bag is my purple fluffy pajama bottoms, but no sign of my pink tee. I remember I left it right on top of my pants.

I lift up Marisol's bag. Nope. I kneel down and check under the bed. Not there either. I know I just had it. Did I toss it back in? Unzipping the bag I rummage through its contents. Marisol's? I unzip hers and shove back the top flap. Ah-ha! yeah, no.

Screw it, it's cold, I'm tired, and I am beginning to be aware of the dull ache coming from, well, everywhere. The consequence of sitting on your ass in a minivan for four days straight. I'll just wear this one, I think, pulling out a white t-shirt from the bag and putting it on.

"Whatcha up to, buddy?" I ask in response to the low whine Trevor let out. "Who let you in?"

Cr-e-a-k.

Jumping into my pants, I whip around just in time to catch a glimpse of the closet door being pulled closed.

"Did you see that, buddy?" I ask Trevor who gives me a nervous side glance. Looking at the door to me and back at the door. Ears flattened and tail tucked between his legs he scuttles out of the room. Really?

"Sunshine?" I cross over to the closet. "Marisol? I know you're in there." I can hear her hiding deeper inside the closet. I sigh in relief.

"Whatcha doing?" Marisol says from behind me making me scream.

"God!" I say, placing my hand over my heart. "Don't scare me like that."

"Sowwy," she says, giggling into her hand. "Look what I found," she says, reaching behind her back and shoving this butt-ugly thing in my face.

"Ech!" I jump back. "What the heck is that thing?"

"He's a monkey, silly. His name is Socks."

Socks, the sock monkey, has coal black buttoned eyes and a stitched mouth. A raggedy old sock monkey, I would say he could use a good scrubbing. Or two. It appears he's been dragged through hell and back. Clearly, someone wasn't taught a little thing called hygiene.

"Where did you ...?"

"I found him sitting on the staiws."

"Sunshine, let's not touch Socks too much, okay? Socks needs a bath," I say, pinching his leg between my fingers and slipping it out of her arms.

Looking past her I spot the pink t-shirt I was originally going to put on laid out perfectly on top the purple duffle bag. What the fuck?

Bang. Something gets knocked over in the closet. Shrieking, I drop the monkey, grab Marisol by the hand, and we race downstairs. "Papa! Papa! Pa—! Oof."

"That's my name, don't wear it out," Papa teases, catching the two of us in an embrace by the bottom of the stairs. If he was a small man we'd probably have knocked him flat, but being a big man built like Superman, running into him is like running into a wall. A very large wall.

"Papa, there's something in the closet."

"If it's a big, furry blue monster I think it's friendly."

"I'm not kidding. Please, come look," I respond, dragging him by the hand and leading him upstairs to investigate.

"Baby, I don't see anything," Papa says, crouched just outside the closet. Mama, who up until now had been surveying the closet for evidence of creatures over Papa's shoulder, takes a step back to give Papa some room to stand up. Clicking off the light he continues, "Whatever was in there is gone now. I'll drop by the grocery store sometime this week and pick up a trap."

"What do you think it was?" I ask, settling on the bed and hugging my legs to my chest.

"Mice probably. Darn things must be burrowing inside the wall. Looks like they just knocked over one of the shelves. Seeing there's a tree just outside and you guys left the window open," he eyes me, "I would say a squirrel could have gotten in, too. But, we're in the country, who knows what it could have been," Papa says as he shuts the window.

"You guys, you got to remember to keep the windows closed. We're not in Oregon anymore. Not only are you drawing all the cold air out and wasting electricity, but you're also going to be letting in a lot of unwelcome guests.

"This really should have a screen, though," he says to himself, rubbing his chin.

"Okay," I mutter though technically I opened it under Mama's directions.

"Sorry," Mama mumbles out.

"Ooh, if it's a squiwwel can we keep it?" Marisol asks, still stuck on the whole squirrel idea. She climbs onto the bed and seats herself on my lap.

"No, you cannot keep the squirrel," Papa says decidedly.

"Aww."

"We'll see," Mama says, taking a seat beside me.

"Yay!"

"Alena, we're not keeping a squirrel," Papa says. "You don't want to take it away from its family do you?" he says, turning to Marisol.

"What if it doesn't have a family and we set the baby squirrel free and it dies?" I add just for fun.

"Yeah, the baby squiwwel might get eaten up," Marisol says, looking back at me. Nodding her head in agreement she turns back around to see what Papa has to say.

"Thanks, Mar," he sighs, glaring over at me.

We'll see, Mama mouths when Papa's back is turned, busy patrolling the walls for cracks or holes the mice might have escaped into.

"Woof. Woof. Woof!" Trevor's obnoxious bark drifts upstairs.

"That must be the pizza guy," Papa says tiredly.

"About time!" I grumble. I file out the door behind everybody else. Careful to watch my step in case something furry with whiskers decides to dart under my feet.

The rest of the evening passes by in a blur. Our trip cross-country has really taken its toll on us. By the time we finish the pizza we had delivered, around nine, the four of us, especially Marisol who had been hopped up on soda and sugar up until then, are worn out and ready for bed. Muddled by the state of being in between sleep and consciousness, I am slightly aware of the sensation of the bed spinning. The sweeping sensation of the bed is strange, yet I don't question it. The movement is so relaxing that the next thing I know ...

I'm digging. I can hear myself humming to a strange tune—the clink of the shovel hitting rocks. The sun is warm, but it doesn't bother me. Dust and dirt cover every inch of me. I have this strange feeling that I'm being watched. I tilt my head slightly toward the house. I see Mama and Papa from the corner of my eye watching me from the upstairs window. I turn and face them. The second they notice me looking they quickly close the curtain. I turn back and continue digging. The hole is wide and deep, but, for some reason, I have the feeling that I'm not done yet. I begin to sing a morbid and unfamiliar nursery rhyme:

"Burning sinners scream and wail.

My love for God will never fail.

As one reaps, one must sow.

Therefore, the wicked shall sprout only woe.

As we send them to the devil

We shall purge the earth of all its rebels.

We will tie them up and watch 'em burn,

And down in hell their souls will learn.

Some we'll beat with stones and rocks,

And leave them hanging in trees to rot.

Ghastly screams will be heard from afar,

For we'll dip them down in boiling tar.

From their tongues we will cut out their lies,

Envy and lust from their eyes.

We'll pile them up and throw them down,

So you can't hear their cries from beneath the ground.

Burning sinners, you cannot hide

The darkness that truly lies inside.

Your ashen faces will hide in shame,

You'll shrink back in fear from His holy name.

As life departs and death awaits,

You'll be only welcomed through hell's gates."

I open my eyes. It's the middle of the night. The glow of the full moon slightly illuminates the whole room. I am alone in bed. I see myself as I was when I was a kid; I can't be much older than Marisol. I watch as I reach under my pillow for something. I feel the handle of an object. I slide it out from under the pillow. In my hand is a long, old-fashioned knife. It looks pretty lethal. I caress it in my hand. I place the knife's blade against my right palm and slowly slice; my flesh tears away onto either side of the gash. I giggle as a river of crimson spews forth from the raw wound. I slide the knife back under the pillow. Blood drips over the mattress—it trickles down my arm, splattering more blood onto my ivory-laced nightgown. I curl over in an upright position as I cradle my wounded hand. I scream.

I hear the running of footsteps outside. My door is flung open. Familiar voices trail inside sounding panicked. In a fleeting moment I pull out the knife and I hide it behind my back. The other hand I present to Papa who is kneeled down beside me gingerly cupping my hand to examine the wound under the light of the candle Mama's holding.

The door slams shut behind them. Mama and Papa turn their heads in astonishment. They turn to me. My scream is replaced with a sinister laugh. Terror is displayed across their faces. Mama and Papa are trapped within the room. Both frozen in fear.

The window slams closed and the curtains shut. There is no escape.

The biting cold temperature in the room allows their breath to be visible. I can hear their breathing accelerate. The only light in the room now belongs to that one candle. I lean forward and with a puff of my breath blow the candle out. I spring. Knocking the candle back into Mama's face; she lets out a blood-curdling scream as hot wax scorches her skin. Her scream paralyzes Papa momentarily. By the time he's able to react, I'm on top of him. Having leapt into his arms like a child seeking comfort.

With my left arm around his neck, I wrap my legs around his waist and I lean back to plunge the knife downwards into his heart. Savage screams of obscenities spew out of my mouth. Papa catches my knife hand. We grapple for the weapon. I'm about to overtake him when the flow of blood oozing from my gash causes me to lose my hold on the knife's handle as he stumbles backward. Now the knife is in his power.

I bite his hand, but he doesn't release it. He lets out a shriek, but he only grips the knife tighter. Regaining control of the situation, he yanks me backward by my hair, detaching me from him. Strands of hair float down beside me as I land on the hardwood floor. I recover and once again assume a crouch. The knife is still in his hand.

I fly at him. He tries to take a swing at me with his right hand, but I chomp down on his forearm, tearing a chunk of flesh off. I consume it in one swallow. As he cringes back in pain I rip the knife out of his hand and go in for the kill. Just as I am about to thrust the blade into his chest I stop. I whip my head in Mama's direction. She's screaming some type of prayer.

"Silence you bitch!" I scream back.

Wham! For a fleeting moment, I feel pressure on the back of my head and then nothing.

The scenery changes, all I can hear is a heart-wrenching scream echoing all around me. I feel pain but I can't tell where it's coming from. It feels like it's coming from my whole body. The scream is on a continuous loop. It takes me a second to realize that it's emanating from me. My flesh is burning, melting off of my bones. All I can smell is the sickly sweet scent of my searing flesh. The pain won't cease. Flames mask my vision.

I choke out a scream, tearing my sheets off me. I pat my body in an attempt to extinguish the flames. It takes me a moment to register that I am not on fire. In a split second another memory enters my mind; blood. I check my clothes for blood, then my face and hands. There isn't any blood and the gash on my hand is gone. I whip myself around and I lift up my pillow. Where's the knife? I crawl on the bed over to where the candle should have landed. There are no burn marks on the floor. The room looks normal. I look down at my clothes once again; the nightgown is replaced by my pajamas. Relief washes over me as I realize that they were just nightmares. My face feels wet and sticky and my clothes are damp.

That pizza place wasn't kidding when they named it Magic Mushroom, because something is definitely up with those shrooms. I have never been so scared in my life, nor have I dreamt anything so vividly. Chills run down my spine as I recall the horrid events, especially when I remember the burning sensation. I push back the memories from my mind. Hopefully, if I don't think about them, I'll soon forget I ever had those dreams.

All of a sudden, I feel pressure on my shoulder. I jump. I relax when I realize it's only Trevor. Trevor once again rests his paws on my shoulders as he licks my face. Gross, dog breath. I push his fat head away from mine. I plant a kiss on the top of his head.

"Okay, bud. I love you and all, but I can do without the dog drool." He gives my face another long lick. "Okay, that's enough, out!" I tell him with a light laugh as I point to the door. He gives me one last lick before running out the door. Yuck! Naughty dog. Now I have dog drool all over my face. Oh well, I'm taking a shower anyway.

I look at the clock and it reads twelve noon. The curtains are open allowing in the sun. Mama must have done that knowing that if I woke up I'd have a hard time falling back to sleep. Nice. I turn over and find that Marisol isn't beside me. Huh, she must have gone downstairs to play. I get up from the bed and walk to the bathroom. I strip off my clothes and throw them in the hamper bag beside the door. Then I turn on the shower and get in.

This room gives me the creeps. I guess I'm just going to have to get used to it because Sunshine really seems to love it, I think as I step into the room, shivering from the freezing cold air. I grip my robe tighter to me. It doesn't help that I managed to drop my only dry hair towel I had in the shower; so now I have beads of water dripping down from my curly wet hair streaming down my back. I should turn up the thermostat ... Ah, forget it. I'm just going to get dressed and make the bed before I head downstairs.

After getting dressed I head over to my bed, tuck in the sheets, and I throw over the cover without bothering to smooth it out since (a) it's fucking cold and (b) the smell in here is starting to make me nauseous. Where the hell is that smell coming from?

I breathe into my hands to warm them. My hands are like ice cubes. "Damn, it's cold in here," I mutter. I stick my hands in my sweater pocket for added warmth. It's got to be like thirty degrees in here or something. Did someone turn the thermostat down or what? It shouldn't be this cold. I walk over to the thermostat in the hallway to adjust the temperature. That's funny, it's set to seventy. Why is it so cold in there? Whatever. Stupid weird-ass room.

I go downstairs. As I pass the great room I can just see the top of Marisol's head bobbing up and down as she bounces on the couch. I'll pop my head in and say good morning before I head toward the kitchen. Trevor must be outside or he'd be yapping at my heels by now. I'll sneak up behind her and scare her. I tread lightly up behind her. Before my shadow catches her attention I cry out, "Boo!"

"Aah!" she squeals—she turns to look at me as she giggles. Her laugh sounds like the tinkling of bells. I hold her face in my hands and I give her an exaggerated kiss.

"Morning, Sunshine." She gives me a grin. I release her face.

"Good mowning. Don't foeget to give Gabby hew kiss."

"Okay." I kiss the air beside her.

"No, she's ovew heya." She points to the other side.

"Oh, silly me."

How come she always has to pretend that I'm wrong? Once again I kiss thin air.

"Guess what, Maw."

"What?"

"I have a loose tooth."

"Really, where? Let me see." She opens her mouth revealing two missing front teeth and she wiggles a tooth in the back. "Wow, that's great, Sunshine. You're becoming such a big girl." I give her a kiss on the nose. "I'm going to go see if Mama and Papa need help with breakfast."

"Okey-dokey," she replies.

Cutting through the breakfast room I enter the kitchen. The iPod speakers are blaring eighties alternative music so they didn't notice when I entered. Mama is frying up our eggs and Papa's making the coffee on the kitchen island. Every Latin family has to have their coffee.

"Buenos días," I shout to both of my parents. I give them each a peck on the cheek. "Can you turn that down?"

"What?" Mama asks, lowering the volume.

"Never mind."

"You mean, buenas tardes," Papa says with a laugh.

"Okay then, buenas tardes."

"How did you sleep?"

"Well!" I respond with feigned enthusiasm. "Do you need any help making brunch?"

"Nope, but you can set the table."

"What are we having?" Mama points down in front of me; on the counter is a plate of home fried potatoes with onions, fried eggs, and beans. Yum! I grab the silverware and the napkins on my way out to the breakfast room. The room is spacious and fancy. There are large French windows to allow natural light in. No need for artificial lighting during the day. The walls are white with gold detailing. The light reflecting off the walls make the walls appear to glow the color of marigolds. In the middle of the room stands a mahogany table beautifully crafted and intricately detailed, as are the chairs and all the other furniture in the house. A small crystal chandelier hangs above the table. The sunshine reflecting through the glass prisms causes the light to dance on the walls like thousands of animated rainbows. Beautiful.

After I finish setting the table, I go back into the kitchen to bring out the plates.

"Which plate is ready?"

"Papa's."

I pick up Papa's plate and I walk into the breakfast room, being careful not to spill. I set it down on the table. I turn to leave. Wait a second. I turn back. Where's the silverware? The napkins? I look under the table to see if they were knocked down, even though I know that's highly unlikely. Nope, not there. Huh, I was sure I set the table. Maybe Marisol was in here?

Marisol is sitting on the stool beside the kitchen island, chatting away with Mama about her show. That rules her out. I pop my head back in. Okay, maybe I'm just seeing things. How the hell ...?

All of the silverware is stacked in the middle of the table forming what looks like a modern art sculpture, and the napkins are folded and propped up the way they are in swanky restaurants.

I hear the tinkling sound of glass banging into each other and I look up and find that the chandelier is swaying back and forth like a pendulum. Something would have had to apply some amount of force to get it to move that way.

"Quick! Come see this!" I shriek, my voice cracking in panic. I don't lift my eyes off of the table for one second; I don't even blink. A rabble of voices come rushing toward me.

"What is it?" they all ask.

"That!" I say, pointing to the silverware. I turn to them. I turn back. "Wait, what?" Everything is as it was. I must have blinked or something. "I thought I saw ..." My voice trails off. I look up at the chandelier and it is perfectly still.

"You thought you saw what?" Papa asks. Mama and Marisol have already returned to the kitchen.

What should I say ...? Spider!

"I thought I saw a spider, but it must have scurried off."

"How big was it?"

"Huge," I lie. "It was this big." I make a wide circle using both my thumbs and index fingers. "It was hairy. I think it was a tarantula."

"Which way did it go?"

"I don't know. It must have run off somewhere when I called out to you guys."

"Great," he mumbles to himself. "Don't tell your mother, she'll have a cow."

"Gotcha."

"Tell me if you see it again, I'm going to have to buy some insect repellent." Papa mumbles something incoherent as he heads back into the kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I must be seeing things. They should put a warning label on that pizza box. Warning: do not ride Puff the Magic Dragon while operating heavy machinery. Whoa, déjà vu, the same thing happened to me yesterday when my "missing" pink t-shirt made a Houdini reappearance. But didn't that happen before we ate dinner?

"Thanks for getting the rest of the plates, Mar," Papa says, dispelling my thoughts as I watch him struggle to carry them in. Two in each hand and one precariously pinned between his forearm and shoulder. "Sit down, Mama's bringing in the coffees."

Real conversation, the kind of conversation that isn't about how good the food is or how did you sleep and did you have any dreams—which I fought hard not to remember—doesn't start until halfway through our meal. Fine by me because it distracts me from my earlier delusions or hallucinations. The latter is yet to be determined.

"After brunch, Marimar, why don't you take your sister and go check out the town. Maybe you could take her to the park. I know Sunny would love that," Mama says, before taking a sip of her coffee. Sunny is Mama and Papa's nickname for Marisol because her name means sea and sun in Spanish. She grew into her name because she has eyes as green and majestic as the sea and long golden hair that puts the sun to shame. She looks like my Papa, although, most of his hair has turned to salt and pepper on the top and steel gray around the sides. When he was a kid he had blond hair like hers, but it had darkened with age—we expect hers to do the same. I, on the other hand, came out looking like Mama who's short and petite (typical of most Guatemalans), has dark curly hair and light copper eyes, and has an olive complexion.

"Your Papa and I are going to rest for the day. The trip over here really took its toll on us," she adds, adjusting the napkin tucked in the front of Marisol's shirt. Mama is seated at an angle from me as she sits next to Marisol, who sits across from me, so she can easily cut up Marisol's food for her. Papa's place is at the head of the table. His chair is larger than ours so he calls it and I quote, "his throne." He has one in almost every room. I'm on his right.

"Mmm-hmm, I think I remember seeing an ice cream parlor on our way over here. Why don't you guys go check it out and see if it's any good. But do us all a favor and make sure to go get some before you go to the park. That way Sunny will be able to burn off some of that extra energy so she'll actually go to bed on time tonight," Papa chuckles.

"Man, I hate driving," I groan.

Papa takes another bite of his eggs, still laughing. He chokes on his food, causing him to go into a coughing fit. Mama pats his back to help him breathe a little. After Papa recovers he warns us not to chew and laugh at the same time before saying, "You'll be fine. Just try not to kill anybody." Once again his coughing fit starts acting up. Karma.

Papa's half kidding when he told me not to kill anyone. I'm the most accident-prone driver anyone has ever met. I still don't understand how I'm alive or how anybody else is. I've taken out mailboxes, I've paid for new ones. I left a dent in some guy's fender. As I tried to back up, I dented somebody else's bumper—luckily, we have insurance.

Once I even managed to drive Papa's minivan into a ditch. That time I somehow managed to ruin the minivan more than it already was. The result was a couple of pretty impressive scratches, a few more dents, and the side mirrors as well as both headlights needed to be replaced. There should have been more damage but the minivan is pretty durable for minor incidents. Papa made me retake driver's ed, so his insurance wouldn't skyrocket. It's been a while since they have let me anywhere near the van. This doesn't bother me. I practically get a panic attack every time I drive. My palms start to sweat and my heart begins to accelerate. I have to do breathing exercises before I can even start the minivan to calm myself down enough to get out of the driveway.

"Are you sure you can deal with the regret of letting me loose onto the streets of the innocent public? I don't think your insurance can cover an excessive amount of damage." Papa grimaces.

I can see video surfacing on the internet of me on my latest escapade downtown. I bet I'd get millions of hits on YouTube. I can see the headline now:

Girl, sixteen, causes blood bath in a small Texas town.

Description: Marimar Utterson, the daughter of Walter and Alena Utterson, hit six people walking on the sidewalk while trying to parallel-park. Witnesses claim that she wasn't even texting or on the phone. Three more bystanders were harmed as she proceeded to back up. Panicking, she then hit the gas pedal in a poorly thought out attempt to back off the people and she, unfortunately, drove her minivan straight through the ice cream parlor's glass window, injuring five more. Unfortunately for the town, she was unscathed.

"Wait, I can't drive. I just remembered you didn't get the air conditioner fixed."

"Drive with the windows down."

"It has to be like ninety degrees out there!"

"You're going to have to get used to the weather; might as well start now." In other words, it's not going to be fixed for a while, so get used to it.

"If we're supposed to get used to the weather then why don't we turn all of the thermostats off?"

"Don't be a smartass-err-alec!" he snaps at me. His eyes are stern.

Humph, yeah. I guess it would suck for you to be hot, but you don't give a damn if I am, I think. Nice save. I wonder where I get it from. I don't dare say that. He'd ground me for sure—all I need is to be stuck in the house bored stiff. He'd probably take away my stash of books. Not like that matters, I've already read every book I own twice, but still ... I'd be stuck in my new scary, smelly old room for a good twenty-four hours.

It's time to switch tactics. I'll ask Mama instead since "the king of the house" won't budge. If I piss him off anymore he might guillotine me.

"Please, don't make me drive," I plead. I push my bottom lip out to form a puppy dog pout and I make my eyes well up with tears—that always seemed to work when I was little.

The minivan jolts sharply to a stop as I wait my turn at the four-way stop sign. The lone stop sign. Believe it or not, there are no stoplights in the whole town. The main street of the town is very, no, extremely old-fashioned. There are wooden walkways instead of sidewalks, and, yes, those are hitching posts for horses. Hard to imagine. I know. Harder still to imagine is that I am going to be stuck here for God knows how long, and the roads aren't even paved. Try driving through a freaking dust cloud.

I am only a foot away from the chick in front of me. That poor woman doesn't even know she's in front of a maniac driver. I turn to look at Marisol who is obliviously talking to her friend, Gabriella, as she is unaware of the fact that her life could be in danger with me at the wheel.

"What are you and Gabriella talking about?" I ask, watching the lady on the phone in front of me miss her turn to go through the stop sign.

"Oh, I'm talking to my new fwiend, Geowge." I turn to look at her. Funny, another imaginary friend with a name she can't pronounce properly.

"You mean George," I say.

"That's what I said, Geowge," she replies. Why do I even bother?

Beep, beep. "Get out of the road! You're holding up the lane ya DUMB BITCH!" I hear screamed from the car behind me. The lady in front of me missed yet another turn to go through the stop sign as she's on a very animated conversation on her cell phone.

"Why aren't you talking to Gabriella? You don't want to hurt her feelings, do you?" I ask, glancing back at Marisol through the rear-view mirror. Shit, it's my turn. Just my luck, as I pull up to the stop sign I forget in what order we're supposed to go through it. Was it yield to the left or yield to the right? Now I'm really freaking out. Oh God, I missed my turn.

Now the guy behind me yells, "What the fuck is the holdup!?" I hope Marisol didn't hear that.

I put my foot on the gas; the car lurches forward into the intersection, cutting off the cross traffic that was tired of waiting for me. Sorry, I say, though he can't hear me, to the guy in the red beater truck who swerves out of my way. In my side mirror I catch sight of the truck come to a screeching halt right before it crashes into the police car parked outside the post office. Oops. The last sight I catch of the guy in the truck before I turn the corner is the ballistic cop running out of the post office screaming at him.

Yes! I made it through alive. Barely.

I HATE DRIVING! God, I hope they didn't have cameras nearby. It was all that jackasses' fault for screaming at me. The next time somebody behind me curses at me, I'll just accidentally throw the minivan into reverse and take care of his or her bumper.

I take a deep breath and turn to Marisol who continues our conversation like nothing ever happened.

"Oh, no! I'm playing with Gabby and Geowge. I would nevew evew huwt Gabby's feelings. That wouldn't be vewy nice."

"Phew," I breathe quietly to myself. That was a close call. She obviously didn't hear anything that guy said or she would have definitely asked what the words meant. "That's my good girl. And for that, you're getting a cookie and ice cream." What did I just say? She's going to talk my ear off.

"Yay!" she exclaims excitedly. "Thank you."

Oh well, I sigh inwardly. I glance at her through the rear-view mirror. Her face is all lit up and she looks as bright as the sun itself, brighter even. The van is quiet for a moment. Glancing back at the mirror, I see a puzzled expression on Marisol's face.

"Maw, what does bit—?"

"No, no, no, Sunshine. Let's not say that word. It isn't a very nice thing to say. You don't want to hurt my feelings, do you?" I say cleverly, all the while cursing the guy out in my head.

"No. Oh, deaw. I'm sowwy, I won't say that wowd again."

"Promise?"

"Pwomise."

Man, did I dodge a bullet there. Marimar, you are a genius!

"Maw?"

"Yes, Sunshine?"

"What does the wowd fuck mean?"

I should've backed into that bastard!

I pull up in front of the ice cream parlor, hardly anybody's here. I put the minivan in park before shutting the engine. I adjust the rear-view mirror so that I can fix my appearance. My hair isn't in too bad of shape since I put it in a long braid that hangs down my back. It's only a little messy. Fortunately, there's a nice breeze so that I'm not sweating too noticeably—that and it's not as humid today. I look back at Marisol and strangely she doesn't seem to be sweaty. Maybe it's just me, then.

Unbuckling my seatbelt, I open the door. I go over to Marisol's door to help her unbuckle her booster seat. Our hands meet as she tries to help me unlatch the seatbelt. "Ooh, your hands are cold. How are you cold?" The guy on the radio said it was eighty-seven degrees today.

"I don't know." She shrugs. Touching the metal buckle I realize that it's cold too. In fact, I think I stopped sweating. Did the air conditioning turn back on only in the back or something? I reach out and touch the vent, but it's neither cold nor hot. That's so weird.

Marisol hops out of the car, clutching the newly washed sock monkey to her chest. I fix her up a little bit before snatching up the picture book lying face down next to her seat. Grabbing her hand we enter the ice cream shop. A bell goes off announcing our entrance to the few people in the parlor.

"How can I help you?" Maggie, the middle-aged ice cream scooper, asks.

My eyes gravitate to her hair that is stiff with hairspray. The overhead fan has no effect on it. Not a single strand is out of place.

Damn, that's a lot of hairspray.

"May I have a moment to think?"

"Take all the time you need, sweetheart."

"What kind of ice cream do you want, Sunshine?"

"Hmm, what do they have?"

"They have your favorite, mint chocolate chip ice cream."

"Yay!" she says while clapping her hands and jumping up and down, the monkey pinned underneath her arm.

"Aww, she's precious."

"Thank you. What do you say, Sunshine?"

"Thank you." She puts her hands behind her back as she sways side to side. Everything she does is adorable.

"Why don't you go pick out our seat and I'll be there in a second. Okay?"

"Okay," she says, turning away. "Wait," she says, pivoting back on her toes to face me, "don't I get a cookie?" Oops, I almost forgot.

"Um, Sunshine, they don't have cookies here. But I'll buy you one on the way home after we go to the park." Bet Mama and Papa will appreciate that.

"Okey-dokey," she says as she hugs my leg. She grabs the book from out of my hand before bolting toward an empty seat.

"Aww, she's so cute. How old is she?" Sunshine always seems to work her way into people's hearts.

"Five."

"I can see the resemblance between you two. So, are ya ready to order?" she says, waving the ice cream scooper around.

"Ah, yes. Two single scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream with waffle cones, please. Thanks."

I hand her the money and wait at the counter as she scoops up our ice cream.

"So, did y'all just move into the ol' Victorian on Solórzano street?" she asks, handing me the first cone.

"Yes, just yesterday actually."

"Oh."

"Why?"

"Oh, nothing." What was that supposed to mean? Her face shows concern.

"Is there something I should know about the—?"

"Well, here you go," she says, practically shoving the cone into my hand. She gives me a strained smile as she waves me off.

"Oh, thank you," I mumble out even though she ignores me and attends to the next customer.

That wasn't rude at all. My thoughts change direction as I approach our table. Marisol has her favorite book, Winnie-the-Pooh, lying open for me.

"Wead heya," Marisol says, pointing to her favorite part of the book as I sit down in my chair beside her. I hand her her ice cream.

"You mean here?" I tease, pointing at the opposite page.

"No," she giggles, "heya."

"Here?"

"Heya, heya!" Marisol's cracking up.

"Oh, here!" I say, finally pointing to the correct place.

"Yes!" She nods her head as she giggles.

"Oh, why didn't you say something in the first place?"

"I did!"

"Did not."

"Did too!"

"Didn't," I tease, before diving into the book.

"Did so!" she interjects.

"Shh!" I give her an annoyed look. "... And Pooh ate Piglet because Piglet was being very annoying."

At the park I find an empty, secluded bench under the shade of a large oak tree. I fan myself with my book. Finally, I can read. Not that I don't love pushing Marisol on the swing set, it's just that I'm still not used to this kind of heat. I'm so glad that little boy asked her to play. I flip open my book and I search for my page.

"Hey, gorgeous, what's your name?"

I gaze up from my book The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde into the hazel-green eyes of a boy with a strong, thick country accent. The guy looks like he's old enough to be in college. Please be younger than you look. He's tall, probably six foot something, and he towers over me by a long shot. I just barely made it to five feet. His looks scream college boy what with his chiseled features and muscular build clearly evident underneath his plain forest green t-shirt and his baggy jeans. The only thing boyish about him is the mischievous twinkle in one of his pretty eyes. The other is swollen black and blue which is kind of hard to look past at the moment. Whoever had given him that must have been in pretty bad shape after a brawl with him. Probably a drunken brawl. He must be a college boy. Damn. Papa will never let me date him.

The light flickering through the foliage above plays off his dark chestnut-brown, curly hair as he combs it back with his fingers waiting for my answer.

"Hey," I reply back, making it short and sweet so maybe he'll just go away and I could pretend like I didn't just see the cutest most unavailable guy in Texas. I attempt to go back to my book. At least I try to anyway, it's kind of hard when he's casting a huge shadow.

No, no. Don't sit down. Don't sit down. Oh, damn it.

Mmm, God he smells good.

"Hi, I'm Sage Sterling. What's your name?" Sage. Strange name, he must have gotten it because of the green hue of his eyes.

You are so not making this any easier on me.

Sage has his hand out for me to shake, but I decline. This guy doesn't get a hint, does he? After a second he pulls it back. He caught a clue. Great, he's persistent.

Laying my book down onto my lap, careful that I don't lose my place, I say, "Look, Sage. I'm only sixteen so this whole thing you have going on right now is not going to work. So I suggest you move along and we can pretend this didn't just happen."

My words seem to stun him. That should do the trick. I'm sure he's going to leave me the hell alone now. I wait for him to move along, but he doesn't. He just sits there dumbstruck.

"Wait? What?" he says, disconcerted.

"Did I stutter?"

His reaction is not what I expect. A low chuckle escapes his lips.

"You think I'm ...?" More laughter. "Believe me, I'm not that kind of guy. I'm only sixteen," he says, shaking his head.

"Oh, well, never mind," I reply, blushing.

His countenance then takes on a more serious mien, and his eyes change to honey-brown. Cool.

"I'm sorry about the 'hey, gorgeous' thing. I was—I-I just didn't know how to approach you," he stammers. Glancing up at him out of the corner of my eye, I can tell he means what he says. He no longer looks confident but abashed. I look into the depths of his hazel eyes. Stunning. He looks away suddenly shy. For some reason I do, too.

"I'm Marimar Utterson, that's Marisol," I say sweetly, gesturing in her direction.

"See that little boy over there playing with her? That's my little brother, Oscar." Sage's eyes lighten again. Wow, they're like a mood ring. How did I not notice him earlier?

Sage extends his hand again and we shake hands.

"So, how are you liking the old blacksmith's place?"

"Blacksmiths?"

"The old Victorian. It belonged to a blacksmith a long while ago."

"Oh. How did you know I moved into the—?"

"News travels fast in a small town."

"Ah." He is about to open his mouth to say something else when Marisol comes running over with Oscar behind her. Oscar shares the same features as the boy sitting across from me, except that he has blue-green eyes and his hair is darker.

"Hi," Marisol says to Sage.

"Hello, there."

"Can I have a piece of gum to give to my new friend?" Oscar asks, running up from behind her.

"Can she?" Sage asks, turning toward me.

"Sure, why not. Thanks," I say. "Say thank you, Sunshine."

"Thank you," she says to both of them.

"Want one?"

"No, thanks."

He nods his head in response. He leans away from me so that he can fit his hand into his pocket. He pulls out a packet of gum.

"Here you go," he says as he hands Marisol a stick of gum.

She unwraps it and pops it in her mouth, chewing with her mouth open—I was worried about that, she has a nasty habit of chewing like a cow. I make a sign for her to chew with her mouth closed. She doesn't get it.

"Where're your manners, bud? Don't you know to say, hi?"

"I did already."

"When was that?"

"When I'd asked Mawisol if she wanted to play."

"Oh, then good job."

"Wait, what did you call her?" I inquire.

"Mawisol."

"Oh, no, sweetie. It's Marisol," I say with a light laugh.

"Then why did she tell me it was Mawisol?"

"She can't say her r's," I explain.

"Oh, that explains it."

An awkward silence follows only to be disrupted a moment later by Marisol.

"That's my caw," Marisol says, proudly pointing at our minivan parked behind me.

"That's my truck." I turn to look. Oscar's pointing at an old beater truck on the left of my minivan that looks oddly familiar.

"Nice," I reply before the two of them run off to play some more.

"Thanks, but I know it's a piece of crap," Sage says a little chagrined. "Wait a minute," he says, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I recognize that minivan. You're the one who pulled into the intersection earlier; aren't you?"

"You saw that?" I ask, covering my face with my hand.

"Saw it? You about made me crash into a cop car," he laughs.

Sucking air through my teeth I reply mortified, "Oh, God, that's right."

"The guy was ready to slap the cuffs on me and everything if there hadn't been someone standing on the sidewalk who saw the whole thing. I was planning on giving you a piece of my mind if I saw you. Of course, that was before I saw how cute you are."

It takes all my self-control not to blush. I am so under his spell. "I am so sorry about that."

"Jesus H. Christ, I mean what the hell possessed you to do something like that?"

"I forgot which way to go and the guy behind me wasn't helping either ... Man, I am so sorry."

"Water under the bridge," he replies, waving it off. "So," he says, "are you planning on coming here often?"

"Maybe," I say. Good answer, Mar. He's staring at me with a wide-eyed hopeful expression like he's hanging onto my every word. The way he's looking at me is suddenly making me self-conscious of my appearance. I smoothly brush stray strands of my hair back like it's nothing. I don't have to worry about the sweat anymore since I'm sitting under a shady tree. The little wisps of wind are refreshing. Not like yesterday.

He nods his head thoughtfully.

"Hey, have you heard about what happened in your house?" he asks.

"No, what?" I ask intrigued. He rests his arm on the bench behind me. Too close for my comfort. I scoot farther away from him when his attention is diverted to his pocket as he reaches into it. He pulls out a packet of gum and he takes out a piece. He unwraps the aluminum wrapper and then pops the gum into his mouth. He pulls out another one and again offers it to me, which I decline.

"The couple who lived there before you said that strange things happened there."

"What kind of strange things?"

"For starters, they said they saw shadowy figures out of the corner of their eyes—usually accompanied by an awful odor."

"Odor? Like exactly what kind of an odor?"

"Someone described it to me like it smelled like death," he says, wrinkling his nose.

"Old houses don't usually smell like that?"

"Not unless you have a dead body stuffed inside the walls. Mostly they smell like mothballs or old people. You saying you smelled something like that?"

"The house definitely has a one-of-a-kind smell."

"You see a shadow following you?"

"Besides mine? Not at all."

"Hear any scratching noises coming from outside your bedroom? Any footsteps?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"Not a lick."

"Uh-huh."

"I swear that's what I heard they experienced."

"How could—?"

"Shh! No more questions until the end of my story," he says feigning sternness.

"Shutting up."

"So, as the urban legend goes, the family who used to live in your house said they used to see shadowy figures out of the corner of their eyes following them around the house—usually accompanied by an awful odor that smelled of death," he repeats, theatrically. "Not to mention felt something breathing down their necks.

"At night they said they would hear what sounded like an animal scratching at their bedroom door, only to be followed by footsteps leading up to their bed. Shit was being knocked around and moved all the time."

Sounds familiar.

"Anyways, eventually it got so bad they ended up splitting, leaving all their stuff behind."

"What could have been so bad to make them leave?" I ask.

"Don't know. Some say they woke up one morning and found Get the F out of here scrawled on every window and every mirror. Others say they started to hear voices telling them to off themselves. My personal favorite is the one where they say they were knocked around like a rag doll by a ghost."

Okay, now he's just making things up.

"It's like the thing of nightmares right there. Imagine getting the tar kicked out of you, but being unable to fight back because really there's nothing there to swing at besides air. It's like my dad used to say, 'If I can't shoot it, and I can't kill it, I don't want to deal with it.'"

"Smart man."

"The smartest. Anyways, there hasn't been one person who set foot in that house for a while. Well, except for the Realtor and the cleaning crew. Then you guys moved in. I can't believe the house even sold. I heard the Realtor that sold the house say he couldn't believe they were able to find a buyer. He swore that he would never go back to that house and he doesn't even care about representing the listing when it comes back on the market, which they don't expect will take long."

"Seriously?"

"Dead serious. The Realtor is a local and he said he didn't feel at ease at the place, that strange things happened there. Hell, even the cleaning crew thought so—they kept quitting on him. They even hired people from out of town. No crew would spend more than a few days working there and they'd only work during the day."

"Mmm-hmm."

"You don't believe me?"

"I believe that's what you heard, but the story—not so much."

"And why is that?"

"I just think that there has to be a rational explanation."

"Explain."

"Okay, I think they probably had mice."

"Go on right ahead." Now it's his turn to critique.

"And I think the mice might have scratched their bedroom door."

"Mice?"

"Possibly. Could have been a rabid squirrel."

"Okay, then, Miss Know-it-All, explain the smell."

"Fine, maybe a mouse had died."

"The footsteps?"

"The footsteps are easily explained by them scurrying along under the floorboards."

"Wouldn't they find evidence of mice?" He has a point. "Well?"

"Hold on, give me a second here. I'm still thinking." After Papa couldn't find any evidence of the furry invaders he said they might have burrowed inside the wall.

"Take your time."

"Not if they stay in the walls."

"Wha—?"

"Mice burrow in walls. If they rarely come out they might not find any evidence." I smile triumphantly at him. "Any more questions?" He narrows his eyes in agitation, his eyes change to a darker green and his brows furrow like he's trying to come up with something good to say. He then gives a slight smile that doesn't match the rest of his facial expression. I guess he came up with something.

"I just recalled something that I'd heard."

"Continue." Does he really believe all of that talk? It's just a web of lies. What's he going to say next? Is he going to try to sell me a whole "aliens-are-going-to-take-over-the-world" conspiracy? I should have known he was too good to be true.

"The Realtors said that they'd hear things move around, and see things out of place. But when they took a second look, everything would be in order."

"Is that—?"

"Wait, let me finish. At first they dismissed it, until all of a sudden they were seeing things being moved around in front of them. And no it wasn't mice. Objects were being suspended in the air and occasionally tossed at them by an unseen force. They even got it on tape."

"Have you seen the tape?"

"Well, no—"

"Hah! Just like I thought." I win. I hope. He shakes his head and he does something unexpected. Well, at least I didn't expect it.

"If I were you—" He leans in closer to me. His face inches away from mine. I can feel the heat of his breath on my face. His breath smells like peppermint. My heart skips a beat. His eyes are hypnotizing, I resist the urge to pull in closer to him. His lips are just inches away from mine ... "—I'd be smart and ask my folks to hire someone to do some kinda cleansing ritual or something. Just in case."

Sage's emphasis on the word smart lifts the spell—once again I'm pulled back down to reality.

"Thanks, but unlike most people, I'm not one to buy into things so easily. I'll have to see it to believe it."

Does everyone in this town believe the house is haunted? If so, possibly what I thought I saw earlier ... No. Hell, no. That never happened and that's the end of it. They're just crazy.

(A) this whole town could be on a trip from the Magic Mushrooms pizza joint, or, (b) there's something ... in the tap water, yeah, the water could be contaminated. What else would cause such mass hysteria? The water did have a milky-white film to it. We should probably invest in a filter.

I wonder why Sage was the first person to try to warn me? I mean the lady at the ice cream shop obviously had some knowledge of the tale. Maybe people are scared to talk. They probably think that something bad will happen to them if they do.

Then again, Sage didn't seem to be concerned for his own safety. He was more concerned for mine. Why does he have to be so gullible and simple-minded? Hopefully, it's just ignorance. Sigh. Well, it's not really his fault. It's this town's fault. They're all gullible. That brings me right back to the town. Are people betting on how long it'll take us to leave? Did they just sit back and watch while some poor out-of-state suckers came along and bought the house without any knowledge of its history? I thought that this was the Bible Belt; the land of "Southern hospitality" where everybody looks out for each other. I guess that's not the case for strangers. The exception being Sage, but he's not your average blue-eyed Southern boy.

On the other hand, he could have been joking and made it all up ... but then again, he did look dead serious. The ice cream shop lady's look of concern replays in my mind. Yeah, I don't think he made up the story. Besides, Sage couldn't have possibly just said that for the hell of it. A guy like that is attractive enough to get any girl, so why would he make up some story to get my attention? Sage did ask before we left the park if we were coming back tomorrow, and he did look hopeful when I told him we might. Does that mean he likes me or is he just doing what he thinks is right? Sage ... hmm, I think I'm beginning to hate Texas a little less.

My thoughts are interrupted by Mama's call.

"Mar, come downstairs, dinner is ready!"

"Coming!"

As I walk down the hall to the dining room, I notice the lights are flickering on and off. In the corner of my eye, I think I see a shadow creep by me and at the same time I'm hit with an icy breeze—not to mention that smell. What the hell was that? I don't wait to find out. I run at full speed to the dining room. I think Sage's story is starting to get to me. I find that everyone is seated. They all turn to look at me.

"What's wrong?" Mama asks.

"Nothing," I lie, unconvincingly. Mama and Papa give me a look as if to say, "Fine, if that's what you're going to go with," before suggesting I take a seat.

I sit down in my place and we dine. I glance around the room in an attempt to calm my nerves. It somewhat does the job. The dining room is large—it's even bigger than the breakfast room. The walls are covered in flower-printed wallpaper—the flowers are red with green leaves and vines; the background is yellow. The table where we are all seated is the bigger and grandeur twin of the breakfast table. Only an artist could have created such a masterpiece. Above the table is a large crystal chandelier almost as intricately made as the table. Behind the head of the table, against the wall, is a large wooden china closet. Peering once more around the room, I come to the conclusion that all the furnishing, even the crown molding, all match and must have been carved by the same hand. Come to think of it, the whole house appears to have been made by the same maker. Damn, Papa did get this place for a steal.

Wisps of steam twist and curve as they ascend from my tantalizing plate of homemade eggplant lasagna. I tear off a forkful and I carefully blow on it before I take a bite. Mmm. The eggplant is soft as pasta—cheese fills my mouth with its gooeyness. Mama makes the best food.

The only conversation is being held between Mama and Papa, something about the light fixtures needing to be rewired because they keep flickering on and off on their own. A logical explanation, verifying that what I thought I just experienced was all in my head. If only we could figure out how to get rid of the smell in here.

"So, did you guys have fun?" Mama asks, pulling my attention away from the food in my mouth.

"I know I had fun. Did you have fun, Sunshine?"

"Yep. Maw gave me a big cookie!"

"Good. Did you guys make any friends?"

"I played with a nice little boy named, Oscaw. He's my new fwiend."

"Did you see the little boy, Mar?" Papa asks.

"As well as I am seeing you."

"You pwayed with a wittle boy? Wewen't thewe any wittle giwls?" Papa asks, half teasing, half concerned. He's always concerned when he hears the word boy mentioned in a sentence—even a little one; he doesn't want her to start liking little boys yet. To his dismay, I liked boys by the time I could read. The farther away from boys we are the longer he can keep us at home—at least in his mind, that's how it works. He'd be happy if we took a vow of celibacy. He's delusional. At some point he's going to have to give up on that notion. That's the difference between Mama and Papa. Mama encourages us on the point of dating and getting married, and Papa strongly discourages any idea of the kind.

"Thewe wewen't any giwls, so Maw played with me until Oscaw—until Oscaw played with me."

"Oh," Papa replies thoughtfully. "Did you meet anybody?"

"Maw talked to Oscaw's oldew bwothew foe foeevew," she says with a grunt, rolling her eyes and dragging her hand down her face. I look at Marisol in amazement. Why did she have to say that? My eyes wander toward Mama and I notice that she is smiling at me with excitement. We both turn our attention toward Papa, waiting for his reaction. This should be good.

"Hmm, that's nice," he says, not paying attention. He is totally focused on the plate in front of him. Normally, I would be a little mad since he wasn't listening. But seeing that he would have freaked out, I don't mind.

"Wait, what?" he says, almost spitting out a mouthful of food. Spoke too soon.

"It's nothing. He just started to speak to me so since you raised me to be polite I had to answer him. I'd have been rude if I had ignored him, right? I was just practicing my 'Southern hospitality.'" He grumbles something incoherent. Good, that should get him off my back. Nosy old man.

Tell me more later, Mama mouths as Papa begins shoveling food into his mouth in agitation. I nod my head in response and go back to eating. The room is silent for the rest of the evening as Papa gets over my new friend, or, as he sees him, my potential "boyfriend" i.e. "The Enemy Combatant."

After dinner, Mama and I clear the plates. Usually Marisol does this with me, but Mama really wants to know about Sage. She follows me into the kitchen with the plates stacked in our hands. We set them down in the sink.

"So," Mama says, her voice dripping with eagerness.

"So, what?"

"So, what does he look like? How old is he? Is he a blond or is he a brunet? Was he—?"

"Mama, cálmese, okay," I say, trying to remember the first question. "His name is Sage Sterling and he's sixteen, but he looks like he could be in college. He's six foot something. He has hazel-green eyes and brown curly hair. And most importantly, he's very muscular." I left out the part about the bruised eye. Something tells me Papa would not be pleased to hear I'm interested in a bad boy. I figure that's on a need-to-know basis. "That's all I know about him."

"Did he ask if you were going to go back?" She's basically jumping out of her skin right now.

"Yep."

"And?"

"I said I might." I don't hold back a grin.

"Well, I guess you're going to the park tomorrow."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Okay, well thank you for doing the dishes. I'm going to go watch some TV with your Papa," Mama says, patting my shoulder as she crosses from behind me to the door.

"Nice." She got what she wanted and is now going to leave me to do the dishes alone. I give her a kiss before she leaves. "Muchas, gracias."

"De nada," she says, before turning to leave out of the kitchen. I should have given her some more information and then maybe she would have stuck around and helped. Should have, could have, would have, but didn't. Oh well. At least I have the dishwasher and the iPod.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Grrrrrrrr.

What was that? I sit up on my bed, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Jesus, why is it that I wake up from one nightmare only to enter into another? The room is dark, only light enough for me to make out the shape of the furniture and vaguely the floorboards. Why did Marisol have to be unafraid of the dark? I mean, couldn't she have been a normal kid and asked for one little nightlight. Again I hear a thump accompanied by a growl. There it is again. What could that possibly be? What's making the board's creek so eerily? That sounds just like what Sage told me the couple who lived here used to hear. Next there'll be something scratching at the door. No, there has to be a logical explanation for what I am hearing. Maybe it's Trevor. Yeah, it has to be him.

I hear the sounds of nails clicking on the hardwood floors. Yeah, that's Trevor. Stupid dog nearly gave me a heart attack. Man, was I being stupid. My overactive imagination is getting the best of me. I want to strangle Sage.

"Woof. Woof." I hear Trevor outside the window barking and growling. Papa must have forgotten to let him in. Poor dog. Grrrrrrrr. Wait a minute, if Trevor's outside ... then what the hell is making that growling noise? Mice? Mice can't growl, they squeak. Damn, it's getting closer. I stare at the door. Scraaaatch. The noise sounds like someone is digging their fingernails into the door and is slowly scraping down.

Mama, Papa, someone please wake up! Come on, wake up people. Please wake up. The door opens slowly. The temperature in the room drops. I can literally see my breath. I've seen enough scary movie previews to know that this is not good.

Thump.

"Who's there?" I can't see anybody. The sound increasingly becomes louder and louder as it closes in on me and my sleeping sister. I try to shield Marisol with my body from the unseen phantom, but my muscles are frozen in place. I get a big whiff of an acrid stench coming from the same direction. I start retching. The smell is revolting—it stinks worse than rotting meat. I try to breathe through my mouth, but I'm having a hard time doing that because the odor is so thick, I can almost taste it.

My arms and legs are no longer in cooperation with my mind. My eyes narrow in at the spot at the foot of my bed where the noise stopped. I can hear it exhale.

Breathe, I remind myself. My breathing is shallow as I wait—which feels like an eternity—to see what will happen next. I count the seconds away in my head. Thirty seconds. A minute. Two minutes pass and nothing has happened. Finally, I gather enough courage to speak.

"What do you want?"

No answer.

I hear a child's laugh. I feel my mattress indent like it's sitting by my feet, in between me and Marisol.

Run, says that little voice in the back of my head. Run. Scream. Do something. I try to budge, but I'm frozen. I'm paralyzed. The bed feels like it's spinning but I am stuck in place.

Oh my God. I watch powerlessly as my sheets are pulled from under my mattress. A small figure creeps under my sheets, inching its way on top of me. Please. Please get off of me. Someone help me!

The light peering in through the opened window is welcoming. The birds are chattering amongst each other on the ancient oak tree situated next to my window. The scene is tranquil, yet there is still a darkness that looms in the background.

I tug at my sheets. They skim up over my bare legs. The sheets are untucked just like in my ... Oh my God! I leap out of my bed and sprint toward where the thing in my nightmare was standing, but there are no signs of it ever being there. I get down on my hands and knees and I crawl toward the door. Searching for evidence of its existence, being extremely thorough, I make sure that I don't miss anything. Nothing. I check the door, the hall, the bathroom, the bedrooms, and still there isn't a single trace.

What about my sheets? They were untucked from under my mattress. What had happened? It was on top of me and then ... I can't remember. I'm hit with another wave of nausea more powerful than what the memory of the stench brings me. I rack my brain for a logical answer. The only thing that I can think of is maybe I had kicked and tugged at my sheets in my sleep causing them to become undone. That has to be the only logical explanation.

It must have been a nightmare, I think decisively, although an underlying doubt still creeps around in the background of my conscious. I try not to think about it as I head to the bathroom to do my normal routine. I try to keep myself distracted by concentrating on my menial tasks like get your toothbrush out or put the paste on, but in the end it does little to shut out my abject fears. It was just a dream? Right? Now just forget it! I go back to focusing on the task at hand. I really want to kill Sage for planting that seed in my mind.

I hastily descend the stairs. I guess I was the only one still sleeping. I can smell the food cooking in the kitchen. I head toward the living room. I pop in and say hi to Marisol. She's sitting on the couch pretending to read the picture book, Peter Rabbit. I give her a quick kiss before I make my exit.

"Good morning, or should I say good afternoon," Papa says, pointing to the clock as I enter the kitchen. It reads twelve-fifteen. "Up at the crack of noon, as usual," he adds.

"How come you didn't wake me up?" I ask.

"I told him to let you sleep since everybody's not used to the time change." Texas is two hours ahead of Oregon. In Oregon it would be ten-fifteen; a decent hour for a teen to wake up on a summer day.

"What time did Marisol get up then?" I ask, slipping a piece of bacon into my mouth.

"At eight to watch her cartoons," Mama answers.

"Is breakfast almost ready?" The smell of the food is making my stomach grumble and my mouth water. The bacon I just sampled isn't helping either.

"You mean brunch," Papa teases. "It will be ready in five minutes and don't touch any more bacon," Papa says, swatting my hand away.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"I don't start until Monday, so you have one more day to spend with me so, HA!"

Everybody sits together during breakfast, as usual, discussing the plans of the day.

"Why are you dressed?" Papa asks puzzled. "You usually just hang around the house all day on the weekends wearing your pajamas. What, are you going to see some guy I don't know about?" He's joking of course. His eyes are dancing with amusement and the corners of his lips form a wide smile. Smiling changes his demeanor immensely. When he smiles he no longer looks big and scary. When he smiles it pulls everybody in, a gravitational pull.

"No," I lie hastily—maybe a little too hastily. "I'm planning on taking Marisol to the park. If that's okay?" Asking to take Marisol anywhere isn't abnormal, so he has to buy it.

"That's a great idea," Mama says, slipping in a wink. Oh, no. Papa's manner changes. His Mr. Hyde is emerging. He's about to open his mouth to speak when Mama shoots him a dirty look that keeps him silent. He glowers down at his plate and grumbles under his breath as he shovels a big forkful of food in his mouth and shakes his head in indignation. Thank you, Mama.

When we get to the park I spot Sage sitting on the same bench that we had sat on yesterday. He watches me as I get out of the van. Today he's wearing a blue t-shirt. Approaching him I notice that his eyes appear blue. I wonder if it's because of his mood or due to the color of his shirt? The coloring of his injured eye looks a little subdued. How long have I been staring at him like this?

I avert my eyes away but I can still feel his on me. To the point that his gaze causes me to become a little uneasy and I just escape from tripping over a large crack in the pavement. That would have made a good impression.

"Go play," I tell Marisol as I let go of her hand and she wildly runs toward Oscar.

A huge grin spreads across Sage's face as he pats the empty space next to him. Did he notice my fumble or is he just happy to see me? I can feel my face redden as I sit down beside him. I make sure there are a good few inches between us—the thought of me being so close to him causes my stomach to do flips.

"Hey, I wasn't sure if I would see you here."

"I wasn't planning on coming, but Marisol begged me to take her to the park," I say indifferently. I hope that was convincing.

A few minutes go by in silence as I pretend to read my book while I am actually watching Sage out of the corner of my eye open and reopen his mouth in an effort to strike up a conversation. It's actually pretty comical which is why I don't bother to say anything. Besides, the guy should make the first move. I wouldn't want him to think that I was desperate; would I?

Finally, after a minute of struggling to find his voice, he regains his ability to speak.

"You don't happen to have a boyfriend that I would have to worry about getting pissed off, do you?" he asks offhandedly. Like he'd have anything to worry about. He'd probably kick his ass.

"Why would he get angry?"

"I'm sitting next to you and that might make him jealous."

"I don't have one at the present." Smooth. "And if I did, he wouldn't have a say of who I sit next to."

He scoots a little closer to me, making himself comfortable.

"That's good to know," he says, trying to act as if he hadn't been eagerly awaiting my answer, but his eyes betray him.

We again sit for a minute in silence as he waits for me to ask if he has a girlfriend, which I am never going to do—it'll just make me sound as desperate as I feel.

"Yeah, I'm single too," he finally says. "Not that I can't get a girlfriend. It's by choice."

"Yeah, no, I'm sure it's by your own choice."

I act as if I am returning to my book so that I don't seem too interested in his affairs.

"How old did you say you were?"

"Sixteen."

"You're a little short to be sixteen, ain't you?"

"Have you ever thought that maybe you're freakishly tall?" I retort.

"Touché. I don't know about the guys in Oregon, but around here most guys are pretty tall," he responds with matching fervor.

"I never said—?"

"You were from Corvallis, Oregon? You can't keep too many secrets in a small town."

"Right. For your information, guys are tall there, too. And, technically, I didn't live within the city limits. Don't people from Texas usually wear cowboy hats?"

"That's original, what's your next question? Do we all own cowboy boots?" Raising an eyebrow, I eye his boots.

"This in no way proves anything," he chuckles. "Moving on. When's your birthday?"

"November twenty-eighth. When's yours?" I ask.

"July seventh," he responds.

"How long have you lived here?"

"All my life. My whole family has grown up here."

"Do you have any other siblings?"

"Nah, just Oscar. You?"

"Just Marisol."

"So," he says, trying to keep our conversation going, "how do you like it here?"

"How do you like it here?" I ask, slapping a mosquito on the side of my neck. If I find out that he likes this town I'll ease up on my obvious disdain.

"Truthfully, I'm getting out of this hellhole as soon as I finish high school."

"Wouldn't you miss your family?" I ask, totally amazed. I couldn't imagine leaving my family behind.

"I don't get on well with my mom and definitely not with my step-dad. The only one that I would miss would be my little bro. They don't really care about him—hell, they'll be glad when he's gone, too. So, when I find a place next year, when I'm legally an adult, I'm gonna take him with me. They won't make any objections. As soon as I can afford a cheap place I'm gone. I've been saving for one since I was twelve. Which is why my truck is a piece of crap or else I'd have fixed it up pretty good." I wonder if his step-dad gave him the black eye?

"Yeah," I say, getting on with the conversation, "I really hate that we moved here. My parents aren't really thrilled about it either."

"I bet," he mutters. "How was Oregon? I heard the weather there is cold. I'm kind of partial to the heat."

"We loved Oregon, we literally lived and breathed it. We lived in a community up in the hills not far from the city limits. We were always surrounded by nature.

"You couldn't throw a stone without hitting a tree or some kind of wildlife. We lived right next to a river where we could find all kinds of quartz and fossils, and we could swim in it whenever we wanted. We were surrounded by mountains and every time the wind blew you'd get a whiff of pine. The weather was amazing. Yeah, it rained a lot, but that didn't stop us. The only time it gets this hot is during an Indian summer, but that only lasts a week or two. It was heaven on earth, but I guess all good things can't last," I sigh.

"How'd y'all end up here?" Sage inquires.

"The recession. My Papa was laid off. He tried to find another job but he couldn't, and seeing that we wouldn't have been able to afford the house, we had no choice but to move. A friend of his, former friend if you ask me, had told him that he had heard that places here were cheap and that he could probably get a job here somewhere so ... here we are."

"I'm glad that you moved here. I-I mean not that you are miserable, but—"

"I get it," I say, mercifully cutting off his blunder.

"Good, good."

As we sit at the bench talking some more, Sage again tries to casually scoot toward me. This time passing my imaginary line, so I casually move away from him and begin to start reading. Embarrassed that I rejected him, but trying to hide it, he gives me a little more space as he attempts to rest his arm on an armrest. But, forgetting this bench doesn't have any, he falls over into a big pile of red ants.

Bounding up, he wildly hops around, patting his clothes, swatting his legs, and sweeping his bare arms in an effort to rid himself of his assailants.

"They're just ants," I say as soon as I can stop laughing.

"Not just ants," he replies, wiping the remaining ants off the front of his pants, "red ants. The kind that bite and sting like a mother."

"Are you okay?" I manage to ask in between laughs as he slumps down on the bench.

"That's not funny," he replies. His tone has a taste of hostility. His eyes turn a darker greenish-blue.

"Actually it kind of was," I say, still laughing.

"How would you like it if you fell into a pile of ants and I laughed at you?"

Temper, temper.

"Maybe you should learn not to be so damn sensitive; especially since you were being so forward," I answer back coldly.

He opens his mouth to contend but instead changes his mind. Preferring to keep quiet.

Minutes pass and I begin to feel bad for offending him. That and the situation is becoming unpleasant. I begin to think about moving on to another bench, but that would make it look like I cared what he thought. Besides, I move for no one. Especially for some sulking baby.

Seconds pass and seeing that neither one of us is going to budge, I decide that I'll be the bigger person. Since I did offend him.

"Sorry for laughing," I say half-heartedly. "I had no idea ants bite."

"It's all right. I shouldn't be so irritable." His eyes seem to cool off a few moments later. They really are a mood ring. I wonder what color they turn when he's lying?

"Are we good?" I ask hopefully. He was man enough to own up to his fault. A good quality for a friend and maybe ...

"Yeah, we're good."

"Are there any more insects I should know about that bite here?"

"Stay away from the orange ladybugs. The red ones are all right, but the orange ones will bite ya. Come to think of it, I think the orange ones are called Asian Lady Beetles."

"Good to know."

"So, what are you doing later?" he asks smoothly, or so he thinks—I could see through his façade that he's a bit nervous.

"I don't know. I guess I'll find something to do. Why?" I say slowly, mischievously. I knew if I confronted him that it would throw him off—make his only supply of confidence run dry. It worked.

"I-I was," nervous chuckle, "wondering if-if you wanted to go to the movies with me? You know, since you really don't have anything planned. You don't have to if you don't want to. I just figured it would be fun." Watching him squirm is just too entertaining.

"Sure, but I'm going to have to check with my parents and see if they have anything planned for us. Are you planning for tonight to be something like a date?" I'm starting to wonder if I have a conscience.

"If you want it to be," he says shyly, with an unsubtle hint of eagerness.

"What movie do you have in mind?" I say, purposely ignoring his question.

"Well, we can check out that new vampire movie. The girls from school have been talking about it non-stop."

"'Kay, sounds great," I reply, rising from my seat. "I've been wanting to see that one."

"Cool." Sage nods. "Wait," he says, catching my hand. I guess he's as nervous as I am because his hand felt moist. Gross. I can't wipe my hand without him noticing and that would just humiliate him. "I'm going to need your phone number."

"Oh, okay, I almost forgot." I slyly wipe my hand in the inside of my pocket as I grab my phone.

We exchange phone numbers.

"I'll call you later, Marimar."

"It's Mar-r-r-ee-mar-r-r, you have to roll the r's. My parents call me Marimar, call me Mar."

"Okay, I'll talk to you later, Mar." The way he says my name, soft like cotton and with that thick accent of his, makes my heart skip a beat, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

"Later," I say, still recovering from my shortness of breath. I grab my book and start walking toward the playground. "Come on, Sunshine, let's go. Say good-bye to Oscar."

"Five mowe minutes, please," she says as she goes down the slide.

"No, we've been here long enough," I say.

"Oh, okay," she pouts, "bye-bye, Oscaw." She skips toward me and snatches my hand. She bounces back easily.

On our way back to the minivan, I realize I totally forgot to chide Sage for causing my nightmare. He's not off the hook yet.

"Please, can I go? It's just a movie. He'll be buying me dinner. I'd be back by eleven and I'll call you when we get there, and when we're leaving." I know that last part is ridiculous, but right now I'm trying to feed Papa whatever he wants to hear. He's still pissed about yesterday. Some moron ran Papa off the road late last night as he was coming back from picking up a little midnight snack from the local, overpriced grocery store. Anyway, I should be counting my lucky stars Mama talked him out of hypothetically chauffeuring my date. Keyword being "hypothetically." Mama's already onboard with the idea—I sold it to her earlier. Papa was all right with me going out just a few moments ago, but as soon as I mentioned that I was going with a guy he had totally freaked out. He was like:

"What boy? The same guy you met yesterday? I don't even know his name."

"It's Sage Sterling."

"I don't even know what he looks like, who his parents are, how old he is, if he is some kind of a creep that preys on naive girls."

"He's taller than you are, he's about six-one or six-two, and he has brown curly hair and hazel-green eyes, and he is going to be seventeen next month. And as far as I can tell, he's not a psychopathic serial killer."

"That's what he'd want you to believe ... Go call him, but I'm not saying yes or no to you going out on a date with him just yet. I want to see him first and if I disapprove it's not happening," Papa answers grudgingly.

"Thank you!" I exclaim as I run over and kiss his cheek. Damn. There goes the whole "I don't care" thing.

"I said maybe," Papa answers, annoyed.

"Yeah, but you didn't say no."

The conclusion: Papa is at the moment laying his rifle on the coffee table in the living room, preparing to clean it for when Sage gets here. Mama talked him out of holding it. I should have known to hide the guns before I asked Papa about going on a date. How stupid can I be? Sage should be here any minute ...

Knock, knock, knock. Yes! He showed up. For a minute there, I was beginning to worry. Girls get stood up all the time.

"Bark, bark, bark!" Trevor races past us from the kitchen to the front door. I had waited until the last moment to ask Mama's and Papa's permission so that if Papa had said yes he wouldn't have had much time to take it back. What he didn't know was that Sage was already on his way ... Hey, I didn't want to be underhanded, it's just that the less time we have until the movie starts the less time Papa will have to interrogate him.

"I'll get it!" I yell as I run for the door, but Papa beats me to it. Damn. "Get back, Trevor!" I yank him back by his collar. He resists—barking and lunging toward Sage—his motive isn't out of aggression, but toward getting his belly rubbed. He finally calms down a little after Sage says hi to him and gets his arms covered with dog drool. He got his belly rub.

"Sunny, can you go lock him in the bathroom?" Mama asks all the while apologizing for his behavior. I gratefully hand him over—the scene is becoming less chaotic.

"Good Evening, Mr. and Mrs. Utterson. It's very nice to meet you," Sage says, cool and collected, as he puts out his hand for Papa and Mama to shake. Papa just keeps his hands in his pockets while he looks him up and down. I think he's just angry because he can't find anything wrong with him. Mama flashes Papa a disapproving look before she shakes Sage's hand and asks him about his welfare. Sage is wearing a navy blue polo shirt tucked into his new looking baggy jeans that are held up properly by a belt; his cowboy boots even look like they've been polished. He's wearing cologne, it smells like Polo. Papa has absolutely nothing to complain about. Sage didn't honk when he drove into our driveway, his pants aren't falling down—not like some morons I've seen with their asses hanging out; who would want to sit in a seat after they'd been there? I think, but I digress—and he even tucked his shirt in. He sure does know how to make a good impression. Even his hair is properly styled in a gentlemanly way.

"What happened to your eye?" Papa asks after a moments pause. Ooh. And there's that.

"Step-dad and I were playing catch. Caught it in the eye."

Mama sucks air through her teeth empathetically.

"Ouch," I comment, going along with his half-lie. From what he's told me about his step-father it seems unlikely he was a willing participant in the game of catch and more like an unsuspecting victim.

"Yeah," Sage agrees, dropping his gaze to the floor as he waits to be invited in. Papa who hasn't made up his mind yet continues to observe him with distrust. Fine, he doesn't need to come in. We just need to go out.

"Hey, so are you ready to go?" I ask Sage, pushing my way past Papa. I'm hoping to leave before something goes wrong.

Papa answers for him.

"Not yet. Come. Follow me to the sitting room where we can have a nice little chat," Papa says, feigning friendliness. Mama has just left to go prepare dinner. Why did she decide to go at the most critical moment? He gestures with his hand for Sage to walk in front of him. Papa looks militant, he probably wishes he had his gun in hand so that he could escort Sage like he was taking him to his jail cell—like he's some kind of high profile prisoner. His eyes seem to burn a hole through the back of his head.

Great, he's going to totally try to drag this out. At least he has some kind of time limit. We have about twenty minutes before we have to leave. Sage could survive twenty minutes, couldn't he? Shit, I might as well go change into my pajamas. I'm not going anywhere. I'm sure Sage is regretting ever meeting me.

Papa sits down in his throne. He has Sage sit on the couch adjacent to him leaving only the coffee table to separate them. Papa starts taking the gun apart to clean it.

Sage's reaction is not what he had planned. Sage whistles as his eyes fall onto the gun.

"Nice rifle. My step-dad has one of those, not as nice though." He seems to be completely unfazed. Ha! Take that Papa. Papa's stupefied, but it doesn't stop him from his work as the gun is not his only source of intimidation.

"Before you guys leave to go on your date," Papa says, swallowing hard as he says the word date, "I want to have a word with you." I scoff. Papa's eyes land on me. Freaking hell, he forgot I was in the room. I just blew my chance at staying invisible.

"Marimar, why don't you go help your mother in the kitchen while the boy and I get to know each other for a while." His tone is dismissive. Typical. How could I be so stupid and blow my cover?

"Close the door, sweetheart." Before I can shut the door, Trevor suddenly runs in. Marisol must have forgotten to close the bathroom door all the way. The last scene I take in before I close the door fully is Trevor standing faithfully at Papa's side like he's waiting to pounce on Sage; growling all the while. Strange. Not five minutes ago he was slobbering all over him. I wonder how Papa got him to do that? Man, Papa looks almost like a hillbilly. He must have seen something on my face because a slight grin breaks through his icy expression. He lives for this kind of stuff. A split second later, his former expression returns. But he can't fool me, because behind all of the fire and brimstone, he and I both know this'll be the highlight of his evening.

Oh, yeah, you're freaking hilarious. Standing in place I stomp my feet loudly and then softly before stopping altogether to sound as if I had left. When in actuality I have my ear plastered to the door. What the hell are they saying in there? The room is quiet? My conscience is gnawing at me. I feel kind of guilty listening through the door, and Papa is probably going to ask Mama if I had helped her in the kitchen but ... Ah! Screw it, I'll have to go help her in the kitchen or he'll know that I was spying. Brilliant!

Throwing all caution to the wind, I walk or should I say stomp to the kitchen. The scent of food hovering in the hall causes my mouth to water. Mama is making arroz con pollo. I hadn't realized until now that I was so hungry. My stomach is practically snarling at me. I let out a wistful sigh. I'm not even going to be eating here; Sage is taking me out. Opening the kitchen door, a heat wave leaks out through the crack. As I speedily enter, the large room comes into full view. The room has a quasi-vintage air. The period wallpaper and the cabinets starkly contrast the up-to-date industrial kitchen with granite counter tops and a center island featuring two additional burners and a small sink. This is what sold Mama on the house.

Mama still looks as happy as a little girl with a new Easy Bake Oven as she makes dinner. Marisol is sitting on the opposite side of her on one of the kitchen stools. The scent that I caught was coming from the pot boiling on the burner. Mama appears dazzling the way the light is playing off her face. Her cheeks are red from the effect of the heat and her hair is becoming curlier from the steam. Marisol is coloring with her favorite colored crayon, orange. She is no less dazzling than my Mama. Marisol looks up at me, meeting my eyes. Her eyes seem to sparkle the same way my Mama's does.

"Mama, what did you think of him?" I ask as I walk over to help her sauté the onions.

"I can see great looking grandkids in my future." My jaw drops and my face colors as she breaks out laughing. "I'm just teasing. He's very cute and he seems like a very nice, clean cut guy. I'm glad he's not one of those skinny jeans wearing metro waifs, or Papa would have slammed the door in his face. I guess we'll find out what your father thinks of him in a few minutes.

"Was he dressed like that when you first met him or did he just dress like that for the date?"

"He was dressed like that."

"He doesn't look like the guys around here. He looks like he's mixed with some European blood.

"How old did you say he was?"

"Sixteen," I answer.

"He looks like a man more than he does a boy, which I am sure you had noticed."

"He's vewy nice," Marisol says. "You should mawwy him."

That last comment made me blush again. My face must look like I've spent as much time as Mama over the burner. All I can do is laugh, I'm so flustered.

"Marisol, she's too young to marry. That would mean I'd only have one baby left."

"God, Mama!"

She continues gushing like she hadn't heard me.

"I wish that you would both just stay this age so that you would never leave. Although ... I do want grandchildren. Just not yet." My mortification continues. The only thing that could make this worse would be if Sage was present to witness this fiasco.

"One date won't lead to a marriage," I say, able to regain my speech.

"Some do," Mama reminds me.

Slamming my head in the car door would be less painful than this conversation.

"Don't worry, Mama, believe me. I'm not planning on getting married or having kids for a long time," I say quickly before she gets any more ideas.

Jesus, if she's acting like this now. How is she going to react when I get a marriage proposal? You know, on second thought, I think I'd rather elope.

I wonder if Sage is suffering as much as I am.

Crap! I didn't plan on this. Most girls' dads aren't so protective, but, then again, most girls around these parts learn to shoot a gun at the age of six and they're not half as pretty as she is. I think I drooled a little when I saw her in that clingy white and grey flower printed summer dress. It showed off her every curve ...

"So," he says, "what movie are you planning to see?" Her old man's eyeing me as if I'm some kind of low life not to be trusted. He must have met my folks.

"We were going to check out that new vampire movie, chicks—"

"Let me stop you right there. First of all, my daughter isn't a chick she's a lady. Now continue."

"Girls, love that kinda stuff." I try to keep eye contact, but it's kinda hard to do since my eyes keep wandering toward the gun he's cleaning. He seems like he would love to blow a hole into me the way he's stroking that gun with the oilcloth, shining it up nice and pretty. Something he has in common with my step-dad; wouldn't he just love to beat me to death next time. Sometimes I think he might.

"Hmm," he says, taking in what I said; clearly trying to intimidate me. It's working pretty well I might add, but I'm not just about to let him know that—that's not my nature.

"What's the movie rated?"

"It's PG 13, sir. I checked. It's supposed to be pretty clean." Keep your voice steady, Sage. You don't want him thinking he's got the upper hand.

"Well," he says, shifting his weight in his chair so he can lean in closer to me, "I am going to make this nice and simple for you. I am going to lay out exactly what I expect from you ..."

Surprise, surprise.

"First: No lying. If you are not where you say you are going to be when you say you'll be there, you can consider your relationship with my daughter terminated. To be sure, I expect a call from my daughter so I'll know that she's safe.

"And you sure as hell better not be taking her to any keggers or house parties without adult supervision. If you do want to take her to a party then I will need the home's address and the name and number of the parents. I will meet and interview the parents in person. No joke. Don't believe me? Ask her.

"Secondly: I know my daughter is what you boys call a looker—"

Totally not a word we still use.

"—and she can drop you like a sack of potatoes at any moment. So a word of advice, you better not be checking out any other girls. If you're one of those playas—"

What!?

"—who thinks you can string her along then you and I are going to have a problem. Are we clear on that?"

He talks with his hands a lot. The disassembled gun barrel bounces up and down facing me, then facing away, and then toward me again. I feel like opening my mouth and asking him to point that thing away from me—even though it's not assembled it is not a comfortable feeling—but I bite my tongue and decide against it.

"Crystal clear."

"Alright. Also, don't even think about trying any moves on my daughter because I know all the moves. If you try any of those sly moves on my daughter she'll show you the close quarters combat techniques I have taught her and drill her on regularly." Didn't see that one coming. I wonder what style?

"You will respect my daughter because if you don't I will know about it. This," he says, waving the gun around, "will be the least of your worries. Now I trust my daughter, but I know what peer pressure and teenage hormones can do to young people such as yourselves. So if for any reason my daughter loses her womanhood you can expect to be losing your manhood. Do you understand me, son?" he asks, looking me dead in the eye. I can tell he's serious.

"Yes, sir." What, nothing else? Did he rehearse this or was he making it up as he went? "Does that mean you are gonna let Marimar go to the movies with me?" I already know the answer. I doubt that he would have wasted his time on me if he wasn't. The fact that I'm still sitting here is a good sign.

"Good, good," he says, nodding his head while mumbling to himself.

What the hell does that mean? He's clearly chewing my last question over. I don't dare interrupt him. Although my step-dad beats me on a regular basis, this guy really scares the hell out of me. I can't tell whether he's joking or if he's just fucking nuts. I've dealt with overprotective fathers before, but I'll be damned if this guy wouldn't follow through on his threats. We should be going pretty soon—just not soon enough. He's probably going to take advantage of the time, he apparently has nothing else to do. The Texas Rangers game should be on right now. Wouldn't he rather be watching that? Shoot, I can't be half as interesting as the game. It's only a matter of time ...

"Well, I guess I'll talk to her mother about that. When's that movie start again?" Funny, I guess the old lady's got him wrapped around her finger. I look down at my watch praying that it's almost time to go. Can't luck be in my favor for once in my life? I can't lie and tell him the wrong time or he'd find me out.

"The movie starts at seven and it will end around nine and we should be back around eleven."

"Are you going to the theater close by?"

"No. That old theater only gets the movies after they are already out on DVD. The next closest theater is in Denton. It's about a half hour from here."

"It's only five forty-five, we have plenty of time to kill. Why don't we get to know each other?" Sure, why don't we become buds now? Assuming that the worst part of his interview is over, this should be painless. I am curious about the close quarters combat he taught her.

"What would you like to know?"

"For starters, how old are you? Nineteen, twenty?"

"Sixteen, sir."

"You don't look sixteen. You wouldn't be lying to me, buddy, now would you?"

"No, sir, I pride myself on my honesty."

"Good," he grumbles. "What grade are you going to be in this year?"

"I'll be a senior, sir."

"Do you have a job or do you hang around the house all day playing video games and reading comic books?"

"I work part-time in the food industry," I answer. Damn. I wish I had a better answer. It's hard to find decent work with the country being in a recession and all and at the same time I have to work part-time so I can watch over Oscar.

"As a waiter?"

"No, sir, I flip burgers down at Moo Burger." I steal a peek at my watch hoping for it to be after six. Only two minutes have passed. The clock couldn't be moving any slower. Nor, can Mr. Utterson get any more unfriendly. Mar's old man keeps spitting out questions faster than I can answer them. Do I like cars? Do I like fast cars? What kind of car do I have? Random shit that smells strongly of an interrogation. To my great relief, Marimar and her Mom come back into the living room.

"Papa, can we go now. Please?"

"Ana, let's talk outside the room. Marimar, come along." If he couldn't even leave her alone with me for a second, then how is he gonna be able to let her out of the house with me? Could be he just wants to keep us separated for as long as possible. I figure I'd do the same if I had a daughter.

"If you think so, Papa," somebody says. I think it was Mrs. Utterson. Could have been Mar. Hard to tell. Their voices are muffled by the door and I can't make out what's being said. Mar's old man's voice bears resemblance to an old bear growling.

"Thank you, Papa! I promise we'll be home on time and I'll call you. I've been dying to see that movie."

Ouch. That hurt. Does she really mean that? Hold on, she never did answer me if this was a date. Am I gathering this correctly? This evening is gonna be about two friends hanging out. Or is she just saying that so her dad won't pop a vein? Huh, I'd pay good money to see that. The door is thrown open. Not surprising, her dad's leading the way, looking surly as ever.

"All right, you can go," he says reluctantly, making no attempt at hiding the fact his wife won this argument. Mrs. Utterson is smiling from ear to ear. He could be as mad as he wants. Doesn't matter, it's not like I'm dating him.

"Okay, let's go now." Mar grabs my hand and jerks me out of my seat, causing me to stagger. She's stronger than she looks. Hot! As I regain my balance, I notice her father glaring down at me, his eyes are blazing with the fire from hell; his assembled gun in hand. What a surprise. What's he gonna do? Shoot me? I bite my lip to keep myself from smiling. Dude, chill. You never said anything about her holding my hand. Marimar leads the way toward the front door.

"Thank you, sir, ma'am. I'll make sure I bring her home on time. It was ... um ... nice—" Boy, is this killing me to say. "—talking to you, sir."

"Humph, yeah. Honesty my ass," he mumbles. His old lady pokes him in the ribs with her elbow in disapproval. Boy did that rile him up. Compared to the look he's giving me now, the look he gave me back when Marimar had grabbed my hand made him look like a saint. Now he really wants to kill me.

I shake Mrs. Utterson's hand before I take my exit—out of politeness I had put my hand out for Mr. Utterson to shake, but I recoiled it when he gave me a look so fierce, I could swear he was contemplating breaking it.

I want to get the hell out of here fast. Mar says good-bye to her parents; giving them each a kiss, then her little sister, then the dog, then she grabs her sweater, and then finally she's ready to leave.

Damn, girl, can you move any slower?

I half run, half walk toward my truck—almost dragging Marimar. I'd have thought that I would be afraid of the house with all the talk and rumors that fly about it, but I've been kept so preoccupied, the thought didn't even pass my mind. I go over to the passenger side to open the door for Marimar. Then I walk over to my side. I start the truck, or attempt to, it takes a few turns in the ignition for the engine to roll to life. Really? You piece of crap! This is really embarrassing.

I glance out my front windshield and catch a glimpse of Marimar's parents and little sis gazing out the window. Her mom is beaming and her little sister is waving her hand frantically and blowing kisses; she's a cute little thing. Mr. Utterson still looks pissed. I wait for Marimar to buckle up before I start backing up out of the driveway.

As I am pulling out of the driveway I catch one more glimpse of her dad. This time he's wearing some strange expression that I can't get a read on. He's still angry but there is something else there ...

Mar interrupts my thoughts, "Whew, sorry about all that. My Papa's ... very ... protective when it comes to us girls. I hope he didn't threaten you too much. He isn't really all that bad. I think it's some kind of routine act he picked up from an old movie. It keeps his spirit rejuvenated. He seems to act worse the older he gets. Really, if he gets to know you, I bet you he would like you."

Sure. Keep telling yourself that. What planet are you living on? Give me a break. The sad part is that she actually believes that. If she was in my shoes she'd see that there is no chance in hell of that happening. Maybe he wouldn't want to kill me or cause me bodily harm. But I seriously doubt that he is ever gonna like me. Tolerate me, maybe.

"That's all right, I bet he is a really nice guy behind that front. Besides, I'd probably do the same if I had a daughter as pretty as you." I was lying through my teeth about the "nice guy" thing.

"Hmm, you're a bad liar," she says with a light laugh. "'That's all right, I bet he is a really nice guy ...'" she parrots, exaggerating my tone of voice and Southern drawl. At least I had the decency to lie.

"I don't sound like that," I say chuckling. She rolls her eyes.

"Do I look stupid to you? Papa can be the most intimidating man I've ever seen. I have eyes you know. Do you really expect me to believe that you have no harsh feelings toward him? What am I? A dumb blonde?"

"No, but I wasn't gonna up and say that." She just lightly smiles and sits back in her seat.

"Now I know what color your eyes turn when you're lying, brown. Just like the crap you tried to sell me."

"My eyes change color?"

"They change depending on your mood. Like right now when you tried to sell me that story, your eyes turned from green to brown; just like that." She snaps her fingers. "Your eyes are like a mood ring." I never realized that. Crap! That means nothing will get by her.

"So, have you seen this movie series before?" she says, changing the conversation.

"Of course not, it's a total chick flick. I just figured you would like it. I would have thought a vampire movie would be all action, not romance."

"That's not what I meant. I just thought that you might have taken some other girls to see the other movies in the series."

"Nah. I mean I've taken other girls to the movies, but not to the vampire series."

Mar murmured something incoherent. I wonder what she's thinking. Is she jealous? Reckon I'm being conceited. Hmm. That reminds me. Should I ask? Nah. But ...

"So, you never did say if this was a date or not." She looks at me grinning, unanswering, before retreating to the window. Was that a yes or a no? Can't she give me a break? Oh, I get it. She's playing hard to get? Guessing it's a good sign that she didn't say anything. I can safely assume that means yes. She didn't say no. While I'm considering all this, she breaks my concentration by playing with the radio.

"Do you mind?" she asks when I turn to look at her. I shake my head in response. "Good." She seems to be searching for a certain station.

"What do you usually listen to?" she asks.

"Anything but rap, but put on whatever you want." I hope she doesn't put some kind of boy band on.

"'Kay. How do you feel about this?" She puts the volume up. Louis Armstrong's, What a Wonderful World is playing. Cool. I totally thought I was doomed to listen to some stupid love song.

"It's great. I didn't picture you for blues."

"What did you picture?"

"I pictured you for probably some kind of metro boy band."

"Oh, so stereotypical. I hate boy bands, especially the guys that seem to be lacking testosterone. Do you like boy bands?" she jeers. The corners of her lips are pulled up in ridicule, her eyebrow arched. "Or do you prefer country?"

"Well, aren't we being stereotypical? At least I didn't ask you if you liked to listen to Latin music." She rolls her eyes and once again returns to the window.

"I listen to all kinds of music," she mutters.

"Oh," I respond not knowing what else I should say.

A duration of time passes in which neither of us has spoken much aside from a few mutterings or side comments about the traffic. Figure I could attempt to pull more out of her, but then I run the risk of running out of things to say later in the evening.

"Pardon me, excuse me, pardon me," I say as I try to get through the row of seated people.

"Here's your Coke, our popcorn, and candy," I whisper as I hand them to Mar. The previews are just ending. We're in the third row, fifth and sixth seats. The room smells of food which brings my attention toward the popcorn in Mar's hand. The popcorn's making my mouth flood with saliva.

"How's the popcorn?" I ask. Spit flies out of my mouth and to my horror, onto her face. Her mouth twists into a grimace. Her hands go up toward her face as she wipes my spit onto a napkin. "I am so sorry. I was hungry and the popcorn smelled so good that my mouth started to water and ..."

"That's all right," she says with her hands up, "okay, it was an accident."

"I am so sorry."

"No, really don't mention it."

"Shhh!" People behind us hush us. We turn our attention toward the screen. The movie starts. I'm preparing for imminent torture ahead. Good thing I bought a large soda. Here's hoping I won't fall asleep. That's what happened with the last girl I took to the movies—she was a nightmare. The movie starts. I peek at Marimar out of the corner of my eye, she's staring intently at the screen. I rest my left hand on the armrest between hers and mine. She doesn't appear to notice. I try watching the screen as well. I have no idea of half of what they are talking about so I give up on trying to understand and attempt to enjoy the movie—as much as I can.

The faces start to blur and soon the talking ceases. I find myself once again watching the person beside me. She doesn't seem to notice my hand at all; her hands are still rested on her lap. Even in the dark room you can see that she's HOT! She's not like most girls with their faces covered in so much crud that when they take their makeup off you can hardly recognize them. Her hair isn't sprayed with hair-spray that reaches up to high heaven—she's actually wearing it naturally, curly. She sure as hell doesn't look like a walking stick either; she's more like a 1940's pin-up girl than a model: full lips, long eyelashes, big brown eyes, olive skin, and exotic features; she's a beauty. A perfectly minted dime.

Oh, crap! My heart catches in my throat. Damn, damn, damn. How long has she been watching me watch her? I twist my head back toward the screen. Goddamnit. She must think I'm some kind of creep. My heart is in overdrive. I can still see the expression on her face. She looked at me like I was some moron, but she also seemed to look amused the way her lips were turned up at the sides. Awesome. She is now silently laughing at me.

I wonder what my expression gave away? Did she notice I was checking her out? What am I saying? I practically had my tongue lolled out like a cartoon coyote. I don't dare sneak a peek at her to see if she is still looking at me. I count up to fifty before I check. My heart is pounding so loud I swear she can hear it. What a relief, she's once again watching the screen. Boy, do I have some crappy luck. First I literally spit in her face and now this.

I wait a few minutes before I decide to try to get my arm around her. Naturally, I start to yawn and in the middle of stretching, I try to rest my arm around her shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

"Just stretching," I say while returning my arm back to the armrest. How many times can I screw up this date? I wonder. I could strangle myself for this. YOU STUPID JACKASS! I swear, I can't stop acting like an idiot around her. I've never felt this nervous around a girl.

An uncomfortable—in all sense of the word—hour later ... The credits start to play and everyone starts to get up and leave.

"How did you like the movie?" I ask, hoping that she had enjoyed herself.

"It was great, thanks for taking me."

"My pleasure."

We walk out of the exit and I hold the door open for her.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"Wow, I forgot how hot it is outside," she says as she pulls off her sweater.

"It's always hot in the summers here, but you'll find the winters will be more to your liking."

"I hope so, I'm not used to all this heat."

"Yeah, the weather's crazy here. One day the temperature could be a hundred and then the next day it'll be snowing."

"Wow, how do you get used to the weather?"

"I don't know. I was born and bred here so the weather doesn't really bother me."

A conversation from two girls in front of me catches my attention. One's talking to her girlfriend about the same movie we had watched and how she had cried. Funny, I didn't once see Mar shed a tear. I look into her eyes. They're neither red nor puffy.

"What?" Mar asks when she notices me scrutinizing her.

"You didn't cry during the film. Most of the girls were bawling."

"That would be a waste of tears. It was just a movie. Some people just get way too into it."

"So you never cry during any movie?"

"No."

"Books?"

"Nope." I observe her features. She doesn't look like she is lying. If I didn't know any better I would think that she's cold. But that's if I didn't know any better.

"Except for once," she half-laughs, "when I was seven I snuck out of my room past my bedtime and I hid behind the couch in the living room where my parents were watching the Exorcist. Have you ever seen that? Yeah. So you'd know the part where she's reclining on the bed giggling as the priest is trying to revive the dead body lying on the floor, and then the priest loses it and the whole flying out the window thing happens. Yep. Scared the crap out of me. Didn't see anything else afterward because I left crying hysterically out of the room. I screamed for hours. Screamed all the way to the hospital where the doctor ended up shooting me with a sedative.

"Any childhood scarring I might have can be traced to that exact moment. Slept with the light on for months. Didn't help that I already had an overactive imagination. I learned to rein it in eventually, but I still can get a little paranoid now and then. That's why I don't like scary movies, and why I especially hate scary stories," she adds. The last bit sounded like a warning for me not to inquire about her new house. It appears I shook her up a bit.

We get into the truck and I start it. Now you start on the first try. I take off driving slower than usual. Taking the next exit onto the freeway.

"Where do you want to go grab a bite to eat?" I ask.

"Any burger joint is fine." Huh, I've never got that answer before. She's a cheap date, but I don't want to take her up on her offer. What if it's some kind of a test? It's possible she wants to see if I would actually be cheap and go for it. Entrapment.

"How about a restaurant I just heard about? They get great reviews."

"Okay, that sounds fine."

"Cool, it's just off the next exit."

"I'm not trying to be rude, but do you usually drive this slowly?"

"No, but I figured you wouldn't want me to be speeding."

"True, but the speed limit is sixty-five and you're going like fifty-five. You could get a ticket for going too slow."

"You're one to talk. Leadfoot." I pick up the speed and I take the next exit. Mar tells me to shut up before pulling out her cell phone to call her folks and tell them the movie ended. She tells her mom she will be home right after dinner. A worried expression crosses her face as she hangs up.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Everything's fine. It's just that I can hear my Papa in the background and he's still in a bad mood."

Great.

"I bet you were bored out of your mind at the movie. I would have been cool with some action flick instead," Mar says, quickly changing the subject.

"Nah, that was fine, it did have some action in it." Well if it could even be considered action. There wasn't any blood or gore, only a bunch of vampires and werewolves going to war with another vampire coven over some little girl. I didn't get it.

What should I talk about next? I need to get her dad out of my head. She doesn't seem to care if we're talking or not, so I can't really count on her to start any conversation.

"I didn't really get what was going on most of the time since I've never seen any of the other movies."

"If you want I could fill you in unless you couldn't care less." Perfect. Now all I have to do is goad her on and ask her some questions until we get to the restaurant ...

"No, fill me in," I say, trying to sound interested. I make sure that I'm looking away so she can't call my bluff before continuing, "You can tell me the backstory, besides, I like hearing you talk." Slick. I wink at her and give her my winning smile. It wholly wins her over. She awards me a radiant smile; her teeth glisten as white as the moon, her cheeks slightly crimson.

"Okay, did you understand the thing about the little girl?" Good, something she likes to talk about.

Note to self: talk about movies that interest her. I think I recall reading on the ending credits that it was based off of a series of books. Note to self: also talk about books.

"No."

"Well, okay, so the little girl ..." Mar's voice begins to trail off as I start to tune her words out. I listen enough to make sure that I'm fully aware of when she's asking a question or if she's finished speaking so that I can keep her talking. Apparently, there were five movies altogether, meaning I can keep her preoccupied for quite some time. Ingenious. I watch the road rather reluctantly, now and then looking over at Mar—it's hard to peel my eyes away from her. I listen to her voice rather than the words she says. Her voice is intriguing. Soft and beautiful with a hint of spice. Captivating. Her lips move ever so slightly, forming the words, the syllables. Lips I desire.

The flashing of car lights takes my head out of the clouds. I stop hearing her voice. How long has she stopped talking? She's looking out the window. I would start up a conversation if I didn't already see the restaurant.

Are you for real? "Restaurante de Lemus. Latin?"

"You like Latin food, don't you?"

If he wanted to eat Latin food we could have just ate at my house.

"Yeah, I love it," I mumble, already a little irritated with him. I have become more and more vexed with him by the minute. I've spent the last ten minutes pretending not to be anything but cheerful and bubbly. Like dates are supposed to be. Really, he actually thinks I don't know what he's doing? All he's been doing to fuel the conversation is giving me generic answers. He hmm's in the right places, and basically yes and no is all he says. At least he's not attached to his phone. One point for that.

We pull up into the restaurant and park.

"Do you think I should take my cardigan?" I ask. The night air is warm regardless of the sun's absence.

"Umm, you might want one, restaurants here are usually kind of chilly."

"'Kay."

I already unbuckled myself and am out the door when Sage reaches my side and closes the door behind me. Sage then holds the restaurant's door open for me and follows in behind. Huh, good manners. Two points. The cool air engulfs us. We pass through one more set of doors leading into the reception. This room is downright cold.

The hostess greets us warmly. She has red hair, freckles, a kind face, and a warm smile—she looks like she's in her twenties. Her name tag reads, Lorraine. Lorraine leads us to a couple's table, Sage requested, in the non-smoking section. Barely anybody is in this section. Now we'll have more privacy and less noise to bother us.

Sage pulls out my chair for me. Any harsh feelings I was harboring toward him before melt away as he scoots it back in. I can get used to this.

"Someone will be with you momentarily," Lorraine says, before turning to leave. Sage thanks her. A few seconds later our waiter, a spindly teenage boy with windswept tuffs of hair, appears; giving us our menus before leaving.

"Comfortable?"

"Mmm-hmm," I reply, glancing over the menu that reads pretty much like Tex-Mex, Tex-Mex, and expensive Tex-Mex.

"Cold? I can ask them to raise the temperature up a little if you like, or I can even run and grab my jacket out of the truck."

"I'm good, thanks." The enchiladas sound somewhat interesting. Definitely not Guatemalan.

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"May I take your orders?" our waiter—whose name tag reads, Carter—asks, having reappeared a few minutes later. When Carter's eyes fall on me he gives me an awkward, crooked smile.

"I'll have the Enchilada Grande and a Coke," Sage says as he hands him his menu.

"And you, miss?" he asks, speaking directly to my breasts.

"The same, thanks," I reply, shoving the menu into his hand.

Carter nods. "Thank y'all for coming," he says, lingering for a moment. His eyes still glued to my boobs, before he walks away.

"How are you liking the place?" Sage asks.

I tug my cardigan closely around me.

"Huh?"

"How are you liking the—"

"Oh. It's nice, thank you," I say, giving him a warm smile. The place is big, nice, and expensive. All the tables are circular and covered in pristine cloth. The room is lit by little lamps that dangle above the tables. The walls have murals of Latin girls dancing and what not. I hope he didn't use up all his money on me. I'm already impressed by his manners.

"You know, you didn't have to go all out. A burger would have sufficed."

"It's fine. Don't worry. Besides, you are totally worth it."

I blush, a deep red sets into my cheeks. Embarrassed by his charm I can't help but look down. He's good.

"Here are your two Cokes; the meal will be out in just a few minutes," Carter says. He places the sodas down in front of us before being called away to bust another table.

I sip my Coke as I rack my brain for a good question to ask Sage.

"How did you know about this restaurant?"

"A buddy of mine told me about it."

"Ah."

"Why do you ask?"

"I just thought that you might have taken an ex here."

"Never been here in my life," he declares. "Let me ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"Is this your first date?"

"What makes you think that?"

"For starters, girls don't usually say you can take them for a burger. That's not how it works. Now I reckon you either had some crappy boyfriends or you haven't ever dated. That and every other guy who ever tried to ask you out is buried in the basement of your old house."

I laughed so hard I almost blew Coke out my nose, causing me to become utterly embarrassed. I quickly pull myself together. "You're very perceptive."

"Mmm-hmm. Why is that? I mean I bet—I mean I know you had a lot of guys interested in you?"

"I wasn't interested."

"Picky?"

"No."

"You mean to tell me you weren't interested in one guy? And you say you aren't picky?"

"That's what I said."

"Mmm-hmm, sure. Alrighty then, let me ask you another question." He hesitates.

"Go on."

"Why did you accept my offer?"

The question catches me off guard. What should I say? Uh, you're freaking gorgeous not to mention you have the most adorable accent ever.

"I accepted because ... I thought you might be a nice guy and you don't seem like a wuss. You still took me out even after you met Papa. All of the guys at my school, after they found out who my Papa was, or should I say how big he is, wouldn't even think about checking me out or asking me out on a date for that matter—" I blurted out that last part. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I totally blew that whole guys-find-me-desirable thing.

"How can that be?"

He couldn't let that one go. "Uh, did you see how scary big he is?" I mean, I guess his size could have been lost on Sage because Sage is a good two inches taller which probably helped, but there is no denying his scariness. Papa, in spite of being sweet, kind, and generous—all the things he's not toward teenage boys—has this commanding presence about him that can pretty much scare the shit out of anyone. The exception being small children who mostly think he's their personal jungle gym. Weird I know. "That's why he pulled out all the stops for you. He wanted to see if you were going to go anywhere."

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, right as Carter shows up with our food.

Sage tries to mask his annoyance brought on by Carter's timing and presence, but his eyes say it all.

"Here are your orders, call me if you need anything," Carter says directly to me, causing Sage to glower.

"Thanks, but not a chance," Sage replies, stabbing a piece of his enchilada and popping it into his mouth.

The smell of the food is completely tantalizing to my senses.

My first instinct is to take a bite, but seeing the steam, I tear a piece of enchilada off with my fork and I blow. I take a bite to test the heat. Mmm. Not bad. The cheese is creamy and the meat has flavor. Tasty. But nothing compared to Mama's authentic Guatemalan dishes.

"Tasty. How do you like it?" I ask, looking up at Sage. His face is red and his eyes are watering. He's also clearly torn by the decision to spit his food out into his napkin or swallow. I bite my lip to stifle a laugh, though I can't help smiling.

"Mmm, it's good. I just burnt my tongue is all," he answers hoarsely; having chosen to swallow.

"Didn't you see the excessive amount of steam hovering over it? Didn't you see me blowing on my food?" I laugh, hardly able to speak.

"Go ahead. Kick me while I'm down."

"Now you know why you don't scarf down your food."

"Rub it in," he says, blowing on the next piece. "Great. I can't taste anything." This makes me laugh even harder, he joins in.

"Apart from having a mean sense of humor, tell me about yourself?" he asks after I am composed.

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything, you can start with your favorite color."

"Purple. Yours?"

"Army Green."

"For a second there I thought you were going to say Camo."

"Ha, ha, ha. Camo is not a color it's a pattern. Any redneck can tell you that. Favorite food?"

"Mama's Guatemalan enchiladas."

"I'd bet they taste better than here. Mine is a—"

"Don't tell me. Don't tell me. Ribs and mashed potatoes."

"Now how'd you know? It's actually steak and baked potatoes, smart mouth."

"Same difference."

"Not so. Two worlds apart."

"You put sauce on both, don't you?"

"Granted, but—"

"Same thing."

"Whatever you say," he laughs with the shake of his head. Staring up at the ceiling he says, "Movie?"

"Titanic."

"Bourne Identity. Hmm, book?"

"Little Women. Your turn."

"The Call of the Wild, by Jack London. Candy?"

"Chocolate. Especially, Nutella. I would eat anything slathered in Nutella."

"Flower?"

"Roses."

"What color?"

"Crimson. Why?"

"What do you think?" he asks, flicking a crumb off the table cloth.

"I think that's cheating. Girls like surprises. You're not supposed to tell them you're getting them something. Ruins the surprise."

"Who said anything about you getting flowers? Might just be checking to see if you're allergic."

"To a certain color?"

"Never know. Certain colored snakes are poisonous."

"But a flower?"

"Hey, I didn't make 'em. Gotta take it up with the big guy upstairs."

"Whatever," I laugh. "My turn to ask you some questions." What to ask, what to ask? Oh! I got a great question. "Why did you ask me out?" I ask shyly.

"Umm ..." Nervous laugh. "Umm ... when I first saw you I felt like I ... I had to know who you were and I had to get to know you. So, here we are." I can't help but smile. We're on the same page.

"What else do you got for me?" Sage asks.

I sink my teeth into my cheek in concentration, thinking hard on what to say next.

"I know, what kind of career choice do you have in mind?"

"To tell you the truth I don't quite know. I'm kinda undecided. How about you? What are you going to do with your life?"

"My Papa wants me to be a doctor, but I don't think I have the stomach for that kind of thing. Mama wants me just to find a husband and give them grandchildren. Don't laugh, but when I was little—like all other kids—I wanted to be an actress. I always wanted to be in the limelight, to leave a footprint. That was until I realized that I hate to perform in front of people, so now I guess I'm undecided as well.

"Ooh, I got a good one. Are you—?"

"Hey, hey, hey. Hold on now. I thought it was my turn?"

"But, I have a good one," I pout, giving him big puppy dog eyes.

"Since you're so cute and all I guess I could let you go," he sighs. Sucker.

"Not that it matters—I'm just being curious, but ... what religion do you belong to?" I ask, biting my bottom lip in anticipation.

"Oh, is that all. My folks consider themselves Born-Again-Christians, but I don't know about me. I do sort of believe in some of the fundamentals like heaven and hell. Kinda been hoping there's a hell, 'cause I'd sure like to see Bubba, my step-dad, down in it. All things considered I sort of have to believe in God, but a denomination of religion ... I'd have to say I don't have one."

"You're not religious," I recap in disbelief. "I'm glad you said that, because my parents and I are atheists," I say carefully. I search his face for any signs of concern. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"That it doesn't bother you."

"It doesn't. I told you already I wasn't religious. Did you think I was lying?" I don't answer. How am I supposed to respond?

"No." I hope that sounded a lot more convincing to him than it did to me.

"Now I know what you look like when you're lying." He points to my hand.

I look at the strand of hair in my hand and I stop twisting.

"I was playing with my hair," I affirm. Damn it, now I'm going to have to make sure I do that often to throw him off my tell.

"Sure you were. Why should that be a bother, anyhow?"

"I just assumed it was a big deal considering I counted four churches on my way into Valentin, all belonging to different denominations. So, I thought it was safe to assume you'd care."

"You assumed wrong. In the south they have a saying, 'When you assume you make an ass out of you and me.'"

"Kind of like what you did when you assumed my house is haunted?"

"I didn't assume anything. I know there's something up with that old house. There's too much talk not to be."

"Just because people talk doesn't make it true. People have claimed all over the world to have seen little green men floating around in UFO's and we've yet to find evidence of that."

"So you haven't had anything weird happen yet?"

"No, nothing, nada, zip."

"Nothing?"

"Un-uh. I think it's just an old wives' tale made up by simple-minded people who have nothing better to do than sit around and gossip. Come on, you can't really believe in all that nonsense. I mean, you didn't experience anything, or is there something you haven't told me? Had the house given you the creeps or something?"

"No," he says slowly, "but I was only really in there for twenty minutes. That's not long enough for anything to happen. And yes, I do believe that the story is true or at least parts of it anyways. Look, I wasn't trying to freak you out when I was telling you that story. I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were walking into. If our roles were reversed I would want someone to tell me."

"Thanks, but I've slept in the house for two whole days and nothing has happened to me," I say, dismissing any notion of a ghost haunting the house. I flip my hair back behind me as if to say, "conversation over." If he can't read my body language then he's a complete bonehead.

"'... I've slept in the house for two whole days and nothing has happened to me,'" he says, obnoxiously imitating me; right down to flipping his hair back. I glare at him. How exasperating can he get? He is delusional if he actually believes something is in my house. I'm not even going to mention the nightmare he caused me by telling me that old BS story.

"Haven't you ever seen paranormal shows? These things take time," he continues.

"Hmm, I remember you saying that the Realtors and the cleaning crew were the last ones to step into the house, right?"

"Right."

"And it doesn't take a month to fix up the house. Only a couple of weeks, and like you said, these things take time. So when did these strange anomalies occur? Three weeks? That's not a lot of time. Don't you think?" I smile at him with the satisfaction that I have won our first argument.

"I never said how long the strange anomalies take to occur," he declares.

"Oh, okay," I murmur, before continuing my meal.

Sage attempts to start another conversation, but I brush him off with an abrupt yes or no. I refuse to look at him. Why doesn't he admit he lost? What is it with men and their pride? He gives up shortly and we eat in silence.

"Ready for the check?" Carter asks, a whisper of a smile in his voice as he pulls out the little black folder from his shirt pocket. Someone clearly has been eavesdropping and has immensely enjoyed the show.

"No."

"Yes," I contradict Sage. My eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments. "That'd be great, thanks," I reply, dropping my gaze to my lap.

"I'm just going to leave this here," Carter says, setting the folder down in the center of the table. "Let me clear these for you." Untucking the tray from under his arm he gathers the dirty plates.

Plainly eager to get rid of our shadow, Sage slides the folder toward himself, slips out his wallet, and extracts his credit card. Quickly signing the check, he tucks his card in the folder's flap and slaps it down on Carter's tray. Giving Carter no excuse to stick around and ogle.

"Look, I was only trying to help ..." Sage says after having been sure Carter was gone for good. "... I didn't mean to piss you off. I'm sorry if my words rubbed you the wrong way," Sage says softly, breaking the silence.

I feel mixed emotions stir within me: regret for arguing, giddiness that I won the argument, and the feeling that I should make this right by apologizing as well.

"No, don't." This is going to hurt to say. "Don't apologize. I was in the wrong." That was a big pill to swallow. "You were trying to be helpful and I should have taken it as beneficial. I apologize. Forgive me?" I smile wistfully.

"There's nothing to forgive."

"Good, because you're my ride home."

He gives a slight chuckle; the color of his eyes lighten.

"Here's your receipt. Come back soon," Carter says with a loaded look, creepily giggling. Addressing me and only me.

"Not likely," Sage mutters to Carter's back as he leaves. "Ready?"

Time flies by on the car ride home. I don't even notice Papa standing by Sage's side of the window until I hear him beating on the glass.

"Roll down the window. Now!" he barks. "Marimar, get out of the truck and go into the house," Papa growls after the barrier is out of the way.

Yep, I think, I am totally going to die an old maid.

"Bye!" I say, quickly unbuckling my seatbelt. Submitting—rather unwillingly—to Papa's order or should I say demand. I glance briefly back at Sage, his eyes meeting mine. His eyes seem to be filled with the same emotion as mine: fear. I tear my eyes away from his, disgruntled. I turn on my heels, heading toward the house. I walk briskly, my thoughts running rampant. What's his problem? We made it under curfew. What did Sage do to piss him off? Maybe Mama knows. My pace quickens. I throw open the door.

"Mama ...!" My voice trails off when I realize that Mama and Marisol are standing right in front of me.

"Oh, hey, Mar. How did your date go?"

"Good up until now. Mama, what's wrong with Papa? He ordered me out of the truck and demanded that I get into the house. Do you know how embarrassing that is?"

"What?"

"You didn't know?"

"I was upstairs. Don't worry, I'll fix this." She gives my hand a reassuring squeeze before opening the door and taking her leave.

"Papa!" Mama calls out from outside on the front porch. Her voice becomes fainter and fainter until it completely trails off into the distance.

"Marisol, let's go to bed. I'll tuck you in. We don't want to be up when Papa comes in."

Both in agreement, we make a mad dash upstairs; neither one of us wants to be downstairs when the fireworks go off. We turn into the bedroom. I close the door behind me. Marisol jumps into bed, her teeth already brushed, PJ's on.

I remove my folded pajamas from the bed and I begin to undress, not wasting a moment of time.

"Get under those sheets."

I tuck in Marisol and I give her a goodnight kiss.

"Don't I get a bedtime stowy?"

"Not tonight, Sunshine. It's late. Go to sleep."

"But I'm not sleepy."

"Try."

I, on the other hand, am going to try to sneak downstairs to hear what's going on. Attempting to bolt out of the room, running in the dark proves a challenge as I trip over something on the floor and I slam my head into the wall.

"Damn it!" I cry out, squeezing my head. Squinting through watery eyes I see Marisol coming to help. I grit my teeth to keep myself from cursing as I pull myself up off of the cold wooden floor. That's what I get for trying to eavesdrop.

"Awe you all wight?" Marisol asks.

"Shh!" I put my index finger to my mouth. As if they could hear us all the way downstairs. She covers her mouth. "I'm all right, get back into bed." Marisol lies back down.

"Where the hell did this come from?" I mutter to myself as I examine the object that caused me to fall. Stupid monkey. Ambling over to Marisol, still rubbing my now throbbing head, I hand her the monkey. I tuck her back in and give her another kiss on the forehead.

"No more leaving your toys on the floor anymore, okay?"

"I didn't. Geowge did."

"All right, then please ask George to pick his toys up."

"He can heaw you."

"Nighty-night, Sunshine. Love you. Don't let the bedbugs bite."

I rush toward the staircase—having made it past the door. I only make it down the fifth step when I hear the front door open. I'm hidden from view as the staircase makes an inverted, backward L shape around the wall.

I hear Papa's footsteps coming toward the staircase. Damn! Didn't take that into account. I'm screwed. Running back up is out of the question because he'll hear me. I hear the stairs begin to strain under his weight. I'm about to pretend I was casually walking down the stairs to talk to him when I hear Mama call out, "Walter, what is your problem?"

The stairs creak as he turns and goes back down toward Mama whose voice rang out from the hallway. I quietly crawl back up to the top of the stairs with Trevor nipping at my heels. Even the dog doesn't want to be near Papa when he turns into the Hulk.

"What do you mean?" Papa demands when he gets to the hall. Luckily, I can still hear as Mama is almost yelling and Papa is whispering like thunderclap.

"You said I couldn't make her come home from the date. You never said—"

"Marimar makes a new friend, and then you try to scare him away? She really likes him, and she needs a friend to ease her into this place."

"But, that guy!"

"Don't go ruining the one thing that might tie her to this place. Believe it or not, next year she is going to become an adult and if she doesn't have something or somebody that ties her down to this place she'll probably leave." Papa tried to make a few comments but Mama is all over him. Funny, his "verbal self-defense" he's always lecturing about doesn't seem to work on Mama.

"She has us." Yeah, you're really giving me a reason to stay.

"Oh, and you're really giving her a reason to stay." It's like she read my mind. "You know she had her heart set on going to Oregon State like you did. That's on the other side of the country," she says almost in tears. Now he's defenseless.

"Okay, all right; I'll try to be civil to him, but that's all I'm capable of."

"You're not only going to try! You are going to be nice!"

"But, Ana, he almost—"

Almost. Almost what? Almost kissed me? He never even held my hand.

"Hopefully, you didn't already scare him away," Mama says, speaking over him. The waterworks start. "You better not have."

"Relax; if he's a man then he'll be back. If he's not well ..."

Mama sighs, "I guess you're right."

"Of course, I'm right. When aren't I?" I can think of quite a few times. "He'll be back. He could have bailed from the date. That has to account for something. He has the balls to stick around ..." Papa uttered something inaudible. I think he had said "unfortunately." Where's the Hulk? The fireworks? Huh?

A resonant laugh echoes down the hall making me jump.

"You should have seen his face when I had told Mar to get out. He looked like he thought I was going to kill him," he roars with laughter. I could imagine him wiping his eyes. Oh, yeah, you're a real riot. Why don't I give you a round of applause? His voice reeks with mirth. What did he say to Sage? Most importantly, what did Sage almost do?

If Papa messes this up ... see if I bake him any sweets—his Kryptonite. Laughter rings through the house, peeling me away from my thought.

"He looked as white as a ghost," he says chortling. Doth he know no shame?

"Woof. Yap. Yap. Woof."

"Shut up, you stupid dog!" I clap my hand over my mouth. Did they hear that? Trevor is jumping up and down trying to get my attention. "Shh!" I rub his tummy hoping that'll shut him up. I can't hear their voices anymore. Are they listening for movement upstairs? Are they going to come up and investigate? Or did they decide to continue their conversation in another room? I don't wait to find out.

I tip-toe back to my bedroom, blindly stumbling my way toward the bed. My eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness in our room. Everything's obscure. I can just make out the vague outlines of the larger objects. I crawl into bed, pulling the sheets over me.

Knowing that Papa isn't ready to discuss anything about Sage, I decide to wait until tomorrow to ask what his deal was. Well, maybe I had better just talk to Mama. Papa would just make himself sound innocent. What a night. I reminisce over the events of my first, possibly last, date. Sage's face is the last picture I see in my mind before I doze off.

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

"Get up, sleepy head! Mama says it's almost time foe bweakfast."

I lift my head unwillingly from my pillow. The clock reads six. Damn, why do we all have to get up just because Papa has to go to work? It's summer vacation for Christ's sake! I look out the window. The heavy curtains are pulled apart revealing the overly bright, Texas sun.

Hiding my face in my pillow causes Marisol to relentlessly hop up and down on the bed even more vigorously.

"I'm up, I'm up!" I say irritatedly.

"Okay," Marisol says cheerily as she crawls down from the bed and skips out of the room. The floorboards let out a groan every time she lands.

I feel as if I've been up all night; nightmares again. I feel uneasy being alone in the room.

I have got to stop thinking about the urban legend surrounding this house or I'll have bags under my eyes the next time I see Sage. If I ever see Sage again.

I slap down my toothbrush in the cupboard. I look tired. I turn on the faucet and I cup my hands under the water. As I rinse my face soapy water runs down my forearms, covering them in a stinging sensation. Where did those come from? Along my inner forearms are long scratches. Ow.

"Must have been Trevor," I mutter. I examine the scratches in the mirror. That's weird, they already look infected. Somebody was busy last night scratching the crap out of me. He must have really had to go.

As I examine the scratches the lights begin flickering, and then go out altogether. The room becomes semi-dark and the flash of the terror that I had experienced during my recurring nightmares shoots through me. I dry my hands on my shirt as I speed walk down the hall and descend the stairs in search of company. I'm just freaking myself out, I tell myself.

Halfway down the stairs a feeling of being chased overcomes me. I look back and see nothing, but I'm almost at a full panicked run as I turn the corner to the downstairs hall. I let out a shriek of surprise. Marisol was just coming around the corner toward me.

"What are you doing here?" I gasp.

"I'm making shue you huwwy up."

I check behind me one more time. Nothing. I'm being paranoid.

"Did Mama send you to check on me?"

"No."

"Are you being snoopy?" I ask playfully, striving to restore a little normalcy.

"I'm not a dog," Marisol says, misunderstanding me. She thinks I asked her if she was acting like the beagle, Snoopy, from the Peanuts cartoon.

"You will be if you don't stop being so nosy," I tease.

"No I won't," she states as she shakes her head, her pigtails flopping around like big old dog ears; giving me an idea.

"Yes, you will. Those pigtails of yours will turn into big floppy ears. And then you will grow a tail and worst of all, you'll get dog breath."

"Nuh-ah," she says a little unsure.

"Look, you already grew dog ears!"

"Ahh!" she screams as she runs to the bathroom mirror to check.

"I did not!" she declares as she glares at me for laughing, crossing her arms.

I pass her, still laughing, as I go down the hall toward the kitchen. Marisol follows after me declaring, "It's not funny!" Aside brief interludes of, "Quit it!"

"Okay, okay, I apologize," I say, pushing open the door to the kitchen. The smell of Papa's cheesy potatoes searing on the stove fast fried with bits of bacon makes my mouth water. Must. Have. Cheesy. Goodness.

Marisol and I exchange glances before we simultaneously bolt to the stove top to sneak a taste while Mama's back is turned. My little toe catches the edge of the island and I stumble. I catch myself before I, ungracefully, do a face plant. Busted!

"Are you okay?" Mama asks.

"Not. Really," I grunt, dancing around with my foot in my hand before hobbling over to a stool.

"Why were you running? You were trying to sneak some potatoes weren't you?" Her all-knowing eyes land on Marisol who is reaching into the pan and cramming the diced potatoes into her mouth.

"No," I answer with a laugh, painting myself even guiltier.

"Fibber. Serves you right; you know I hate it when you eat before we sit down." Mama smirks. She turns to Marisol and says, "You give some to your sister and then go help her set the table. I hope your hands were clean."

Prior to finding out the answer, Marisol shoves a scoopful of potatoes in my mouth. Better not to know.

Marisol grabs the napkins after having wiped her greasy fingers down the front of her shirt and I grab the forks. Once done with our tasks, we head into the great room because breakfast isn't quite ready.

I plop down on the couch and begin to channel surf. Nothing is on. Bored, I turn off the television and I toss the remote beside me. In the wake of silence comes a soft sonorous tune coming from behind me. Twisting around so I am now facing the back of the couch I watch as Marisol spazzes out to piano music. She's doing what looks like a combination of the Nutcracker ballet and the hokey-pokey; it kind of switches back and forth. It's cute.

I wish I was her age again. You were easily entertained; you could make up games and have imaginary friends without people thinking that you've lost it. Everything was so simple then, no worries, no boyfriends, or guys you may have the slightest chance of getting until your crazy dad ruins it for you ...

"Mama let you play with the iPod?" I ask as my eyes rove around for the iPod stand.

"What iPod?" She stops dancing and gives me a puzzled look.

"If you don't have the iPod then where's the music coming from?"

"The piano," she states like it's so obvious.

"We don't have a piano, silly."

"Yes, we do." Her seriousness is freaking me out.

Don't be stupid. There has to be a logical explanation.

Hum. Crackle. I face the TV. Static is shown on the screen. Weird. I was sure I had turned it off. I must have hit the wrong button. I grab the remote and turn it off for good this time. I had just lifted my thumb off the button when I hear the hum of the TV turning back on. Perplexed, I look back down at my hand. I'm not touching any buttons and Marisol is still behind the couch.

All of a sudden, a sooty mass hovers over the television, filling the air with the smell of smoke. Anybody seeing this? A quick peek at Marisol and I find she has resumed dancing. The smoke-like mass hovers over the TV for a moment longer and then poof. It disappears into the wall.

Umm ... okay, I'm pretty sure smoke doesn't just disappear into a wall like that and there doesn't appear to be anything wrong with the TV since a cartoon is now playing ... So, what the fuck was that?

"Girls!" Mama bellows from the kitchen. She doesn't have to call me twice.

"Coming!" I want out of here. Now. "Marisol, let's go show Mama your dance." She perks up and willfully follows me.

It was all in your head, it was all in your head, I chant to myself all the way to the kitchen.

Motivated in part by hunger and the resolution to retain some regularity I leave the safety of numbers to set down the first two plates in the breakfast room. I race back into the room and I grab the other set. The faster I get this job done the sooner I can return to this safe haven.

"Stop!" Mama shouts.

I freeze in place. Is it behind me? Please don't say that spooky mass isn't floating behind me. Oh God, it's behind me I know it.

"Marimar Filomena Utterson! You had better not be running with those plates! You're going to drop all of that food on the floor and your Papa will be irate."

Whew.

She flashes a swift look at Papa who had just re-entered the room. He's totally zoned out. Dancing while listening to his music coming from the iPod dock he places the cheese back into the refrigerator.

"You should know better."

I smile apologetically. And you should know better than to shout like someone's about to be freaking smothered to death by some menacing smoke thingy.

My thoughts drift to the raw bump on the top of my head left over from last night's little mishap with the wall. Thankfully it's hidden under my hair; good thing too. If Mama and Papa noticed it I'd never hear the end of this. I'm not that clumsy. I'm not always tripping, falling, et cetera. At least not on a daily basis. Just now and then. I didn't trip once on my date ... that has to say something.

"Okay, I apologize," I respond. Sealing the apology with a kiss on the cheek before resuming my duties.

I set the plates down in their proper places. Nervously glancing about all the while.

I am about to re-enter the kitchen when I hear the tinkling of the chandelier.

Oh, no.

Doubling back I find that the plates have all been switched around, the silverware is clustered together in the middle of the table, and the napkins are folded upright. Same as the other day. Only this time the chandelier is violently gyrating and the table and the chairs are vibrating.

Creeping in from the large open window, smothering all of the sun's rays, comes a black, nebulous mass. The birds outside give out a warning call before falling silent. The air in the room thickens and it becomes hard to breathe. The room becomes suddenly drained of all its warmth. The black mass begins to surround the whole room.

The door opens from behind me and in comes Papa's loud, heavy footsteps.

Voilà, the ominous mass vanishes out the window. Light fills the room again; the birds start up their song.

"You have got to be kidding me!" I shout, stomping my foot hard on the floor.

"What? What's the problem?" Papa asks.

"I-I just saw this really cool looking red cardinal that I wanted to show you, but it flew away before I could," I manage to stammer out.

"Mmm-hmm. Sit down, we're going to eat."

And so we sit down in our usual seating and we eat, or they do anyway. I'm too scared out of my wits—if I have any that is. I'm beginning to question my sanity. I mean if there was actually something in this house then everybody else would have noticed something too. Maybe my raging teenage hormones are out of whack. I can't rule that out as a possibility. The recent onset of schizophrenic type deliriums must be some kind of psychological way that my brain is processing the stress moving here fostered. Face it, I had to leave my school, my home, and now here I am in a small town which I hate. And to top it all off, I don't know where I stand with Sage. Are we to be girlfriend and boyfriend or just friends? Presuming he still wants to see me. I have a lot on my plate, that's for sure.

My thoughts are disrupted because Mama's reminding me to eat. I sink my teeth into the crunchy and chewy flesh of the potatoes, taste the creamy sharp flavor of the cheese, and the caramelized essence of the onions; yum. My taste buds are practically in heaven or would be if my mind wasn't in hell.

The only sounds present belong to the utensils clanging against the china and the faint, distant phantom piano music drifting in from the great room—and it looks like only I can hear it. Everybody is too into their food to strike up a conversation; fine by me. My mind is preoccupied with other thoughts ...

I drop my fork. I reach down to grab it and discover Trevor nuzzling Sunshine's leg, begging for some table scraps. She slips him a little handful of her potatoes. I really shouldn't let her but I relent anyway. The dog's getting fat. His belly's protruding and his collar's becoming quite snug. I don't know why she keeps slipping him stuff; we already give him our leftovers.

Between the short time it took me to drop my fork and to pick it up there has been a palpable shift in energy at the table. Finally, Papa has decided that he would like to talk.

"So, what are you two going to do today?" he asks, eyeing me. The underlying question is am I going to be seeing Sage. My fury over the way he acted last night with Sage manages to replace my fears. I'm still so highly pissed over what he did last night that it takes all my restraint to conceal my anger. But I manage to anyway, barely. I clear my voice, removing all the venom from my tone, before I respond.

"I don't have any plans." Because you ruined them, I think, but don't dare say so. Even though I'm holding back my rage, I can feel the heat of anger rising to my face.

Mama catches that and prods Papa to speak. He huffs out a sigh and says rather unwillingly, "I apologize about what happened last night. I should have handled the situation a lot better. And don't worry about that kid, umm, Sam—"

"Sage," I correct him.

"Whatever, anyway, if he really likes you I'm sure he will come back."

That was the end of that conversation.

"Well, how do you guys like the food?" Mama asks to lighten the mood.

"It's delicious. Thank you, Mama, Papa."

"Yep, it's vewy good," Marisol says while bouncing in her seat like she always does when she enjoys what she's eating. She scoops up a big forkful of food and proceeds to gorge herself with it. Papa was so anxious about starting his new job today that he got up early and made the type of big breakfast that is usually reserved for Saturday mornings when he cooks brunch as we all sleep in "'till the crack of noon" as he says.

After breakfast, I pick up the plates and proceed to wash them. The whole time I find that I'm looking over my shoulder for something to happen. The piano music has evanesced over the course of breakfast. Making me highly suspicious of the next wave of random shit that is sure to come. The anticipation is maddening. It took all of five minutes until I was done with the last dish; it was easy since all I had to do was place them in the dishwasher.

After much deliberation, I resign myself to going to the living room to watch TV. I figure that the mass could enter any room—including this one, so I am no more safe in here than out there. Even so, I don't think I'll be entering the great room any time soon.

Having wrestled Trevor out of my seat, I finally settle down and have found something to watch when Mama walks in.

She walks over from behind me and plants a gentle kiss on my head.

"Hi, Mama."

"Hi, Mamí, I need to talk to you. You know that your Papa is really sorry about last night?"

I nod assent. And you know you're not fooling anybody, right?

"Last night when you were pulling out to go on your date Papa recognized ..."

Oh, shit!

"So, as you can imagine," she continues, "he went into a rage. He wanted to hop in the minivan and go after him and it was all I could do to get him to allow you to stay out on the date. You know how overprotective he is. It started when we were first dating and he noticed men were always following me. He said that it was because I was the most beautiful girl in the world. I think that's why I married him."

Where are you going with this, Mama?

"Anyway, I made him promise to be civil to Sage."

Civil War civil? Or, civil "civil" you mean?

"I hope so."

Mama pauses trying to collect her thoughts.

"About Sage, I just want you to know not to worry. He'll be back. I know that in your last school you had trouble making friends, but I'm sure you won't have any trouble making friends here," she says, encouragingly.

"Thank you, Mama. That helps," I respond politely.

"You're welcome, Mamí," she says as she hugs my neck and kisses my cheek.

"Now come on, girls. Say good-bye to your Papa," Mama instructs, scooping up Marisol who entered with a running start and ended up sliding into Mama before being captured by her—she showers her with kisses.

Filing out of the room, I see Papa rushing down the stairs as he fumbles with his tie. Mama meets him at the door and tweaks his tie into place.

"Kiss me good-bye, girls."

We comply. We watch as Papa kisses Mama at the threshold, walks to the minivan, and leaves as we wave good-bye.

We race back to the couch to watch some more TV as Mama locks up the front door. Where is the remote? Marisol's quietly watching the screen that is playing a little fairy movie. Every so often she turns whispering to Gabriella, or is it George? Oh man, she beat me to it. If I stay I'll have to watch this whole movie with her and her friends. Forget it, I might as well go back to my room and go listen to some music on my iPod. Linkin Park, here I come.

I exit out of the living room, into the hall, and I head up the stairs holding onto the railing so that I don't trip again.

I walk across the room over to the dresser where my iPod's lying. My partially chewed (thanks, Trevor, or was this the mice's doing?) still usable earbuds are thankfully plugged in where I left them. I pop them into my ears before I flop onto the bed. I sprawl out on the bed, my head supported by the pillow. I search on my playlist for Linkin Park and put on The Catalyst. I close my eyes and begin to relax.

The iPod is resting on my stomach, my cell phone in my right hand is on vibrate, just in case someone tries to call me ... okay, Sage. Wait a minute ... Rather than hearing music I hear static. That butthead must have chewed apart the wire. I hit play again beseeching all that is good and holy in the world that it was a mistake and this time the iPod skips onto another song, Faint. Stupid iPod.

BUZZZZZ! I jump. Stupid cell phone. Ripping the earbuds painfully out of my ears I read the caller-i.d: Sage. I wait a couple of seconds so that I don't look too desperate and then I flip the phone open.

"Hey, what's up?" Nice, keep it casual.

"N-nothing much. Hey listen ... is your dad home by any chance?" Dude, you should be scared. You're lucky to still have all your teeth after what you did.

"He's at work. He shouldn't be home until like, six-thirty. Why?"

"Good. 'Cause, I was wondering if I could come over. I'd like to give ya something if that's cool with you?" Is this guy crazy or what? I don't know if he has guts or if he's just stupid. Perhaps he's suicidal—Papa would be fuming if he knew he was going to step into this house again. But who cares, whether he's both crazy and suicidal it doesn't matter to me. All I care about is that I like him and he likes me enough to risk another encounter with Papa.

"Works for me." I wonder what he's bringing?

"Do you mind if I bring my little brother with me? I was thinking that maybe, if it was cool with your Mom, Oscar and Marisol could have a playdate."

"That'd be great, Marisol would love that."

"Okay, I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Cool." I'm hoping I don't sound like I'm pining. "Bye." I hang up the phone. Good thing Papa left or I'd have to hide all the guns. That reminds me, I should go warn Mama that he's coming, but I'm too lazy to get up. She is already dressed and I really don't think she'll mind. On the other hand, I better make sure Papa isn't coming home for lunch.

I re-enter the room after giving Mama a heads up on Sage. I go back to listening to my music. I lie back down on the bed, close my eyes, and skip back to the song's beginning. The volume is low enough so that the music won't blow my eardrums out. Low enough even for me to pick up the other voice. Has to be Marisol.

Wham. Someone kicks the side of my bed.

"Filomena, Filomena. I'm talking to you, Filomena," I hear faintly through the music.

I sit up on the bed as I open my eyes. Taking an earbud out.

"Yes?" No answer. Marisol must be messing with me. She knows I hate it when they call me that. I tried going by that once and for the rest of my middle school career I was known as that weird girl named Fil. Like the boy's name. And they wonder why I had a hard time making friends.

I lay back down to relax.

"Filomena."

"Very funny, Sunshine," I say without bothering to open my eyes. Wham. She kicks the bed again. Snapping my eyes open I perceive nobody to be there. Pausing the music, I toss the iPod beside me. "Marisol?" Hanging over the side of the bed and lifting the covers, I check underneath. I find nothing but dust bunnies. Nope. I check the armoire. "She's not in here either," I mumble under my breath.

In the hall, I call out by the staircase to Marisol.

"I'm wight heya," she says, appearing around the bend of the staircase, her sock-monkey under her arm.

"Sunshine, how did you get there so fast?"

"What?"

"Weren't you in our bedroom?"

"No, Maw."

"Are you shue—I mean sure?"

"I'm shue. I was downstaiws."

"Okay, thank you."

"You'we welcome."

Must have been all in my head, I think as I lay back down on the bed. Can't I ever get any peace?

Earbuds back on, I press play.

YOU CAN'T SHUT ME OUT! The song screeches so loud that I violently tear the earbuds out, causing me to accidentally roll off the bed; sending me crashing to the floor all the while holding my ringing ears, my muscles tensed.

"Ouch!" I exclaim. I nailed my head on the nightstand. What in the hell just happened? Did I accidentally raise the volume? No, I couldn't have. I had only pushed the play button. I never messed with the volume. I raise my head in a quick motion only to return it softly away from the stand and onto the floor; my hand lying underneath it.

"Ooohh." My head. It feels as if blood is seeping through my skull. Damn it. I hope that I don't have to go to the hospital. As clumsy as I am, not once have I ever visited an emergency room and now of all days I might break my hospital-free record. Hold on a second. I don't feel any blood, but it sure is raw. I'll have to sleep on my side tonight.

Wait, did I hear that right? I grab a hold of the earbud dangling off the side of the bed and yank the iPod down beside me. Lifting it up in front of my face I catch a glimpse of the word Faint before the playlist skips to another song. You can't shut me out? That's not part of the lyrics?

Knock, knock.

"Woof, Woof."

He's here!

Warily, I get up and make my way down the stairs; the descent causes my head to throb. Mama's already opened the door. Sage is wearing his usual attire. The only difference in his appearance is his curly hair is combed back. One hand is hidden behind his back and the other is holding Oscar's hand—Oscar is standing in the same manner as his brother.

I attempt to descend the stairs elegantly, like you see in the movies. Unfortunately, I'm still a little off balance from my injury and I find myself occasionally stumbling and looking more like a klutz than a Southern belle. Sage staring at me and obviously trying not to laugh each time I waver isn't helping.

"Here, ma'am, these are for you." Sage releases Oscar's hand and with that same hand he grabs something from behind his back and presents Mama with a bouquet of flowers.

"Oh, how thoughtful," Mama says, taking a whiff. "Mmm, they smell as pretty as they look. Thank you."

"It was my pleasure. These are for you," Sage says, handing me a bouquet of crimson roses. "But I guess you already knew that," he adds, before flashing me a stunning smile. "I recall you saying they're your favorite."

"Yes, they are." He gets even cuter by the minute. How is that possible?

"Thank you." I bury my face in the flowers hoping that they can conceal my blush.

Marisol is on her tip-toes bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, with Trevor struggling in her arms, waiting impatiently for her present. She tries to look around Oscar but he presses his back against the wall, keeping her from peeking.

"Ah, ah, ah. No peeking," Sage says. Marisol plops herself down on the floor and begins to rub Trevor's head in a way that reminds me of the character Lennie in Of Mice and Men. "Close your eyes and hold out your hands. Don't open your eyes until I tell ya to," Sage instructs. She giggles expectantly as she releases poor Trevor.

Oscar pulls out from behind his back a plush teddy bear, which he then carefully places in her hands.

"Okay, now open them," Oscar says sweetly. Her eyes light up like candles. She gives Oscar a wide, toothy grin—well sort of—before giving him a bear hug.

"Glad you like it," Oscar says well pleased.

Mama and I exchange glances as if to say, "How cute," before taking our party to the living room.

I sit on the side of the sofa closest to the armrest. Marisol is about to plant her rear in the middle of the sofa when Mama, who just came back from putting her flowers into a vase, suggested that she and Oscar go play in my bedroom which sends them scurrying up the stairs. It's not until Sage sits beside me that I realize that her seemingly innocent gesture was not so pure.

Mama, or should I call her match-maker, has managed to get Oscar and Marisol out of the room. Smooth. Mama and Papa seem to be living on different planets in the daughter dating world. Man, would this scene boil his blood. But I'm not complaining, she did do me a favor. I'm set on asking Sage what exactly happened and apologizing for what took place yesterday. The only problem is that I can't do that with Mama present. I have no doubt Sage will probably downplay the situation to me, but with Mama in the room he'll be sure to clam up. Mama's just standing there looking at us with this sentimental gaze. I can tell Sage is starting to feel awkward; he's shifting in his seat. I have to get rid of her. I turn my body so that I'm facing Sage and I ask, "Would you like anything? Food? Drink? Water?"

"No, I'm fine. Thanks."

He's clueless.

"Nonsense, you must want something?" Mama says, catching my gist.

"No, I'm fi—"

Mama shoots him a disapproving look.

"Water would be great, please, thank you, ma'am." He's finally catching on.

"I'll go get it for you."

Mama hastily walks to the kitchen, leaving us alone.

"Hey, about yesterday, I'm sorry about Papa. I had a great time."

"Don't sweat it, nothing happened. Your dad just wanted to talk to me. No hard feelings."

That's not what I heard. I expected this much. Commencing Plan B.

"Do you want a shovel for that bullshit?"

"What?"

Could I be blunter?

"I said, 'Do you want a shovel for that bullshit?' You already have the boots on for it." That seemed to trigger some reaction.

Sage scoffs; his countenance is menacing, but, in some weird way, it's kind of attractive.

"I don't think you would really want to hear what went on, or my honest opinion. So let's leave it at that." Damn, that was intense.

"We just had a slight misunderstanding, that's all," I amend. What is with this chick? Why does she have to be so damn patronizing? Yeah, sure you want me to tell you the truth. Bullshit! Better for me to sweep this under the rug or else face the wrath of her father if he ever caught wind of this conversation.

What a day that was, first I did everything humanly possible to ruin our date and then I almost got beat up by her deranged father.

I pull up to her driveway. Before I can turn off the engine, her father is there, looking threatening as ever. Their driveway is so far up the lane that nobody would be able to see us from the street. He knocks on my window; actually, he's more like pounding on it. Who put a burr in his saddle?

"Roll down the window." His voice is distorted through the glass. "Now!" I crank it down reluctantly. He looks pissed. His veins are practically protruding out of his neck. I hope he doesn't have high blood pressure. If he drops dead because of our first date she'll never see me again.

"Marimar, get out of the truck and go into the house."

"Bye!" she says quickly while unbuckling her seatbelt. We lock eyes for one brief second, and then she's gone. I can't watch her leave; her father is demanding my time.

"I," wicked maniacal chuckle, "can't believe that I let her out of the house with you." I don't know if he's talking to me or himself. Though his eyes are set on me they are distant, unseeing. He doesn't look to be all there. Awesome. For a moment, the fire within his eyes seem to extinguish and then there it is again, rekindled; blazing hotter than before.

His face warps into a scowl. Then, as if taming a wild beast inside him, his features soften. I could almost say that he looks calm. Almost.

His voice even and steady he says, "Nice truck, it probably would suck if someone banged it up, wouldn't it?"

"Pardon me?"

"You're the little prick who almost killed me the other night."

"I'm not—I'm not following ...?"

"You ran me off the road."

Ooh. Oh. "Uh-oh."

"Yeah, uh-oh is right."

My mind is sent into a panic.

He can't shoot me; that would be premeditated murder. Besides, he doesn't have his gun on him. And even if he did, I didn't do anything, technically, to deserve it. So, strictly speaking, there wouldn't be anything to justify his actions. He can't kick my ass; the door is blocking him from me. So, really, what can he do to me? He's all bark and no bite. Who does he think he is? The Hulk?

I put on my poker face. My eyes haven't wavered from his for an instant. The corners of his mouth are up in a satisfied smirk. He must have noticed my moment of panic. I can feel the corners of my mouth lifting into a sneer. Whatcha gonna do old man?

"Are you deaf, boy? Did you hear what I said? Well, explain yourself! I have half a mind to knock some sense into you." Sure, old man, I'd like to see you try. You'd probably pull a muscle or something. The thought is so funny that before I can contain myself a snigger gets through. I immediately regret it.

The door opens and the next thing I know he's unbuckling me from my seat and dragging my ass out of the truck. Holy crap! He's a lot stronger than he looks.

"Not so tough now are you, punk!" I'm suspended in the air, pinned against my truck; he's got me by my shirt. The way he's gripping it I'm surprised my shirt hasn't torn apart. He's still smiling. This guy's frigging insane!

"Do you think this is funny? Do you? You have one second to give me a reason why I shouldn't knock all your teeth out!"

"I-I ..." Swallow. "Sir, I had no idea—I-I'm sorry I wasn't even paying attention ..."

He's screaming in my face now, spraying me with spit. "You flipped me off!"

Now I know what Marimar felt like when I unintentionally spat in her face on our date, it's revolting. He's shaking me viciously. Seriously, what is this guy on? Steroids?

"An-and I admit that was uncalled for."

"You think? Let me make myself perfectly clear. That will never happen again. To me or anyone else."

"Papa!" his wife calls out. Saved in the nick of time by Mrs. Utterson. I could kiss her.

Casting a furtive glance over his shoulder, gauging how far she is from us, he drops his voice and continues in a whisper, "I'm a reasonable guy, and unfortunately my daughter seems to have taken a liking to you, so consider this your first and final warning. Capiche?"

"Papa!" she bellows. She's getting closer, but not close enough for her to see me suspended in the air in the darkness.

"Yeah, um, totally."

Mr. Utterson unwillingly puts me down, straightening my shirt in the process.

"Papa!" she calls out again. Now only a foot away from us. He pats me on the back so that it appears like we were having a friendly chat as he turns to face her. Boy is he whooped. I bite my lip hard so I don't laugh; blood bursts through the tear in my lip. The tip of my tongue wipes it away; it tastes of salt and iron. I concentrate on that. Better to concentrate on that than to think of the humor the situation is presenting.

"Walter, come on inside. It's getting late."

"In a minute, Alena, the boy and I are having a nice chat." He pats my back hard this time.

"Well, I'm sure that he has a curfew he'll be late for and we wouldn't want you to get him in trouble."

She's given me a way out. Now's my chance.

"Umm, yeah, my mom is going to be worried if I'm not home on time." Like she'd give a damn. She stopped caring the minute she let that loser into our life.

"See? Goodnight, Sage. Drive safely."

"Let's go, Papa."

"I'll be with you in a moment. I'm just going to see him off." He puts his hand on my shoulder, stopping me from opening the door. Fingers digging in. I resist the urge to shrug his hand off; intense pain. He must be hitting a pressure point.

"No. Now, Papa!" She's starting to lose her patience. Her tone is stern, different from the sweet tone she's been using. Eyes now hard, they resemble onyx stone. She spoke each word with perfect clarity. I can hear the threat behind them, "Now, or you'll be sleeping on the couch tonight!"

He huffs a sharp sigh of submission. Without a word he releases his Hulk-like grip from my shoulder and stalks to her side.

"Aren't you going to say goodnight?" He freezes in place, his muscles flex, and without turning he mutters a good-bye.

"Night, ma'am, Mr. Utterson." I don't waste a second getting into the truck. I start the engine and drive off without even bothering to put on my seatbelt.

The way I see it is that it would be a nicer feeling to be struck by a car than by that lunatic. His strength made Bubba feel like a twelve-year-old girl ...

"Do you want to watch a movie?"

"What?"

I'm forwarded back to the present by Marimar.

"Earth to Sage, do you want to watch a movie?" The bite seems to be missing from her tone. What changed her mood?

"I have that new DVD, The Girl on Fire. It's about a sixteen-year-old girl in a dystopian future who has to fight among other teenagers to the death. We can watch it down in the dungeon on the bigger TV."

"Well, actually ..." I'm interrupted by her mother who comes in to hand me my unwanted glass of water. "Thank you, ma'am."

"I'll be in the kitchen if you want anything. Don't be afraid to ask."

"Will do, ma'am." She doesn't hesitate on exiting.

"You were saying?"

"Do you have a camcorder?"

"Yeah, why?"

I purse my lips together. Contemplating whether it's safe to proceed. Her eyes transform from suspicious to dubious. Maybe not ... An eyebrow lift later, and she's flinging the pillow she had been hugging aside and is on her feet. "Oh my God! Seriously? You want to go ghost hunting?"

"Forget I even mentioned it. Or, thought it. No big deal."

She's pacing.

"Okay," she says, coming to a halt in her original spot.

"Okay, forget it? Or, okay, we'll do it?"

"Okay, we'll do it. But, I'm only going to do this to prove to you that my house is not haunted," she says in her usual la-de-da tone. She folds her arms and sticks her nose up in the air like she's smarter than me. She's so hot when she does that—in an irritating kind of way.

"Are we going or not?" she asks, taking me out of my train of thought.

"Right, let's get 'er done."

We head out the way we came in, past the front door and up the stairs. On the side of the staircase, old paintings of an artist unknown are hung on the wall. When we get to the top floor I look around. There are school pictures and baby pictures of Marimar and Marisol lining the walls (Marisol looks just like Marimar did when she was a child in a black and white photo) beside family portraits. In each one of the family photos they're all smiling and happy. Not just pretending to be. Just like the family in the little baggy of photos I keep tucked away in the glove compartment of my truck. The few photos I managed to save before my Mom lit the rest on fire on top of the stove to please Bubba. On account of we were starting a new family. One that doesn't smile.

Passing what must be an extra bedroom, we come to two bedrooms across from each other with a bathroom at the end of the hall between them.

"This is Marisol's and my bedroom," she says as she enters the one on the left. I linger by the entrance taking it in. It's not what I would have pictured it to be. A little less pink and a little more ... infantile. That reminds me ... where are the kids? Ah, who cares? They've got to be around here somewhere.

"Why share a room when you have two other large ones?"

"They're too big a space, and if we had separate rooms Marisol would still go in my room and sleep with me. I don't mind, we've always been very close so we prefer it this way."

The second I step foot into the room the hair on the back of my neck sticks straight up like if I'd gone and stepped on a live wire. The feeling I get by being in here don't feel too good neither. All I know is that I want to get the hell out of here faster than a scalded cat. But I'm not going to let Mar know that I'm scared. I'll just make a fool of myself and she'll just laugh at me and color me a wuss.

Whoosh. A breeze sweeps past me. What the hell? I look over at Marimar but she doesn't seem to notice anything. Must have been me. Not the smell though. I'm calling the dog out on that one. His little yellow butt disappears around the corner. Come to think of it, that breeze might have been him, too. Still. I wanna go, now! I'm getting the feeling someone or something is watching me and it sure as hell ain't Marimar.

I stay by the side of the doorway waiting for her to get the camcorder. Best not mention anything.

"I don't get why we have to use a camcorder? Isn't that what cellphones are for?"

"All the professionals use 'em. They have better quality and we can leave it down there without worrying about it shutting itself off."

"Where did I put it?" Mar asks herself as she looks around her room. "Oh, that's right. I put it up in the closet," she says as she opens the door and looks up at the shelf way out of her reach. "Can you get that for me?" she asks, pointing to the top. You gotta be pulling my leg! Somehow my yellow legs carry me toward her; I pull it down.

"Wow, this is worth around five-hundred bucks!"

"My Tia Amparo gave it to me so I could record our trip here."

"Cool. Where's the night vision setting?" I ask.

"Yeah, see that little button. Yep, that's the one."

"Sweet," I say more to myself than to her. I play with the buttons. Nice lens. Rich relatives. Some people have all the luck.

"Explain to me why we have to be filming in the dark?"

"Because it's easier to capture a ghost's energy like orbs or mists. Earlier you mentioned something about a basement?"

"Uh, no, I was joking about the great room because it's so dark in there, but we do have one of those. It's kinda more like a cellar that we converted into a basement."

"Same difference. A lot of ghosts tend to hang around down there because it's out of the way and they don't have to be bothered by the living. Now we need a flashlight to cast some light so we don't trip over anything," I say, pumped.

Mar turns and grabs a flashlight from her nightstand.

"And you know all this how ...?"

"TV."

"Okay, since you're the expert, is that all we need?"

"Yessiree, lead the way," I say, placing my hand on the small of her back. Yes! She didn't evade my touch.

We go back down the stairs and down the hall, past the living and dining room, into the breakfast room, and finally into the kitchen. Mrs. Utterson is putting some dough in the oven.

"That looks good," I say, bringing to Mrs. Utterson's attention that we had entered the room.

"You came right on time, I just happened to be making pan dulce today. They're a specialty Guatemalan sweet bread traditionally reserved for Semana Santa or Easter Week as well as Christmas and other major holidays or celebrations. But we just think they taste good so I make them whenever I can. Do you want to try one?"

"Yes, ma'am," I respond.

"Have as many as you like. I have more in the oven."

"Thanks, ma'am, don't mind if I do," I say as I reach for the flour-dusted roll and I take a bite. Mmm, I should come over more often. "Wow, I've never tasted anything like it," I say, making sure I finished swallowing first.

"I'm glad you like it," she says with a smile.

"Mama, we're going down to the cellar. Is that okay with you?" Marimar asks.

"Yes of course, but why do you want to go down there? There's nothing but canning supplies, and ... what's with the camcorder?"

"I just wanted to prove to him that our house isn't haunted," she answers.

"Okay, have fun. Oh, and the rest of these should be ready in a few."

"We will," Marimar says as she tugs on my arm, heading for the basement. As we pass the plate I help myself to another piece of bread. Marimar grabs the doorknob, but before opening it she turns to look at me.

"I have to warn you it's going to be cold and since you don't have a sweater—"

"That's all right," I say cutting her off. I motion to the door, waiting for her to open it. She growls in frustration, mumbling something incoherent. I ignore her, it was probably sarcastic anyhow. When she opens the door we step in. She turns on the light switch that must have just been installed.

"Way too bright," I say, reaching over to turn the light off. She blocks the switch with her hand.

"No. Wait until I turn the flashlight on."

"Why?"

"You wouldn't want to stumble down the stairs would you?"

"I'm not stupid; I would have waited until you lit the way."

Shooting me an impatient look, she flips the flashlight on before flipping the switch and closing the cellar door. She flashes the bright light down each step of the long, creaky, old staircase. When we reach the bottom step we sit. The light emitting from the flashlight does a better job at cutting through the dark than the grimy narrow window whose light only spans a foot away from its origin. The cellar is basically a wide open space with long racks in the back holding a few bottles of wine and canned goods. Boxes are spread around the place.

"There's not much down here like Mama said."

"What does that matter? Ghosts don't care; they haunt places and people, not particularly a bunch of canned goods.

"Before the camera starts rolling we have to be very quiet so we can catch any sound or movement. Also, you're going to have to turn the light off."

"Can't we keep it on?"

"No. It might screw up our shot." A sudden thought comes to mind that causes me to smile. "You're not afraid of the dark are you?"

"No. What am I, seven?" she retorts with a hint of defensiveness as she shuts it off.

"Whatever happens, don't turn on that light. Agreed?"

"Got it. Don't turn on the light."

I start the recording as we sit in silence waiting to catch something. Only the sound of our breathing is heard; one minute, two, three, four ... Five minutes elapse on the camcorder and still squat.

"Nothing's happening and it's cold. Let's go back upstairs," she whispers.

"Just one more minute, okay, and then we can set this down somewhere and go upstairs. I have an idea. Hey, ghost, prove yourself! You don't scare us!" I call out, hopefully provoking it.

"What are you doing? Don't piss it off! You're not going to be the one dealing with its wrath," Marimar says frightened.

"I thought you said it isn't real?"

"Let's just say that I'm wrong and you're right for a second. Do you think it's going to be happy that you bothered it, because I sure as hell don't."

"We'll see."

Another minute shoots by and I'm about to call it quits when I hear a low rustling sound. The hair stands up on the back of my neck. I know Mar hears it too because she moves into me and grabs a hold of my arm with ice cold hands. I can feel her body heat; smell her rose-scented perfume, or is that her shampoo? I would really be enjoying this moment if I wasn't scared shitless.

"Ech! God, what is that smell?" she whispers, covering her nose with the inside of her hand.

In the tick of a clock, the stench becomes so bad that we're choking on it and I'm having trouble keeping the camera steady because we're both coughing and hacking.

"Smells like it's coming from over in the corner," I manage to say through fits of coughing.

I catch my breath just long enough to hear the second sound.

Screeeeech. An elaborate nails on chalkboard squeal comes from the far side of the room. I face the camera in the same direction. Mar leans her head against mine, making it difficult for me to watch the small camera's screen. As swift as it came the scratching breaks off.

The clanging of bottles signals something's on the move. I watch on the camera but I don't see what's causing it.

We're both shaking in our boots at this point, or maybe it's just me? I can't be sure. The room has gotten as cold as an icebox. Our breath hangs in the air in front of us like clouds of smoke.

Smash.

What the fuck was that? Things are being knocked over and banged around. I chase the ghost with the camera. Whatever the ghost sweeps by is moving. It's leaving a path and unfortunately it looks like it's heading right at us.

We're both too afraid to move. I got to admit, a part of me doesn't want to go because what I'm capturing on camera is gold.

"W-A-I-T! W-H-A-T A-R-E Y-O-U D-O-I-N-G!?"

Faster than the speed of sound, Mar does exactly what I asked her not to do. She grabs the flashlight and shines the light right across the lens, ruining what potentially could have been our best piece of footage. I hear the ghost running in the direction of a darkened corner at lightning speed, and before I can move the light away from the lens, it's gone.

"Bread's ready!" Mrs. Utterson calls out from upstairs.

"Coming!" Marimar yells back. She lets go of my arm and she runs up the staircase—stumbling as she goes—and turns the light on. Chicken.

Getting unsteadily to my feet, the earth quaking from under my boots, I take long controlled steps over to the rack. Any faster and I might not be able to control myself from running like a drunken idiot. I position the camcorder—with the hands of a man suffering alcohol withdrawal—so it is facing the direction where we heard the ghost take off.

"Hurry up!"

"I'm hurrying," I grumble, climbing the stairs.

"You two must be freezing," Mrs. Utterson states as we come piling out of the cellar looking, as I can imagine, chewed up and spit out. "Did you guys find the ghost?" Mrs. Utterson asks with a laugh looking from face to face.

Mar looks to me for an answer. Eyes full of terror—they remind me of a deer in headlights. Her normally olive skin has turned white as a sheet; even her red strawberry lips are pale. I sure hope I don't look that scared. Did she feel me shaking? Goddamnit, the camera. Did I hold it steady or will it give me away? If anyone sees it shaking I'll have to give up my man card.

I answer with a dull, "No, ma'am." Marimar is still frightened speechless.

"You two look like you need to eat something. Wash your hands and then go sit down in the breakfast room. I put the bread on the table."

"All right," is all Marimar can manage to reply.

"Marimar, you look like you've actually seen a ghost. Splash some water on your face, that'll help you."

We go down the hall to wash up and then head back to the breakfast area. This time I really notice the big room on the right across from it. I peek my head in and see a huge, dark wooden bookcase on my left against the wall. There is a fireplace along the back wall and on the far wall across from the bookcase is a large flat screen TV in between two heavily curtained windows. The furniture is antique and dark, matching the bookcase and the crown molding. The wooden floor is also dark with an antique Persian rug covering most of the room. The space reminds me of a set from any classic horror film, except for the flat screen and the electronics on the far wall. Come to think of it. This whole house looks like a classic horror movie set.

Mar and I haven't spoken a word since we left the kitchen. I'm too frustrated for words. I just might have caught a real ghost on camera and she ruined it. I really need to talk to her about polishing up on her listening skills. On the plus side is the one-on-one time I'm getting with Mar, but right now I'm a little too ticked off to enjoy it.

Mar tugs on my arm and I follow her into the breakfast room. Mrs. Utterson is already there and she's pouring some coffee into a mug.

"You two looked cold so I thought I would get you something to warm you up."

"Thank you, ma'am," I say, trying to put some sugar back into my voice.

"Gracias, Mama," Marimar says, her voice regaining control.

I inspect my mug and its brown, murky insides. I hate coffee. It sucks! How can anybody like this stuff? It's like drinking dirt. What's with this family and watching my every move? Mar's ma is staring at me. I blow on it before I take a sip; I can hear Mar giggling at the memory of me scorching my tongue. I try hard not to roll my eyes at her. Mmm. What did she put in here? This is the best cup of Joe I've ever had.

"This is the best cup of coffee I've ever had." Mrs. Utterson seems well pleased.

"I thought you'd like it. I put in a splash of vanilla and a little bit of cream. Do you want some more sugar?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks."

"Sit down, sit down," Mrs. Utterson says, gesturing to my seat. Oh, hey, there he is. I obey, sitting down beside Oscar. Mar's sitting across from me beside Marisol. Right now I don't mind the large space separating me and Mar.

Mar seems to be returning back to her normal color.

"What are you staring at?"

And she's back. What crawled up her skirt? I'm the one who should be madder than a wet hen.

Her mom shoots her a disapproving look as if to say, "He's our guest." Mar turns her eyes toward her cup and sips.

"Do you like everything?" Mrs. Utterson directs to me.

"It's delicious, ma'am. Thank you," I say.

"Good, good. You kids enjoy. Marisol, Oscar, are you finished eating? Okay, good. Now, why don't you guys go wash your hands and then you can go play." She helps Marisol out of her seat and Oscar scrambles down from his and then they run off together.

"I'm going to go do the dishes. You two enjoy yourselves."

Mrs. Utterson turns to leave.

"Want any help?" Mar hollers after her.

"No, I'm fine. You two have fun."

I wait a minute or two to be double sure no one's coming in before I lean forward in my chair to talk.

"You know, I'd get my ears checked if I were you because you seem to be having a problem with your hearing."

"Oh?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Mar. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You totally ruined a chance at what could have been our biggest piece of evidence, and you don't even seem to feel bad about it."

Field of crickets.

"What is your problem?" I ask after having a staring contest with her for almost a minute. She's leaning back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest, her lips pouted, and eyes hard.

"I don't have a problem," she states, sitting up in her chair and tearing off a piece of her bread to dunk in her coffee.

"Please, do I look stupid to you?" Her mouth opens in ridicule. "Don't answer that."

A whole football field of crickets.

"What? Do you expect me to already know what's bothering you?"

Typical girl. "If you are not going to answer me that, then you could at least explain to me why you turned on the light." I sit back in my seat. I lace my fingers behind my neck and I rest my head on them.

"Okay, I got it. I won't do it again."

"That's not what I asked."

"Fine, all right, I freaked out and I turned the damn light on! I said I won't do it again and I won't! End of conversation."

"So you believe me now?" I ask, knowing that she can't disprove what happened in the cellar.

"No. It could have been a rat," she says.

My mouth drops open. She found a way to blow this off. Why the hell is she so stubborn?

"What do you mean it was a rat? How could it possibly be a rat?"

"We could have just let our imaginations run wild. It explains why everything was being knocked over."

"Rats?" I say irritatedly. "First you said that you have mice and now you're saying rats. Make up your mind for Christ's sake!"

"I said we might have mice, but it sounds a lot bigger than mice, don't you think?"

"If you thought that it was a rat then why did you flash the light on?" I knew her excuse as soon as the words left my mouth.

"Well, I wouldn't want a rat jumping on me now, would I?"

I stroke my chin in frustration.

"You know what, I'll prove to you that it wasn't a rat. I'll go down and get the camera," I say, determined to prove my case. I stand up.

"Are you crazy? You can't possibly go back down there!" she says, the sound of her voice coming close to hysteria.

"Why not? I thought you didn't believe there's a ghost down there?" I banter.

"I never said there wasn't something down there. I'm just saying there could be a reasonable explanation for everything." She's totally back-pedaling.

"Come on, it's just a ghost, what can it do?" I reassure her.

"Hmm ... let me think ... it can haunt us. Follow us around the house. Be a moving shadow in the dark," she says panicking. "You get to go home. We live here. If anything happens to me or my family because of you ...!" I block out the rest of her rant. Now I get it. That was her problem. She was steamed at me for pissing off the ghost. She's even hotter when she's angry. Food for thought ... why didn't she come out and just say that then? Oh, that's right, she's too stubborn to admit that there really is a ghost in the house, but isn't that what she's doing now?

"The truth comes out! Why can't you admit that your house is haunted?"

"Because it's not possible! Ghosts aren't real," Marimar says, tugging on her curls. Stress is emanating from her face.

"Then I guess it wouldn't matter if I went back downstairs, does it?" I say, softening my tone.

"I guess you're right," she says, grudgingly.

"'Course I'm right; I'm the expert," I tease. I turn to leave.

"Wait."

"Yeah?"

"I'm going with you. Just wait a couple minutes until I'm done with my coffee." I nod and sit back down. She sips her coffee slowly, trying to buy time. Still, I don't press her to hurry because the longer she sits and drinks the more her features relax until she's almost back to her happy self again. "If you want I can get you more coffee," Mar offers. I'll take that as a peace offering and or stall tactic.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm anxious to see what's on the camera."

We finish our coffee and go back through the kitchen. We stop to thank Mrs. Utterson and to dispose of the dishes. Then we head back down into the cellar. I'm grabbing the camera while Marimar guards the light switch—just in case the ghost comes back. I look around once I get to the bottom step, wondering if it's skulking around nearby. The camera is within sight. I would go and make a run at it, but Marimar's watching and I don't want to look like a coward, so instead I settle on making quick strides toward it.

"Got it! Let's go and check it out," I say excitedly, swaggering heroically back to the stairs ...

CRASH! The sound of broken glass coming from behind me shatters the silence. I bound the stairs, taking them two at a time yelling: "GO! GO! GO!"

I nearly knock Mar over as I reach the top and we explode out the door into the kitchen. Mrs. Utterson turns around to see what the fuss is about as we try to look calm; so much for looking brave.

"What happened? Are you guys okay? What broke?" Mrs. Utterson asks.

"We don't know. We heard something fall when we were going upstairs," Mar answers.

"If you show me where the dustpan is I can go and clean it up if you like," I offer politely. Please say no. Please say no.

"Don't worry about it; I'll have Walter pick it up when he gets home. But thank you." She stops and studies our faces and laughs, "Did you two kids freak yourselves out?"

"It is kinda spooky down there, ma'am."

"Why don't you show Sage the rest of the house and not just the root cellar?"

"Can I show Sage my room?" Mar asks.

"Sure, just be sure to leave the door open in case your Papa happens to come home."

"Yes, Mama. Come on, let's get out of here." Uh-oh. All the color must have drained from my face 'cause the next words that come out of Mar's mouth are: "Come on, don't be scared of my room. Besides, as fast as you ran up those steps, Papa could never catch you." I can feel my face redden with shame.

"Do you have a computer or a laptop?" I ask as we ascend the stairs.

"I have a laptop. It's up in my room. We can plug in the camcorder and check out what we captured," she says.

Seated on the edge of her bed we plug the camcorder into her laptop.

"Okay, now let's see what we have here." I pull up the video and widen it to full screen. "Crap!" I exclaim, making Mar jump. There's nothing, nothing at all. Just static.

"Where's our footage? Are you sure you pushed record?"

"Sure as a hog's ass is made of bacon," I say.

"What?" Mar half-laughs. "How did you come up with that one?"

"Something my dad used to say. Anyhoo ..."

"It's all right, we can always try again some other day," Marimar says sympathetically. I seriously doubt she'll want to.

"I guess so. What do you want to do now?" I ask.

"Let's head back downstairs before Mama becomes suspicious," she says, getting up from the bed. In English: before she thinks we're up to no good. I can only wish. A now familiar picture of her dad's angry face invades my thoughts. I head for the door.

"First I have to put this back," she says. She goes to the armoire, slips out her laptop bag, slides her laptop inside of it, and tucks it back in the armoire.

"Here, I'll do it for ya," I say, terminating my exit. I reach for the camcorder and place it back on the top shelf.

"How did you manage to put the camcorder there in the first place?" I ask, curious.

"We have a stool in the bathroom for Marisol and it gave me the extra boost," she says. I turn away from her trying to disguise my laugh as a cough.

"You might think that's funny, but for your information, I'm taller than all the women on Mama's side of the family," she says matter-of-factly. Her head is held high in superiority. "Besides, good things come in small packages." I can't hold in my laugh any longer. I know laughing will piss her off, but I can't help myself. It's hilarious that she's considered tall in her family; she has to be, what, five-one on her tiptoes on a good day. I'm really trying hard to stop laughing, but the sight of Marimar glaring at me with her arms crossed over her chest and her foot tapping the floor makes me laugh even harder. She's really cross now, and beautiful.

"Well, at least I'm not a gigantic freak!" she lashes out.

"Well, it's better than being short!" I snort. The face she gives me is priceless.

I can't help but let out a big laugh. I see the shared expression on her face that I've gotten from most girls I've dated. Essentially meaning: I'm in deep shit. It seems that the look in her eyes gets more filled with rage every time I make her angry. That's a lot of anger for such a small creature. Her arms are still crossed, and with that look still on her face she stomps her foot, turns around, and walks out of the room; her head up high as if she's declaring, "This battle is not over."

I run up behind her and call out, "Mar, wait!" It hadn't taken me long to reach her with my long strides. She walks around me, plainly ignoring me, as I watch her head toward the end of the hall. I sigh deeply. She stops. That was unexpected. She turns around on her heels and looks at me. We stand there in silence. This doesn't look good. Is she trying to choose her words carefully or something? Great, I'm in for an earful. Finally—after what seemed like hours—she speaks.

"Go on." Is that it? My breath rushes out in relief.

"Okay, I'm sorry ... that you can't take a joke!" I start to laugh at the new expression on her face. Her jaw is down; her eyes are wide with shock. Her mouth suddenly closes and her eyes narrow, forming a sharp and intense glare, like daggers. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can I interrupt her and say, "You are too serious. You gotta loosen up and learn to have some fun and take a joke." She rolls her eyes, completely ignoring what I just said. That aggravates me on so many levels.

"Don't even bother coming over tomorrow ... oh, and Papa's coming home in five minutes or less so I suggest you leave now." Her tone is as cold as ice. I hit a nerve there. Without thinking my body turns into flight or fight mode. I fly. My legs move without hesitation. I'm tearing down the stairs about to head for the door. I realize she may just be saying that to get rid of me, but either way I really don't want to take a chance on seeing her psycho dad again. My heart is racing and my breathing is becoming shallow. I reach the front door. Wait a darn minute. Now I remember. Didn't she tell me on the phone that he's not going to be home until six-thirty? I have plenty of time.

"Hahahaha!" I see her leaning on the rails, laughing at me. Normally, I would be totally hypnotized by the sound of her laughter and the way it makes her look even more amazing ... but now the thought of her laughing at my expense enrages me beyond words. I can feel my face burning up.

I'm such an idiot! She made me look like a total jackass. Another giggle emanates from her. I turn around and walk up the stairs to where she is standing. I look her straight in the face and say in a serious and calm—as much as I can muster up—tone, "Very funny."

She bursts out howling and says, "You really need to learn how to take a joke."

My temper is boiling at the moment. Snort. What was that? There it is again. The sound brings me up short. Her laugh is sweet and unrestrained. I watch her as she wipes away the tears that her laughter had rung out. She's shaking with laughter. Her curls are bouncing around. Her cheeks are flushed red and her eyes are sparkling. Stars. In spite of myself and my pride, I find myself wanting to join in. I bite my lip hard so that not a corner turns up. I'll give her hell and see if she'll repent.

"Not funny," I say trying to sound serious, but failing completely. In spite of my efforts a grin breaks through my serious mask; so much for giving her hell.

"It took you long enough. I guess now we're even," she says smugly, triumphantly—through breaks in her laughter.

"Guess I'll be leaving then. Only if you want me to, of course."

"Don't let me stop you," she says, waving her hand in dismissal. She's still giggling. I was expecting her to ask me to stay. She's waiting for me to give in, smartass.

"Best be leaving then." I start to walk away. More laughter. I walk down a few steps and still no response. Does she even care? Or, is she just being stubborn? I keep walking. When I'm on my last pace to the door I see her hovering over the railing watching me. Her laugh has faded, only a smile remains.

"Bye." She waves at me. She's being stubborn.

"I guess I'll be going." I flash her my winning smile; it used to work on all my exes, but, then again, they are my exes.

"I know. You said that already." Her smile widens.

"Thanks for having me. I'm going to go say thanks to your ma."

"Bye, now," Mar goads me on, relapsing into giggling. I turn to walk toward the kitchen.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"Since you're not going to be leaving anytime soon we might as well watch that movie I was telling you about."

"Alright, since you want me to stay so badly."

"Well, I didn't want you to have to go home and try to explain to your parents where your little brother is."

I'll be damned, she got me. How could she make me forget about my little bro? This girl has really gotten under my skin.

Slumber eludes me as I toss and turn all night. I can't seem to get comfortable. The air is still in our room. I'm trying hard to fall asleep. Maybe if I think about something boring I'll fall asleep. I choose the most boring subject I can think of: biology. I think about what's inside the air, air molecules slowly bumping into each other ...

Bang. What was that? I rub my eyes. I look around the room—everything seems to be in order. I lay back down with a sigh. That biology thing was working. Biology: the quickest subject to knock a person out cold.

I turn and look at the clock. It reads three. "What a surprise," I whisper under my breath. Ugh, my throat is dry. I swallow saliva in a pathetic attempt to relieve my thirst. I try to ignore it. I think about the air molecules to get my mind off of my thirst. Air molecules—oxygen molecules are also in water. The molecules that form water are two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen. Water. My throat is parched! I look at the clock. Only three minutes have passed. I'm too tired to get up. Three more minutes pass. I'm starting to think I repel slumber. More time passes and the ache in my throat starts to become even more profound. That's it. I can't take it anymore! I'll just go and get a drink of water.

I get out of bed, careful not to disturb my sister from her blissful coma. She has her arms around our hibernating puppy that lies in between us. His legs are twitching as if he's chasing something.

Maybe, I should just drink tap from the faucet, it's a long trip to the kitchen ... no, since I'm up, I might as well drink filtered water. But what if whatever was down there pops out of the cellar? What am I saying? I never actually saw anything. I had my eyes closed the whole time.

Nothing is going to happen to me. Suck it up and prove to yourself once and for all that there's nothing down there.

Tippy-toeing into the hall, I turn on the light after I close our bedroom door. No sense in tripping on something in the dark. The light in the hall won't bother Mama or Papa since their door is closed. I reach the stairs. Once down them I turn on the light and I walk past the bathroom, then the laundry room, past the great room, and I enter into the breakfast room. I think of the strange occurrences that happened there, so I run as quickly as I can through the door leading into the kitchen. I turn on the light. The room is lit up artificially like dawn has just arrived.

If I had realized it would take this long to get a glass of water I would have just cupped my hands under the bathroom faucet and drank tap. That was a moronic mistake on my part. But since I'm here I might as well get what I came for. I grab a chair and drag it over to the cupboard so I can reach a glass, positioning it so my back is not completely turned against the cellar door. This is one of those moments where I really wish I had grown just a few more inches. Being short sucks! Why can't there be cupboards closer to the ground to accommodate short people? How hard would that be?

I leap down from the chair and go to the fridge. I put my glass under the dispenser. I turn and lean against the fridge, sipping my water. Keeping my eyes on the cellar the whole time. I drink enough until my thirst is quenched. I finish the water and I put the glass onto the kitchen island. I go back into the breakfast room and through to the lit hallway.

I leave all the lights on as I walk through the hall. Hopefully, Papa won't get mad. The house seems to get colder by the minute. Goosebumps are starting to rise all over my body, along with my hair standing up. Maybe the thermostat has a glitch, I try to convince myself. Or maybe it's the ice water making me feel cold. No, that doesn't seem to be it. It might have played a small factor but the icy chill seems to be following me—certain areas of the hall vary in temperature.

"This isn't happening. This is all in my head," I say aloud as I calmly continue at the same pace. I get nauseated each time I walk past a cold spot; the air becoming thick with the now familiar pungency. I feel like I'm going to hurl. I breathe through my mouth. It's so repugnant that I can almost taste it. Now I'm really going to puke. I start to notice the lights flickering on and off like it does in previews of horror movies just before bad things happen to the teenage girl running around half naked. I hope they don't turn off. I should have brought a flashlight. I'm such an airhead. I'm starting to get very unnerved. As I'm walking past the dining room I see a shadow dart past me into the living room.

Forcing myself to be brave, I take a deep breath and pop my head in. To my relief I see nothing. So I keep walking. Not even a second later I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. My slow walk becomes brisk.

A light behind me turns off. I start to run. This is bad. This is very, very bad. The darkness chases after me—the lights are all turning off in succession toward me. I run as fast as I can in an attempt to beat the darkness. I run up the stairs as fast as my legs can carry me. As I top the last step into the upstairs hall the darkness overpowers me. It envelops me like a heavy, nebulous blanket. I come to an abrupt stop, paralyzed by fear. There is no point in running. I can't outrun it. Behind me I hear heavy footsteps approaching ... Closer ... Closer ... I shut my eyes and I cover them with my hands. If I see it, I know that my heart is going to stop. My heart seems to be pounding out of my chest. The footsteps come to an abrupt stop. The only thought that gives me hope is that I'm not seeing my life flash by. Surely that counts for something? Like I'm not going to die tonight.

I wait. Time stops. All I can hear is my shallow breath and the steady animal-like panting of the ghost somewhere behind me. As I anticipate its next move all the thoughts I'm able to form revolve around Sage. I wish he was here to save me. Then I realize that even he wouldn't be able to rescue me from this apparition. He would have beaten me up the stairs. Now anger swells inside me as I imagine cursing him out. Damn you, Sage! Screw you for provoking this spirit, you Stupid Son of a—!

Whoosh. A gust of Antarctic air shrouds me. I feel icy cold huffs of breath on the back of my neck. Then I feel a cold, clammy touch on my shoulder. I let out a deafening scream. The lights blaze back on. I'm alone.

I hear thunderous footsteps behind me along with the comfort and security of Papa's voice.

"What's wrong?" Papa says as he reaches me. He looks around—shotgun in hand. Papa always comes prepared. Mama runs past us to my bedroom and comes back carrying Marisol.

I force my mouth to open. My tongue is unable to form syllables. I just stand there for a second shaking; basically all of my appendages have turned to Jell-O. Tears flood down my face. Without thinking, I speak. "I-I-I came down to get a drink of water and when I was coming back to bed the lights went out and I felt somebody touch my shoulder," I spit out in a rush through my state of hysteria.

"Calm down, you're speaking gibberish." I take a few deep breaths as Papa taught us to do to calm ourselves during an emergency. I calm down enough to tell him what happened.

"Wait here," Papa says, pointing at all of us. He leaves the room, probably to go check the house for intruders. Papa, like most men, only hears what he wants to and goes on a search-and-destroy mission. I didn't get a chance to tell him his shotgun won't do him any good.

I'm still shaking violently. A strangled sob manages to erupt from inside of me. Why am I crying? I'm such a baby. I start to cry harder, furious at myself. Mama is trying to console me. It's not working. She's only making me feel even more ashamed of myself; stupid teenage hormones. Poor Sunshine stirs in her arms—half-unconscious. I cup my hand over my mouth to muffle the sobs so that I don't wake her up. It works. After a few minutes, I'm able to compose myself enough to stop crying. Shaking is another matter.

Papa comes back into the room.

"There are no signs of intruders," Papa says, putting his arm around me.

"There has to be. I heard footsteps and somebody or something freaking touched me!" The words come out shaky.

"Mamí, there was nobody there, now calm down. We'll go in the kitchen and I'll make you a cup of tea," Mama says, soothingly. She passes Marisol to Papa.

"Well, since we are up and I know I'm too jittery to fall back asleep we might as well make breakfast," Papa says, shifting Marisol's weight onto his other arm. He's still carrying the shotgun, just in case. "Boy is she getting heavy. What have you been feeding her?" He winks at me. He's trying to cheer me up. I'm not in the mood.

"You're just getting old, Walter." Mama puts her hand on his shoulder and one hand on mine. "Are you okay, Mamí?"

Yeah, I'm fine. I just had some ghost put its hand on my shoulder, but other than that I'm fine.

"Mmm-hmm," I lie, nodding my head.

"Don't worry, none of what happened is real. It was just your imagination." Papa's words make me rethink the situation. It had to be all in my head. I've been listening too much to Sage.

I guess my imagination did get the best of me. It was all in my head; all because of him.

"You should go lay Marisol down on the couch in the living room. And lock that shotgun back up," Mama instructs.

"Good idea." We watch him leave.

Mama then turns to me and whispers, "I'm sorry, Mamí. I shouldn't have let you and Sage go ghost hunting. I knew that it was a bad idea."

"It's okay, Mama," I say, hugging her. It wasn't her fault, it was his. Mama leads me to a stool in the kitchen. There's no way in hell that I'm going to be in any room alone. I watch her as she puts the kettle on the stove. She grabs the box of chamomile off the counter and she puts a tea bag into the empty cup that I had left on the island. Papa comes back into the room. Poor Papa has to go to work later. Maybe he'll call in sick. Doubt it. He just started working. I can really kick myself for this.

I catch movement in the corner of my eye. I jump. It was only Papa. Damn it! What is he trying to do? Give me a heart attack. I take in deep breaths to try to slow my breathing down, thanks to Papa. He plants a kiss on my head as he strokes my hair.

"Feeling better, baby?" I nod. "I'm glad." I watch as he walks past me and heads toward Mama, embracing her from behind. I notice he has his .38 revolver in his robe pocket; chicken. He then moves toward the refrigerator and he pulls out a carton of eggs. The kettle whistles. Mama turns the flames off causing the whistling to die down. She slips on kitchen gloves and pours the steaming hot water into the glass of chamomile. I let it steep a few minutes before drinking.

The light beaming through the open drapes hurts my eyes as I turn over in bed. I rub the sleepiness out of my eyes. By the way my room's lit up, my guess is it's around ten. The clock confirms my assumption. It reads ten-ten—I've slept for two hours. Mama and Papa must still be sleeping. Mama especially, since I had asked her to stay with me until I fell back to sleep. I wish I hadn't. I feel like a coward.

I reach my hand out to feel if Marisol is still in bed. I can feel her long silky hair. She nuzzles my hand with her head—she gives my hand one long lick. That gives me a start. I turn over to see it's Trevor. Marisol isn't in bed. I should have known she wouldn't be. We didn't wake her up to eat our early breakfast. We left her food in the oven. I'll warm it up for her. She must be watching some cartoons. Tom and Jerry should be on by now.

I pull the sheets off of me. The warmth of my body escapes. Cool air rushes at me, removing from my body whatever warmth it once held. Papa has kept the thermostat down to sixty-five. Thank God he's still not used to the heat. I pick up my sweater off of the ground. It must have fallen off when I stirred in my sleep. I put it on, slipping my hand through each sleeve. The sweater seems to be as cold as the floor. It will radiate back my body heat in a couple of minutes. I slip on my slippers that lie on the side of my bed. I stumble my way to the bathroom. I feel like a zombie.

After my morning routine I descend the stairs. I hold onto the rail to keep from tumbling over, as I'm still groggy from the long night. I make my way to the living room where I find Marisol sitting in the middle of the couch watching Tom and Jerry.

"Hi, Maw." She turns her head slightly. I walk over and I give her a kiss.

"Hi, Sunshine, are you hungry? Mama and Papa made eggs and cheesy potatoes," I say as I stroke her long golden hair back away from her face. Her hair is in dire need of a comb.

"Yep."

"Okay, go wash your hands and I'll get you your breakfast."

"Can I eat in heya, please?"

"If you promise not to leave any migas."

"I pwomise I won't leave any cwumbs."

"Okay, don't tell Mama."

I go into the kitchen and pull the warm food out of the oven, pour her a glass of orange juice, and bring it to her on a tray. "Here you go," I say. I then pretend to hand her invisible friends each their own imaginary trays.

"No, Maw, Geowge is sitting wight heya." Marisol pats the seat next to her where the remote is lying on the right side of the couch's armrest.

"Oh, I'm sorry, George. Here you go." Reaching out to hand him his imaginary tray, my hands are met with a cold, tingling sensation.

"What?" Marisol asks after I quickly had retracted my hands, tucking them to my chest.

"Nothing," I reply as my fingers reach out and feel the empty space.

The sensation is gone.

"Where's Gabby sitting?" She pats to the only other empty spot. "Here you go, Gabby. I put one ice cube in your juice, just like you like it." This is getting ridiculous. Next, Marisol's going to get me to reheat Gabriella's and George's plates. But I can't complain, Mama says that I had an imaginary friend when I was little and that I used to do the same thing. Only her name was Helen.

"Thank you. Geowge and Gabby say thank you, too."

"You're welcome. I'll be back to keep you company." I go back into the kitchen and I refill Trevor's food and water bowl. His acute hearing must have caught the clang of the dog food hitting the metal bowl because he races toward me almost knocking me off my feet; mangy mutt.

As I right myself I notice the mountain of dishes in the sink and the grease splattered stove top calling my name. So after washing the dishes and wiping down the stove, I head back into the living room and I plop down on the couch by the remote.

Bam! A cold hand hits me and I'm on the ground. My hands smack the rough rug. I sit back on my legs. What the hell just happened?

"Marisol, why did you just push me?" The words seem foreign. I can't wrap my head around the idea. Sunshine has never pushed me before. I mean not recently, the last time she had was when she was in her terrible two's but Mama put an end to that.

"You wewe sitting on Geowge."

What? "So you pushed me?"

"I didn't push you."

"Then who did?" Why is she lying?

"Geowge did."

"George couldn't have done it. He isn't real."

"Yes, he is!"

"No, he's not."

"Yes!"

"No, he's not. Marisol, are you playing a trick? It's not really nice, you hurt my feelings."

"I didn't do it!" Her bottom lip is trembling, tears are starting to form, and she starts to sniffle. That's cheating. I look her straight in the eye and she stares right back into mine. "I didn't do it," she cries.

Marisol seems to be telling the truth. Placing her tray on the coffee table, I scoop her up and put her on my lap. I smooth her hair back. She looks like a crying cherub. "It's okay, I believe you," I murmur as I cradle her in my arms. Today is not my day. Strangely, I do believe her about her not doing it. Am I going insane? Her resolve questions my sanity. It's not like I haven't been having a problem discerning reality lately. I must have imagined being pushed off the couch. I probably just slipped or something, which isn't out of the norm for me, and my mind just played it back that way. Like how I imagined that I was being chased. Besides, she's only five. She probably just freaked out and said that George did it. Just like how she says that Gabriella wants an ice cube in her beverage.

The tears dry up just as fast as they came. She burrows her face into my shoulder; her face veiled by her knotted hair. Her hands are clasped around her monkey. "Do you want to finish eating?" I ask, my eyes sweeping over her plate. She only has about a forkful left of her eggs. "Marisol?"

Slowly her hands loosen their grip until her monkey falls onto my lap as she drifts into slumber. I reach over and grab the remote. I flip the channels. Nothing appeals to me. I end up watching The Notebook upon my return from the kitchen after having cleared the incriminating evidence off the coffee table and having fed Trevor the remaining eggs.

"Hi, girls," Mama yawns.

What time is it? The clock on the wall says it's noon. I must have lost track of time. I pause the movie. I'm suddenly aware of the rumbling feeling in my stomach. I haven't eaten for nine hours.

"Buenas tardes, Mama. Is Papa still sleeping?"

"No. He refused to call in sick, having just started his new job." Now I really feel bad.

"Have you eaten anything?" Mama asks.

"I wasn't hungry earlier," my stomach growls in protest, "but now I am."

"I can hear. Did you feed your sister?" I'm offended. Alright, I admit it. I occasionally forget to feed Trevor, but Marisol is my little sister. Have I ever forgotten to feed Marisol?

"Yep, she ate the leftovers." If I say anything else I won't be able to conceal my irritation.

"Good. What are you watching?"

"The Notebook."

"Hmm. Okay, I'm going to make some lunch."

"Need any help?"

"Yeah, you can boil the eggs."

The hours passed by like a normal day—excluding my episode last night and the couch incident; although, I have been a little jumpy. Well, I'll admit it, any little noise I hear makes me jump. I keep looking over my shoulder just to check to see that nothing's behind me.

"Try this on." Mama hands me a pair of capris. She's been forcing me into the changing room for the last half hour and this is the third store we've visited. She's determined to have me fitted with a climate appropriate summer wardrobe by the end of the day. So this is going to be a long day.

I plaster on a smile and head off to the dressing room for the umpteenth time. I love this bonding time with just us girls, but I couldn't care less about shopping. My mind keeps racking up the prices. How can we afford all this?

I zip up the capris and I examine myself in the mirror. What do you know, it's too loose. I unzip them and hang them back on the rack. I get my pants back on and head out toward Mama.

I hear the shuffle of feet behind me. Something feels off. I keep a steady pace as I slowly cock my head to the side. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a Goth chick standing casually behind me. Her eyes are bloodshot red; she's glaring at me. Shit, not again. I rush out of the dressing room and I head toward the capris racks. My heart sinks. Mama and Marisol aren't there.

"Mama!" I call out. No answer. "Marisol!" Still no reply. I take a long bend in the general direction of the women's section. I go in and out of clothes racks but I still haven't shaken my stalker. In fact, when I turn around I notice more people have joined her. Punks, Goths and rockers alike. Eight of them, all sharing her strange eyes. I'm starting to freak out. They seem almost too magically emerge on either side of me, trapping me. I survey the area but there is still no sign of her. Where are you, Mama? Where would you go?

I'm struck by a memory:

"Mama, can we go look at the toys?" Sunshine asked.

"In a minute, Sunny," Mama replied.

The toy section, that's not far from here. I duck through a clothes rack and I practically run to the toy section. "There you are, Mama," I say relieved. Mama is standing in the little girl section; Marisol is kneeling beside her, examining a baby doll.

"Stay close," Mama says, urging me to her side. She's staring ahead of me. I turn around to see the band of freaks scattering but still watching. We head out of the aisle, tagging along with a man and his daughter.

"That's enough shopping for today, let's go grab a bite to eat," Mama says nervously as we exit the store. We drift our way through the flock of shoppers to a little restaurant. As we get seated, I recognize two of my followers from earlier seated across the way at a bench. Their eyes glued to our table. The others are nearby, sprinkled about the stores.

"Mama," I whisper, low enough so that I don't disrupt Marisol's conversation with her pals. "Why are we always being followed? Do I have a "V" on my forehead or something? I thought that moving halfway across the U.S. would change things."

"I don't know," replies Mama with a worried look.

"Jesus, Mama. They got really close to me this time. If I hadn't found you ... they had me surrounded like a pack of wolves; like I'm some kind of slab of meat or something."

"Don't worry; I don't think they want to hurt us. If they did they would have done it by now."

"Who do you think they are?"

"I can't tell you, but all I know is that you just have to be careful." From the look on her face, I can tell Mama desperately wants to change the subject. Her face lights up. She gets the same look every time she asks the question. Here we go again in three, two, one ... "Have you heard from Sage?"

"No, Mama, I have not." Mama's disappointed.

"Don't worry, if you don't hear from him again then it's just not meant to be." I don't know whether she's talking about us dating or getting married. I overheard her tell Papa the other day what great looking grandkids we would make. Anyway, I don't care.

"It's not like we're a done deal, we're just friends."

"I'd have thought you would have seen him at the park."

"There are other playgrounds around the area, like the one at the elementary."

"If that's the case then why don't you go take Marisol—"

"Mama, don't you think if he wanted to see me then he would have called or shown up at the park?"

"You're right. What was I thinking? I was—you know it just occurred to me that maybe you should try to be a little friendlier."

"Come again?"

"You can be a little—"

"A little?"

"Abrasive."

"How so?"

"Sometimes you come off a little too sarcastic or grumpy. Like the other day when you snapped at him at the breakfast table. I don't remember what you said, but the two of you were definitely not getting along. Guys might take that as uninterested."

"I'll keep that in mind." Now I just want to go home. Ghosts, nightmares, Sage, weirdos following me. I need to chill out.

The thin rug feels rough to my bare feet. I slip off my clothes and I throw them in a pile next to the tub. I pull the curtain open and I step into the crystal clear water. The water is hot. It almost scalds me as I immerse myself, turning my skin pink. I close the curtain. I tilt my head back letting it bob in the bath water. The water ripples as I sway my arms back and forth. I lay still as I listen to the tinkling of the displaced water. I'm reminded of the painting of the drowning Ophelia, by John Everett Millais. I feel like I can relate to her, she was crazy, too. I take a deep breath and I submerge my head into the water. I pretend like I'm Ophelia.

I'm transported into a different time. I can feel myself sinking in the pond deeper and deeper into the great abyss. I lay motionless without breathing. The water clears my mind and for the first time today I'm capable of relaxing. I am able to sift through my thoughts and emotions and come to a conclusion: I am not mad. I have a hormonal imbalance and nothing ever happened to me. Everything was all in my head. My hallucinations are an unorthodox way for my brain to try to deal with the trauma of moving cross-country. I just need to come up with a plan to alleviate my stress and all this paranormal lunacy will disappear. Like Papa always jokes, "The first step is admitting you have a problem." What I need is a distraction. Sage.

I have also decided that even though he's an idiot—but what guy isn't—he meant no harm. So that being said—in a matter of speaking—I've decided to forgive him.

After what seems like an eternity, I open my eyes. I'm shot back to the present. The water is murky, only a stray ray of moonlight shines through. Who turned off the lights? Using the sides of the tub, I pull myself into an upright position. I inhale deeply, refilling my lungs. The air temperature has dropped a considerable amount. The scalding bath has become frigid. How long did I stay under? I exhale and I can see my breath. The room feels heavy. My heart is beating rapidly. I feel like I'm being watched.

Creak. The floorboards seem as if they are under an enormous amount of pressure and are about to give way. Not again! The steps are coming closer. Each step the phantom makes causes my bathwater to stir; ripples form on the silky surface.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die naked in a tub. Naked!

My eyes lie fixed on the curtain. I don't want to die, not like this. The footsteps cease in front of the tub. Now the only thing barring me from the intruder is a plastic sheet. The sound of its raspy breathing fills my eardrums.

What was that? My eyes follow the movement. On the wall, I see a silhouette of a small bony hand wrapping its little fingers around the edge of the curtain. My eyes are practically popping out of my head.

Clink. Clink. Clink. The brass curtain rings toll as they slowly slide over next to each other. My towel hanging from the rail slips to the ground. Seconds feel like hours. The breathing starts to waver in pitch, eventually transforming into a soft snicker. It's mocking me. Clink.

The last ring clangs against the end of the rail. I'm fully exposed. Now what? Its snicker draws back into a low rumble, almost a purr but not of a kitten but something bestial and inhuman. I exhale sharply not realizing I had been holding my breath. I gasp for air, only to choke on the foul smell now surrounding me. I sit shivering, waiting.

"Help!" My scream is garbled. Suddenly, I'm being seized and pinned down by my shoulders. I feel a weight on my chest like I'm being sat on. The primal instinct to live, hidden within all humans, makes its way out of me as I struggle to break free from its hold. I try to grab onto the sides of the tub, but my hands slide right off. Altering my defense to offense, my hands tear at the empty air, searching for eyes to scratch out. I'm drowning. My eyes are wide open as they search for my attacker. I can't see it. My thoughts are frantic. Why is this happening to me? Is this what it's like to drown? It is not peaceful at all like they say, it hurts. I try hard to hold my breath. Every gasp I draw in brings a searing pain down my throat and nostrils. My lungs are burning! My nose and throat hurt the more I struggle to live. I don't want to die! I want to live! I'm being pulled into the abyss.

Abruptly, the struggle stops. The weight is removed from my chest. My head is cleared just enough that I know not to miss my only chance for survival. I pop up gasping. Air! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Splash! I'm plunged back into the water. It's happening all over again. The ghost is toying with me. It could have just killed me the first time. It wants me to suffer; my torment turns to torture. My heart feels like it's going to burst. I feel hands wrap themselves around my neck. I'm being strangled. Fingernails dig into my skin like the edges of blades. My animal instincts kick into overdrive. If I don't get the ghost off of me then I know I'm not going to survive this attack. My hands flail in the air as I struggle to throw it off, my legs flounder as I thrash in the tub. I try to claw it, but that doesn't seem to work. My hands grab at my throat as I try to rip the invisible hands off. How long is this going to go on?

Get off me! I scream in my head.

My muscles have become so weak from lack of oxygen that my appendages have gone limp. I fight for consciousness, but I am quickly losing. Sleep feels so good. It's so easy to just slip away. Peaceful ...

"Marimar!" a voice calls out.

"Yes?"

"Marimar!" the voice calls out again.

"Marimar!"

"I'm coming, Mama!" I call after her. Her voice is slightly muffled. Out of the void a light appears straight ahead of me. The closer I get, the louder Mama's voice becomes. I enter into the light.

I open my eyes and I am still in the water. A pair of hands are pulling me up. The second my head reaches the surface I spew out water. I choke on it. A hand thumps my back releasing more liquid from my lungs. It burns. The light hurts my eyes. The water blurs my vision. I gasp for air.

I'm being hugged. I hear sobbing. My eyes clear up and I can see Mama.

"Mama!" I hear Papa's frantic voice from the direction of my bedroom. That's when I'm reminded that I'm exposed. I pull away from Mama far enough so that I can examine myself. I look down and I find that there is a towel wrapped around my body.

"Mama, what's wrong?" Papa's carrying Marisol in his arms. He puts her down so his arms are free to wrap around Mama's shoulders.

"I found her ... floating motionless on the bottom of the tub. She was drowning and half-conscious when I pulled her out." Her speech slurs together as she speaks between sobs—her face buried in my shoulder. She's hardly coherent. I doubt Papa understood a word she said.

"Wait, what happened?" Papa asks me, seeing that Mama is in no shape to respond. I wrestle out of her grasp—she won't release me—so I can answer a little more intelligently. Mama is currently crushing my face against her chest. Finally, I succeed in breaking away. I almost get my towel torn off in the process. My recap comes out in a hoarse, barely audible whisper.

"Awe you all wight?" Marisol inquires after I finish with my story. She has one hand wrapped around Mama while the other strokes my arm.

"Yes, Sunshine, I'm all right." I'd hug her right now, but I don't want to flash myself.

"Wait," Mama seems to have found her voice again, "when I found you, the lights were on and the curtain was closed." Mama wipes her tears away.

"That can't be! I don't know how it did it, but you've got to believe me!" I look down at my arms to check for bruising. I have none. Papa checks my hairline and neck for fingernail marks but comes up empty.

"Maybe you just hit your head on something."

"What can I hit my head on hard enough at this level to knock me out?"

"I don't know, Mamí, but you do have a habit of being a klutz. Maybe you simply fell asleep. You've been so jittery since the other night. And I don't think you've slept well since we moved here. We need to take her to go see a doctor, Papa, some kind of specialist."

"So, you don't believe me? You think that I just imagined this?"

"Mamí, it just doesn't add up. The lights were on and the curtain was closed when I came in. If something did do what you say then why wasn't there any evidence?"

"I don't know, maybe it left footprints on the floor or something. Check the curtain for handprints." Papa doesn't find any. Am I losing it? I mean it sounds crazy to me as well. How can I blame them for not believing me if I'm not one-hundred percent sure myself?

I patiently sit in the waiting room at the doctor's office, bored out of my mind. I lazily flip through a magazine, but nothing catches my interest. I let out a heavy sigh and place it back down on the table in front of me with all of the other magazines that are spread across it. We arrived here twenty minutes early because Mama wanted to make sure that I wouldn't miss my appointment if we got lost on the way. I look over to the clock on the wall that reads eleven-nineteen.

Eleven more minutes to go. The time seems to go by at an excruciatingly slow pace. I take my eyes off of the clock and once more look around the room.

There are only two other people in the room, a mother and son. By the looks of him, he has to be at least thirteen. The kid looks up from playing with his phone and catches my gaze. A wide goofy smile spreads across his face. I quickly look away; in his dreams.

A nurse opens a door to the back room. "Dylan, the Doctor will see you now," the nurse calls out. He and his mother get up and follow her through the door.

I look over to the left of me. Papa is reading a book that he brought from home to pass the time. Mama is sitting next to him staring at me with concern, and Marisol is playing with Legos. She looks up and smiles at me before going back to playing with the toys. I lean back in my seat. I am so bored!

The time finally comes when the nurse appears, calls my name, and motions me through the door. Mama follows along wanting to hear what the doctor has to say. The nurse checks my height, weight, and blood pressure. When I am all done the nurse ushers us into a room where we wait for the doctor. I get up on the bed and I seat myself on the edge. Mama goes and sits on a chair in the corner of the room. We sit quietly as we wait for him to arrive. The doctor emerges a couple minutes later. He is African American, looks around his early forties, and has to be at least six-two.

"Hi, I am Doctor Johnson. You must be Mar-y, Mar-y ...?"

"Mar-r-r-ee-mar-r-r. You can call me Mar."

"So, Mar. How are you feeling?" he asks while flipping through my file.

"Tired."

"I bet. The chart says ... Why hello, ma'am. I didn't see you there."

"I'm Alena, her mother, nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine." They shake hands. He turns back to me. "So, I've heard you've been having trouble sleeping."

"Her Papa and I believe it is stress related from moving here from Oregon."

"That will do it. How long has this been going on?"

"A couple of weeks," I respond.

"I can prescribe you some sleeping aids." Doc. Johnson heads over to a cabinet and pulls out a slip of paper and writes a prescription. "Anything else?" he asks.

"No, that's pretty much it," I answer. When his attention is focused on my chart I catch sight of Mama giving me a critical look. I pretend not to notice.

"Actually, that's part of the reason why we are here, but it's mostly because she's been having hallucinations." Doc. Johnson turns his attention away from my chart and back to me.

"Hallucinations?"

"Yes. Yesterday I found her half drowned in the bathtub and she was claiming that something or somebody had tried to drown her."

"Did you take anything to help you sleep?" Doc. Johnson asks me.

"No."

"How much sleep have you been getting?"

"Only a few hours per night." If I'm lucky.

"Then I believe the cause of your hallucinations would be the sleep deprivation," he answers. "You must have relaxed enough that you fell asleep and slipped under the water. The mind works remarkably fast and you can have a very long dream in an instant. You may have heard of people dreaming of falling and rolling off their beds. It is said that the entire dream takes place in the period between having rolled off the bed and hitting the floor." Mama lets out a sigh of relief. He turns back to the chart.

"The sedatives I have prescribed should help." He hands Mama the slip. "You can pick this up at your local drugstore." He turns to me. "You need to make sure you take one of these every night after you bathe," he advises.

"Okay." No duh.

Mama and I thank him and we head out the door.

"Let's go," Mama says to Papa as we enter the waiting room.

Papa gathers his things. "Come on, Sunny." Marisol stops playing, picks up the Legos, and grabs his hand.

"What did the doctor say?" Papa asks once we are in the minivan.

"He says the hallucinations are caused by lack of sleep," Mama answers. Papa's mind is set at ease as he sets off to the nearest drugstore.

I swallow down my pill with a glass of water and watch some TV while I wait for the pill to take effect. Beginning to get drowsy, I make my way to bed. My eyelids begin to droop as I climb up the steps, and my feet begin to drag. When I reach the top I fight to keep awake. I dazedly reach my room. Too tired to sink under the covers, I flop onto the bed instead. The second my head hits the pillow I'm asleep. Entering into a dream, I find myself walking down the street of my old neighborhood in Corvallis. The same route I'd take heading home from school. It begins to rain. I pull the hood of my rain jacket over my head. I am so caught up in trying to get out of the rain that I absentmindedly run into somebody.

"Sorry, I didn't see—" I'm cut off in mid-sentence, too scared to finish my apology. I look up into the angry red eyes of a Goth chick. She's the same girl that I had seen at the store with Mama the other day.

I don't live here anymore. I'm dreaming, I tell myself. As the realization settles in more and more goths, gutter punks, and death rockers begin to show up behind the girl. Wake up! I tell myself. Wake up! But I don't.

I turn on my heels and run down the street. I turn a corner only to run into another group of them. They are herding me. In a matter of seconds the mob of people behind me catches up and surround me.

Papa's told me on numerous occasions that you always want to get some distance between you and your attackers. He says that the one position you never want to be in is to be surrounded. The chance of coming out of this unscathed is almost nil.

Now would be the time to wake up! I yell at myself. I guess I am going to have to finish this nightmare out. I raise my hands in front of me, palms facing the closest girl, to say both keep back and I don't want any trouble.

"Where do you think you're going, bitch?" my original stocker taunts. "Wouldn't want you to miss your own party."

I scream for help.

"Daddy's not going to be able to help you now."

"Look, she's scared," someone says.

"Oh, you poor baby. Are you going to cry?" someone replies.

A chorus of laughter ensues.

"You've been so much trouble to track down, I thought we'd never catch you, yet here you are. I think it's time to start the party. What do you say, guys?"

I remember Papa always taught me that if there is no way out strike first, strike hard, and keep striking and moving forward until you can break free and run; don't hesitate. Just as I begin my assault someone hits me from behind; damn, I hesitated. I slump down onto the cold, wet sidewalk. I can feel the sharp pain in my head as it cracks open. They stand and laugh over me. I try to crawl away only to be kicked onto my back. They begin kicking and hitting me. I can feel each blow. The warm sticky blood saturates my clothes only to be washed away by the heavy raindrops. One last blow to my head and I am jolted awake.

Whoa! I've never had a nightmare that dragged on so long. Usually I can wake myself up. That is the last time I am ever going to take those freaking sleeping pills!

After that night I toss a pill down the drain each night before I go to bed so Papa and Mama won't know that I stopped taking them. When the bags under my eyes return I'll just tell them that the pills aren't working.

The next few days start to blur together. I'm too afraid to be alone; even though, nothing has happened since my near death experience. Whenever I need to take a shower I have Trevor guard the bathtub. I figure it's safe with just him since nothing seems to happen when anybody else is around. I toss and turn most nights and when I finally fall asleep my dreams are plagued with nightmares. The one that really unnerves me is the one where I'm being burnt alive like a witch during the infamous European Witch Hunt. I try to change it, to no avail. I'm forced to watch. The nightmare is so vivid that I feel it, smell it; the burning of my flesh. My screams echo throughout the day, haunting me.

It's been a week and nothing out of the ordinary has happened, yet I don't feel any safer. Some part of me believes that the ghost is just lying in wait for the right moment to catch me off guard. Another part of me believes that I'm just losing my mind.

It's very hot outside. Right now it's three o'clock and it is ninety-nine degrees out there. With the heat index, it feels like a hundred and eleven. Being outside is like torture all in itself. Even Trevor doesn't want to be out there. He does his business and then runs right back inside, panting, to lap water out of his dog bowl. I'm glad that we don't have to go outside like Trevor. I can't imagine having to use an outhouse. That would suck! How did the first settlers do it? The air conditioners are on full blast to battle the heat. It's like an icebox in here. I readjust my sweater over my shoulder. I peer outside the window. I can see heat waves. Not a single breeze blows through the tree branches. Mama wouldn't let Marisol play outside, so Marisol is having a tea party inside with Gabriella and George in our room with some tea and cookies Mama made for her. I heard on the news about an hour ago that three people have already keeled over in the heat. Two of the victims were elderly, the third was a homeless man. Mama and I are in the kitchen taking out the dishes from the dishwasher and are putting them away. I'm standing on a chair and she's handing me plates to place in the cupboard. Papa is at work.

Mama hands me a plate the color of Sage's green eyes. My initial fury toward him has gone and went, leaving me with this longing to see him. Sage ... I wonder why he hasn't called? It's been a week since he last came over. Did I do something? He was in a good mood when he left. Maybe he moved on or something. Well, see if I care! It's not like I was officially his girlfriend. We had one date and hung out. He's free to see other people. Could it be that he's dating some dumb bimbo? The thought makes my face burn with anger and hatred toward whoever my competition may be. I feel a slight pang in my chest. Huh, jealousy. That's a new feeling.

Stay strong, Mar. It doesn't matter. Who cares? You can do better. Wait! Maybe he will call me. Maybe he's doing that dumb guy thing where they think that they should wait a week before seeing a girl again to keep her interested. Stirrings of hope rise in my chest. He's just dumb enough to try it. One of his friends probably gave him such wise advice. In that case, I'll act like I couldn't care less. I can feel a grin spread across my face in self-satisfaction. He can be so provoking.

Crossing the threshold of our bedroom door, I see Marisol pouring tea into tiny teacups placed in front of four chairs, two of which are empty. In one of the chairs is seated her favorite stuffed monkey. Marisol is seated in front of a small, round table. On the table is a plate full of cookies. I walk over and grab one. The sweet smell of chocolate floods my nose. Mmm. I'm just about to take a bite when Marisol says, "You can't have one unless you play with me." All I want is one. I should have shoved it in my mouth when I had the chance. Now I'm probably going to have to play fairy princess; for the second time today.

"Okay," I say as I am about to sink into an empty seat. I try to keep my reluctance out of my tone. Marisol cheers in delight. Woo-hoo, lucky me.

"You can't sit thewe! Geowge is sitting thewe!" Marisol cries out. I let out a sigh and place the chair back.

"Where can I sit then?"

"In that chaiw." She points to the empty chair next to the imaginary George.

"Isn't Gabriella sitting there?" I ask confused. There are only four chairs.

"Geowge doesn't want me to play with hew anymowe."

"What? Why?"

"He says that he doesn't want to shawe me."

"George isn't real, he's make-believe. You can play with whoever you want," I respond, astonished.

She's been playing with Gabriella since she was four. Why would she stop playing with her now?

"Don't say that! He's getting mad!" she says, earnestly. She almost sounds like she's trying to warn me. Sunshine has a little more active imagination than I had thought.

I lay off the subject not wanting to start a disagreement. Disagreements with her leave me worn out. No matter how much I try to talk sense to her she won't get it. It's like I'm talking to a wall.

After a while the cookies are finished and I'm getting bored with this baby game—correction, I was bored to begin with.

"Sunshine, why don't we play a different game now, huh?"

"Okey-dokey, what awe we going to play?"

"A fun game."

"I know that."

"Okay, umm, how about ... Oh, I know, Battleship."

"Yay!" Marisol races gracefully out of her chair over to the bed; she flattens herself down onto her belly and slides the box out from underneath it. I walk over and sit down on the bed and start setting up the game.

"You can go first," I say.

"Okay, A-4."

"Miss, B-3"

"Miss, A-6"

"Miss," I bet I know what she's doing, "A-6."

"Oh, deaw. Hit." Her reaction makes me smile. I figured I was going to hit her ship. I keep explaining to her not to ask me the same coordinates of where her ships are located. If she keeps this up this is going to be a short game.

"Sunshine, you're doing it again."

"Oops, sowwy. My tuwn, F-7."

"Miss—" Thump! "—what was that?" That sounded like it came from the attic. "Did you hear that?"

Thump. Thump.

That sounded like footsteps, I think to myself.

"No. What did you heaw?" I hope to God Mama heard that. With my luck, I highly doubt it, but who knows? Sometimes luck can change.

"I heard a noise. It sounded like it was coming from the attic. Hey, why don't we go downstairs and ask Mama if she heard it?" I say, my eyes glued to the ceiling.

"Okey-dokey."

"Race you. Ready? Set. Go!"

We peel off the bed and down the hall. I let Marisol get a head start so that I can keep my eyes on her. Can't she go any faster? My heart is racing. The entity can get me at any second with her pace. It takes all my self-control to keep my legs from going into a dead sprint. I'd probably break my neck going down the stairs if I did. I'm already tripping down the stairs—the only thing keeping me from taking a fall is the rail that I'm desperately clutching. Moreover, I can't leave Marisol. Down the stairs, we dash to the kitchen. Passing through the entrance of the kitchen at breakneck speed.

"I win!" Marisol declares triumphantly, hopping up and down with her fists up in the air. "Yay!"

"Mama, did you hear—"

"Girls!" Mama exclaims. We slow down as we head toward Mama. "How many times do I have to tell you not to run in the kitchen?" That's more of a rhetorical question than an actual question. All the same, she's waiting for an answer. How many times has she told us not to interrupt someone when they're talking? Obviously she doesn't remember telling us that.

"I apologize, Mama. But I have a good reason. I—shh!"

Thump, thump, thump.

"There it is again. Mama, please tell me you heard that!"

"Heard what?"

"I heard a loud noise like footsteps up in the attic."

"I didn't hear anything girls," she says. "Although, there could be some mice up there. There better not be," she says talking more to herself than to me. "I'm going to go check it out." She puts the pot of food on simmer and starts walking past us.

"Mama, it's dangerous!" I catch her hand as she passes me and cling to it.

"You wanted me to go upstairs, didn't you? That's why you got me."

"No," I plead. "I just wanted to see if you heard it. Mama, I don't think there are any mice up there. I think it was the ghost that attempted"—and almost succeeded—"to kill me."

"Mamí, there is nothing up in the attic and there is nothing in this house. A ghost did not try to kill you and I'm going to prove it to you." She makes her way out of the kitchen. I follow reluctantly behind her. There's no way in hell I'm going to let her go alone. Marisol skips ahead of us.

Up the stairs and down the hall we go. Going along the hallway past Mama's and Papa's bedroom to the attic steps. My feet feel like lead weights as I approach them. If going up the first flight of stairs was a hurdle than climbing this staircase will feel like Mount Everest.

I slowly drag my sorry ass up the stairs.

I stop at the door.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Mama asks me. When I make no sign of movement she reaches for the doorknob all the while muttering something along the lines of, "If you want something done you have to do it yourself." The door opens with a heave. A wave of heat hits us. Mama jerks her head toward the door, gesturing for me to enter. Why do I have to be the first one? I take a deep breath before going in. Entering the room, I have the feeling that I'm being watched. I turn and study the face of my tormenter and Marisol. If they share the same feelings, I'm unable to read it from their expressions. Mama looks annoyed and Marisol looks like her happy-go-lucky self.

Mama and Marisol walk around silently looking and listening for any sign of movement. I'm making sure I stick to the door in case things get FUBAR. or "Fucked Up Beyond All Repair" as Papa would say. I'm tempted to put something in front of the door to keep it from closing, but if something can close the door then it sure as hell can move the box. There's no use in trying. Wait. That means that even if I'm standing by the door I'm no safer than if I was exploring the room ... No, I'll just stick by the door, just in case.

I scan the room as a safety precaution even though deep down inside of me I know that it's not going to make me any safer. The room is dark, dusty, stuffy, and has spider webs clinging to every nook and cranny. It is mostly cluttered with wooden boxes, cardboard boxes, and crates—basically stuff that can hold other stuff in it. Scattered around the room are chairs covered by packing blankets.

The room is silent as Mama and Marisol search for the "mice." The silence doesn't fool me. I can feel something lurking in the background, eyes trained on me. Mama attempts to persuade me into helping them but quits after I tell her that she's not going to find any mice and that it's a waste of time. After a few minutes of searching, Mama is beginning to complain about the heat. I take a step toward them to ask if we can go now. For some reason my attention is directed toward the ground and I see a small spider heading toward my feet. Automatically, I take a step backward. I stomp my foot down on it, crushing it. Yuck! Now my slipper has spider guts on it.

It takes me a moment for my brain to register the degree drop. A moment ago I was burning up but now I'm cold. My body naturally goes through the whole routine: hair standing on end, goosebumps rising on my skin, body frozen in place, mouth wide open to call out for help. A knot forms in the back of my throat rendering me speechless, my vision tunnels; I feel breathing on the back of my neck followed by my nostrils burning and that sick to my stomach feeling.

"Make 'em scram girl or I'll hurt 'em too," a little boy's disembodied voice threatens. "Tell 'em!" he hisses. I swallow hard the saliva pooling in my mouth. My tongue forms the syllables and I am inexplicably able to speak without my voice wavering.

"Mama, Marisol, you two look hot. Why don't you guys go downstairs and I'll finish the job."

"What happened to you thinking there's a ghost in here?"

"I'm a teenager; I change my mind all the time." Mama analyzes my face in suspicion, as she wipes away the beads of sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand.

"Have it your way." Mama grabs Marisol's hand and they pass me as they descend the stairs.

I feel the ghost's hand clench my ponytail as he snaps my head backward so that my neck is extended. My back is forced into an arch and I'm on my toes.

"That's a good little missy."

"Who are you?" I struggle to ask.

"Nobody, least not anymore."

"What do you want?"

"Yer scared, ain't ya?" he asks as his finger slides down my neck, ignoring my question. "I said, are ya scared?"

"No!" I manage to spit out.

"Ya sure?" The buttons start popping off of my blouse. I feel his cold little hand slide into my shirt. His clammy hand making contact with my skin. It slithers down just a little lower. He rests it over my heart. "I don't believe ya. Yer lying."

"No," I struggle to say.

"Good. I don't much like liars."

I feel his cheek press against my hair as he whispers in my ear, "Ya sure are pretty." I feel his hand move off of my chest. My shirt is suddenly being lifted. His cold hand grazes my skin.

"Too bad I'm gonna have to make ya worm food."

In a split second I am in the air. The last thing my brain registers is the attic door slamming to a close, before my head nails the staircase. I'm tumbling down the stairs. My chin is tucked into my chest; the only thing stopping my neck from breaking. I am well aware of the vibrating sensation of my body as it slams into each step, but I can't feel any pain. Before I know it, I'm sprawled out on the floor. My ears are ringing and the room feels like it is spinning. My body feels limp.

Warm sticky blood flows down my face, blurring my vision. I feel very tired. I lay like this until Mama discovers me a few moments later, lying in a pool of my own blood.

"Stay awake, Marimar!" Mama's voice seems distant even though I'm aware that she is sitting next to me.

"Marisol, go get me the phone." Suddenly, I'm aware of my hand being stroked. My hair being brushed away from my face. I focus in on her voice—the more I try to focus the better I can hear.

"Mama ... ghost." I croak the words out almost above a whisper.

"Hush. Don't talk, Mamí."

"Ghost ... pushed—"

"It's alright, baby, you're fine." Why can't she ever listen? She's not hearing me. Frustration. I try to move my head to see if I can get up, bad idea. I have a splitting headache. Pain surges through my whole body. I moan. Remarkably, I don't feel any breakages—none that I'm aware of anyway. I don't dare flex any of my other muscles.

Marisol's whimpers turn into sobs. I can feel my lips move. I try to speak words of comfort, but my attempt to converse fails.

"Marimar stay with me. Marisol, hand me the phone and then get me a towel from the bathroom." I hear the light running of feet. I'm aware of the pressure on my head. Mama must be trying to stop the bleeding. "Stay awake," she tells me. She dials 911.

"911 Dispatcher, what's your emergency?"

Mama, "Hello, my daughter just fell down the stairs. She's really badly hurt. Blood is gushing from her head. I need an ambulance," she says, her words running together. I doubt she sounds coherent to the dispatcher.

Dispatcher, "Ma'am, I can't understand you. Please calm down and repeat to me calmly what happened."

Mama, "My daughter fell down the stairs and hit her head. She is losing a lot of blood. I need an ambulance."

Dispatcher, "Okay, please confirm your address."

Mama, "145 Solórzano Street, Valentin, TX."

Dispatcher, "The ambulance is on its way."

Now I can go to sleep.

"Stay awake!" Mama urges.

Minutes pass in agony. All the adrenaline has left my body, leaving me sore and extremely exhausted. Mama and Marisol's voices become faint whispers until they completely fade away.

I'm tired. I'm only faintly aware of their presence. I feel my body become more and more relaxed. My breathing is becoming labored. I pass out.

I see a bright tunnel. I go into it. My eyelids flutter open. The light keeps flashing in my eyes. I can see a man stretched over me. He's dressed in scrubs. I can see his lips moving, but I can't hear him. I focus in on his voice. "Can you hear me?" the man asks. I mumble out a response. "What is your name?"

"Marimar."

"When were you born?"

I was—um ... I think it's on ...

"When were you born?" My speech is slurred.

"She ... a ... concussion."

What? Concussion? What was...?

"It's ... all right ... in ... hospital."

That voice sounded like ... Mama?

"It's ... maybe."

Papa? What are they ... Who? What was I ...?

My mind goes blank and I lose consciousness. I come to just long enough to see a nurse hovering over me before going out like a light.

My eyes sting from the bright light as I struggle to open them. My head is propped up with a pillow and blankets cover my body. I hear a string of voices whirling around me.

"How are you, Mamí?"

"Hey, sleepy head."

"Hi, Maw."

My eyes adjust and I can see that I'm lying in a hospital bed. I try to turn my head, but excruciating pain occurs. Ouch. I scan the area with just my eyes. My left arm is attached to an IV. My left pinkie is in a splint and my index finger has a heart monitor attached to it. On the left of me, I can't see anything due to the privacy curtain. On the right, all I can see is the door leading out into the hallway where presumably nurses are bustling about holding clipboards. My family is hovering over me, their faces filled with concern. Papa is still in his work clothes; his suit is all wrinkled and his tie hangs around his neck in a crumpled mess. He must have been sleeping in them. How long have I been here?

"Hi," I eventually answer back to the eager faces that are waiting for my response. "How long have I been asleep?" I ask after they each gave me a kiss.

"Almost a day," Papa says. His features relax a bit and he goes back to sitting on the chair next to my bed. He's holding my hand.

After a minute I try to sit up, but the room starts to spin and a severe pain starts to rise where I hit my head. "Ouch!" I wince; my hand automatically goes to my head. I rest my head back down on the pillow.

"I'll go get the doctor," Papa says, getting up. He kisses my forehead and gives my hand a light squeeze before taking his exit. Moments later, Papa comes back with the doctor. The doctor looks around his mid-sixties, but it's hard to tell. His face looks worn and he has only clumps of white hair lying along the sides of his head, but even that seems to be thinning. Purple bags hang under his light green eyes. There is nothing attractive about him. When he gets to the side of my bed a friendly smile appears on his face.

"My name is Doctor Fisher. I'm here to see how you're feeling," he says, pulling my chart from the end of my bed.

"I have a splitting headache and I feel like I was run over by a bulldozer."

"I'll fix that," he lightly laughs as he heads over to my IV bag and attaches a syringe, pushing the clear liquid into the tube. "That should help with the pain."

"Thank you," I tell him appreciatively.

"It should kick in, in less than a minute," he says. "We're going to have to keep her for another night and run a few more tests," he says, turning to my parents.

They keep talking to each other but it's getting harder to hear. What did he put in my IV? It gets to the point that the only reason I know they are talking is by their mouths moving. My eyelids feel heavier and heavier. They slowly close and I drift off into a peaceful stupor.

I'm sitting on the couch in the living room watching TV. I just came back from the hospital. I spent two whole days there so that they could keep me under observation. The report is that the splitting headache was caused by a concussion. I now have thirteen stitches and a bald strip about a half inch wide and four inches long just right of the top of my crown. I also broke my left pinky. I'm right handed so that won't affect me much. Other than that, all I have are bruises and sore muscles. They say that I was extremely lucky. It's hard to appreciate that fact when I feel like I got the crap kicked out of me. Every menial task, like trying to get to the bathroom, makes me feel like I'm being beaten with a stick. To make matters worse, nobody saw me being thrown down the stairs and they think that I'm losing it. I heard my "supportive" parents talking amongst themselves—when I was pretending to sleep in the hospital—about sending me to a psychiatrist. And I thought all I had to worry about was Papa making jokes about my fall. You'd think that if they didn't want me to hear anything they'd at least have enough sense to leave the room.

Psychiatrist, sure, like that'll help; like I would actually talk to a shrink. If I started telling him the truth, before I finished, I'd be surrounded by orderlies while the doctor advises me that the white jacket with all the straps they are holding is for my own safety. Padded room. Cushioned couch. Think I'll pass on the first, thanks. My head is on a pillow, a warm blanket is strewn across me, and the remote is in my hand. This is where I plan to sleep for the next few days. It's easier to get around. The bathroom and the big screen TV is down here. And, with the fact that I was nearly killed twice upstairs, I feel much safer down here. As an added bonus, I can sleep with the lights on without bothering anybody.

My family has been treating me to whatever I want. Still, that doesn't change the fact that they were talking about me like I'm a schizo. Mama and Papa have given me as much ice cream as I want—that only helps for tonsils, but who cares. Ice cream is ice cream. Sweet little Sunshine has been at my every beck and call. I try not to ask too much of her. Only the essentials, like a glass of water or another blanket. I don't even have to lift a finger. Having my own personal slave should be enjoyable, but I am so highly medicated that I'm practically comatose. The upside is that it eases the pain; the downside is that I have trouble thinking straight. I have to take the medication every four hours. I'm only lucid for the last half hour before my next pill.

"Ay Dios mío!" Mama screams, causing me to jump.

"Ooh," I moan. What happened? "Mama are you all right?" I turn my head by habit. The slight movement leaves me writhing in pain. I let out a quiet whine.

Marisol runs toward her while shouting on a continuous cycle, "What's wong, Mama?" Tugging on the end of Mama's dress she asks, "Awe you all wight?"

"Yes, I'm all right. Don't anybody use the downstairs bathroom."

"Why?" I ask.

"I'll tell you when I get back." She rushes away. Tick-tock, tick-tock. I hear her light tread past the living room. Two minutes pass. After another minute passes, she returns. I hear the shuffling of feet heading toward me. Mama stands in front of me blocking my view of the TV. Her face is pale; her eyes are dilated in fear. Yes! Finally, someone else saw something!

"What happened, Mama? What did you see?" The questions bring her somewhat back to life.

"I was in the bathroom washing my hands when a cockroach dropped from the ceiling into the sink. Then several cockroaches started to pile out of the drain. I looked up and there was a swarm of them on the ceiling."

"And?" I ask eagerly.

"And they were everywhere! On the walls, filling the sink, around the toilet, and then they started crawling at me!" She shudders at the thought. "So I ran and closed the door behind me. I blocked the door with a towel to try to keep them inside. I haven't seen any come out. I checked the whole house and all the other rooms were fine except for the downstairs.

"I'm going to go call your father; nobody opens that door!" she says.

"Sure, where am I going to go?" I mumble. I'm immobile, remember?

I hear the rustling of her dress as she scurries over to the phone. The button's beep as she presses speed dial. The phone starts its connection—not fast enough apparently for Mama, her worry lines are showing. Papa finally picks up.

"Wally, the downstairs bathroom is infested with cockroaches!" Mama spews her words in a rush. She pauses to listen. Her words come out firm, "You need to come home now!" Silence. "Come home and see it for yourself." My bet is that he's asking if it can wait. Why couldn't she put the phone on speaker? I wish I could hear what he's saying instead of hearing only part of the conversation. "You know what, you're right, you can't do anything about it. So you know what? I'm going to call an exterminator. I'm not going to wait for you!" Pause. "Fine, but get over here!" she retorts.

Mama roughly hangs up the phone, grunting in frustration. Uh-oh, I hope she's not going to take her frustration out on us. Briskly walking over toward us she states, "Girls, if you guys have to go to the bathroom you'll have to go upstairs."

I sigh. "Guess I'm holding it," I mumble.

"Well, sorry," she says with feigned concern. Good going, Papa. Piss her off and let us deal with her temper. Well, me anyway.

Twenty minutes later ... we hear Papa pull in and the van door shut. Trevor's yapping wildly, his paws cut the air as he tries to break free from Marisol's grasp on his collar. Mama runs over to open the door for Papa. I get Marisol to let go of Trevor so she can help me off the couch. I want to see this. As I walk into the hallway Papa is just stepping through the door. He gives Mama a quick kiss before asking, "Which bathroom is infested?"

"The downstairs; the girls and I will stay here while you take a look."

"I might need some help."

"Fine," Mama says, upset that she has to go near the bathroom.

I follow behind Mama and Papa in curiosity. When we get to the door I take my place at the side of the entrance with Mama and Marisol, just in case the cockroaches start to crawl out. Papa hesitantly grabs the doorknob. He pulls the door open.

"Holy Crap!" Papa yells as he jumps back and slams the door shut. I only had a chance to catch a small glimpse; there were so many cockroaches that I couldn't even see the floor.

"Run and grab some duct tape, it's under the kitchen sink," Papa says to Mama. Mama turns, hustling toward the kitchen. She returns seconds later, duct tape in hand.

"Here," she says as she hands it to him.

"Thank you." He goes to work taping all of the sides of the door starting with the bottom.

"Double tape it, Papa. Just in case," I suggest. Even the thought of the roaches going under the door makes my skin crawl.

"I know," he snaps. I don't blame him for being angry. He should be frustrated with the thought of how bad the exterminator bill will be. "That should hold it until the exterminator gets here," Papa says as he wipes his hands together, indicating his job is done. "I can't believe that they didn't crawl under the door, that's unnatural," Papa mumbles to himself. "Okay, now the upstairs bathrooms."

Papa and Mama go upstairs to look and I make my way back to the living room—at a snail's pace—to go search through the phone book for an exterminator. I hobble over to the coffee table and grab the phone book before I plop my butt back down on the couch. The minimum exertion was so extremely excruciating that I take a moment to recover before flipping through the contents of the book. I find the number for the exterminator in less than a minute.

"Thank God! the upstairs is all clear!" Papa's voice drifts down from the hall.

"Here, I found the number for you," I say as he walks over to me. I point to the number.

"Good, saves me time. Thank you," he says as he dials the number on the phone.

The exterminator arrives an hour later. He's short with a beer belly and he has black-beady eyes. What little hair he has left is the color of dirt. He looks to be around his late thirties.

"I'm Nick, I'm here to relieve y'all of your bug problem," he says with his heavy Southern drawl.

"Nice to meet you, Nick, I'm Walter," Papa responds as he courteously reaches out his hand for Nick to shake. Nick doesn't take it, so Papa drops his hand and introduces us. "This is my wife Alena and my daughters, Marimar and Marisol."

"What part of the house is infested?" Nick asks, not acknowledging our presence in the least.

"The downstairs bathroom is really bad, the cockroaches are—"

"Sir, I'm sure I can handle this," Nick says, arrogantly cutting Papa off mid-sentence. He's lucky Papa's in a jam or Papa would have kicked his cocky ass out of here.

Smoldering, Papa leads the way to the bathroom, trying desperately to contain his temper. I follow behind them not wanting to miss Nick's reaction—my pain killer is already starting to kick in. Not wanting to be anywhere near the bugs, Mama and Marisol decided to stay in the living room. Nick walks over and pulls off the duct tape to get the door open. As he rips the tape off, Nick gives Papa a look as if to say he's an idiot. I bite my tongue to restrain myself from saying, "If Papa was an expert we wouldn't need you," but I don't think Papa would be too thrilled with me pissing off the only person that can help.

I stand a little ways behind them in case one of them jumps back. Nick opens the door. "Roaches all over the walls, huh?" Nick scoffs.

The room has completely gone back to normal. It actually looks spotless like the massive swarm of cockroaches never inhabited the room. Papa sticks his head through the door looking all around.

"That can't be possible! The whole bathroom was covered with them," Papa says.

Nick and Papa both head in and look around, but they find no trace of them. Not even a crack on the wall or ceiling they could have crawled back into. They just vanished.

"I don't see any roaches or even any sign of them. The little critters must have magically disappeared into thin air," Nick says cynically.

Papa walks out of the bathroom astounded. He's either ignoring Nick's comment or is too addled to respond. He usually doesn't let people's rude comments like that slide.

This oddity didn't just happen to occur out of nowhere. This just so happened to occur the day I signed out of the hospital. This has the ghost's, whom I dubbed "Casper from hell," name written all over it. And something tells me that more unexplained events have yet to come.

I follow the men to the door.

"I guess your services are no longer required," Papa says vacantly as we reach the door.

"Yeah, well, that'll be seventy-five dollars. I'll take checks but no credit cards," Nick says, eyeing Papa like he's delusional.

"You didn't even do anything!" Papa exclaims. The veins in his temple are popping out.

As Nick steps out he turns and says, "You had me drive all the way out here to send me on a wild goose chase. You're paying me or else!" he retorts.

I've never heard someone talk to Papa like that. Papa's eyes turn black and seem to glow red. Nick's eyes widen as he realizes his insolent behavior won't be tolerated. Papa follows him out onto the porch and is about to give him a piece of his mind or worse when Nick quickly blurts out, "I do have a cash discount!" before Papa gets within arm's length.

"And what would that be?" Papa retorts, obviously about to explode.

"Fifty would be fair for my troubles, sir." Papa curses under his breath. Taking a deep breath, Papa fishes into his pocket for his wallet and pays him. Nick doesn't hesitate on getting into his truck. Papa stomps back into the house, swearing.

"What's all the commotion?" Mama asks, entering the front room.

"The bugs are gone," Papa says through clenched teeth. I remove a vase from a table beside the door in case he ... SLAM! Yep, I was right. Papa gives Mama a look that both keeps her from yelling at him for slamming the door and tells her she needs to think of something to diffuse his temper.

"Isn't that a good thing?" Mama asks puzzled, in a calming tone.

"No, I mean they left. I went to show him the bathroom and there was no trace of the cockroaches. I even had him check the hallway."

"I'm still not seeing the problem."

"The problem is that little pecker-headed-fucker charged me."

"How are they all gone?"

"I don't know. They just are. Go take a look for yourself." Papa heads to the bathroom with Mama and me behind him. He stops at the door, gesturing for her to take a look inside. Mama walks over hesitantly and peeks in.

"How could that be?" she asks in disbelief.

"That's what I want to know," Papa says, shaking his head as he walks away. Mama and I just stand there staring into the bathroom, shocked by the unexplained phenomenon.

My premonition is proven true. Even stranger things are beginning to happen and I'm not the only one noticing. However, I am the only one in this family that believes it's the work of Casper. I haven't mentioned him since I've come back from the hospital out of fear that my next "new outfit" will look like Hannibal Lecter's.

Things are starting to be moved out of their places frequently. I hear the sounds of footsteps in the hallway every night. In the attic I hear things moving around. I don't dare go back up there out of fear for my life. It's been a whole week since the day I landed in the hospital. My concussion has healed but my pinky finger will take three to five more weeks until it goes back to normal.

"Where did I put the damn keys?" Papa growls in frustration. The four of us have been looking for them for ten minutes. He's gone from annoyed to enraged as he swears he left them on the hook next to the door where he hangs them every time he walks in. All of us have been searching high and low. Everywhere except for the cellar and the attic. Mama is in her room checking in all of his pants pockets. The last time I saw Marisol she was checking the couch cushions; I am currently searching under the chairs in the great room.

"I found it," Marisol yells from somewhere in the front room. We all make our way to the front of the house. The first thing I see when walking toward the front door is Marisol jumping up and down pointing at the key holder. Low and behold they are right where they belong. Papa walks over and snatches it from the holder.

"Where did you find them?" he asks, looking down at Marisol.

"Wight thewe." She points to the holder.

"They couldn't have been right there, that's the first place we all looked," Mama says. "Somebody must have put them back and it couldn't have been Marisol because she can't reach them," Mama states.

They all turn to look at me, even Marisol; traitor.

"What? I didn't do it," I answer, flustered by their accusations.

"Then who did?" Papa asks; his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"I don't know, but it wasn't me," I huff. "You probably didn't look well. That wouldn't be out of character."

"It wasn't there before, and your father doesn't have time to argue. He's already late as it is," Mama says, taking Papa's side. She gives Papa a quick kiss and he hurries out the door. "Whoever did that should know better than to make Papa late for work," Mama says. Why doesn't she come out and say it instead of beating around the bush? She's already implying that it was me. Mama turns on her heels and leaves, leaving me no time to respond further. I watch her ascend the stairs; all the while glaring at her back.

"Want to play?" Marisol asks, tugging on the sleeve of my sweater.

"Not now!" I snap. I turn to look at her. I can see the hurt in her eyes, the tears welling up in them. Damn it. I upset Marisol. "I'm sorry, I'm not mad at you. Please don't cry," I plead, hugging her to my side as I stroke her hair. "I'll play later, okay?" I say, trying to coax her.

"I foegive you," she says, blinking away the tears. A smile spreads across her face. She hugs me back and then skips away carefree. It's shocking how she just bounces back.

I lock the door and then I bound up the steps. I make sure that I have a hand on the rail and I carefully measure my every step. All I need is another trip to the hospital. As I reach the top step my cell phone rings. I check the caller ID, just like I thought, it's Sage. I'll just wait a few more rings to get it. One, two, three ... "Hello," I say struggling not to sound mad, but failing.

"Hey, I was wondering if I can come over?" Oh, now you want to. You didn't have anything better to do?

"Sure, if you want," I reply, coldly.

"Cool, hey I'm sorry I haven't called."

'Sorry,' he says; sincerity is another thing.

"Hmm, it doesn't matter. I haven't really noticed. I've been very busy."

"I'll be over in ten. See ya then, bye." He sounded a little glum. Good.

"Bye," I respond back.

I better go make myself presentable. I hurry to go find a mirror. I cross over to the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror hanging above the sink. I'm surprised the mirror hasn't iced over since I've been so cold to him. What am I so mad at him for? I already had guessed that he wasn't going to call for a week. All guys play the waiting game. What would make him any different? But it's been, like, two weeks.

I fix up my hair, twirling my curls around my finger, helping it enhance its natural formation. I pinch my cheeks to give them a little color and I apply some lip balm to give them a little gloss. I evaluate my clothes. PJ's aren't going to cut it. I put on a pair of gray shorts and a green t-shirt. I glance once more at the mirror before I walk over to Mama's room to give her a heads up.

"Mama, is it all right if Sage comes over?" I ask, leaving out the part that I had already said he could. I'm standing at the entrance of Mama's room, fingers crossed. Mama's re-hanging the pants she had strewn across the bed from earlier.

"Of course, of course," she says ecstatically, all signs of her ill-temper are now gone. She's been asking me constantly if I had heard from him.

I look at the time on my cell. Two minutes until he shows. I decide to go and sit in the living room and wait for him.

A couple minutes later ... there's a knock on the door. I walk over and open it.

"Hey," Sage says.

"Hi." I look at Sage's apparel, he's dressed in jeans again and he's wearing a forest green shirt. Our eyes meet. His eyes almost match the color of his shirt. I notice he has red in the white of his left eye and it looks as if his black eye is still healing. No, I realize this is a new injury to the same eye as before. He turns his eyes away abashed. I do the same.

"Oh, I almost forgot." He pulls out a single crimson rose from behind his back which he then hands to me.

"Thank you." I lean my head in and take a whiff. The rose smells glorious.

"I'm glad you like it." He stands at the door waiting for me to invite him in; great manners.

"Come in and I'll go and find a vase for this." He steps in and I lock the door after him. I turn and head for the kitchen; I can hear his steps behind me.

"There," I say as I take a step back and look at the effect of the rose on the middle of the dining room table. I can sense his unwavering gaze. Facing him, I see that he's grinning. "What's so funny?" Did I put my shirt on backward? I look down and check. No, that can't be it. I look back at him waiting for an answer.

"I see you've been busy tripping over things," he says, gesturing to my finger and the bruises on my face. He can only see the bruise on my forehead as I had pulled my hair over to cover the gash on the crown of my head. His levity at my expense angers me tremendously.

"What, did you trip down the stairs?" he asks with a smirk. Suddenly, I'm filled with a passionate rage. I didn't trip. I was pushed by a ghost ... Ghost! The gears are spinning in my head. The last time Sage came over he wanted to look for a ghost so we went down into the basement. That was the day that my world went into a downward spiral. It's his fault! He pissed it off. If he hadn't pissed off "Casper from hell" in the first place he wouldn't have come after me. IDIOT! I grab him from his shirt collar and I pull him down to my level. This fazes him.

"I was only joking," he says, trying to tear my hands off his shirt.

"This is all your fault! Because of you, a ghost is out to get me!" I start to swing but he escapes my grasp. I swing again, but I can't get in a good shot since he has his hands in front of him, parrying each blow. Funny, just like Papa taught me to block. He starts to laugh. I stop for a moment seeing that my assault is to no avail.

"For your information, that freaking ghost pushed me down the stairs!" He stops short, at the same moment he relaxes his hands. Perfect. I take a shot at him but he catches my wrist.

"What do you mean pushed?" All traces of humor are wiped away—he's stone serious. He looks aghast as I show him the gaping wound on my head for emphasis. Are his eyes watering?

I give him the short version starting with my bath and ending with the roaches. I made sure that he knew about his whole part in the mess he had caused and how much pain I've endured through it all. He doesn't interrupt me once until I have finished.

"Are you all right?" he asks worriedly. The skin in between his brows is creased in concern.

"No thanks to you."

"How badly were you hurt?"

"I cut my head open, had a minor concussion, a broken pinky, spent two days in the hospital under observation, and was black and blue for a week; not that you were around to notice."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know. I would have come and visited you."

"You're right, you should have." I'm still not over that. I'll just let him feel guilty since this was his fault.

"I'm sorry I haven't called you." He takes a deep breath and looks away as he speaks. "When I got home from your house my step-dad, Bubba, was waiting for me, drunk as usual. It was my night to cook dinner since my mom was working late. He laid into me pretty hard. He grounded me to my room, took my cell phone, and wouldn't even allow me to go to work. I almost lost my job. He made me watch Oscar all day, every day, so my mom could waitress extra shifts at the bar he works at. His usual babysitter just happened to be out of town for two weeks. I don't mind watching Oscar but we don't have a landline at the house or even cable. My mom wouldn't even let me use her cell phone fearing Bubba's wrath.

"Sorry," I say, my anger diminished. He just shrugs.

"What did your folks think about the ghost?" he asks, changing the subject.

"They didn't believe me," I say, not hiding my aggravation.

"They think you tripped?"

"They think that I'm capable enough."

"I can see why they think that," he says, shrugging his shoulders.

"Shut up, it's your fault!" I hit him with my good hand in the arm; not hard enough. I keep trying.

"I still don't understand—" he says as he easily blocks my shots. "—how's it my fault?" I stop trying to hit him.

"'I have an idea. Hey, ghost, prove yourself! You don't scare us!'" I quote him using a thick Texan accent. I attempt to lower my voice a few octaves.

"I don't sound like that," he says, glowering down at me—his arms are folded. His eyes now exactly match the color of his t-shirt.

"You totally do," I laugh. Why did I laugh? I'm supposed to be angry. "So, are you going to help fix this mess or not?" I rest my hands on my hips as I tap my foot impatiently. He shouldn't take so long in answering. It was a simple question. Either you say yes or you say no. Easy.

"I'm in."

"Good. Let's go somewhere and talk some more. I don't feel safe here."

"We'll take my truck."

"Before we go I need to ask Mama." We head for her usual haunt, the kitchen. After discovering that she is neither in the kitchen nor anywhere downstairs, I decide that she is probably still upstairs in her bedroom.

"I'll wait here," Sage says, standing by the front door. Walking past my bedroom, I'm reminded of Marisol. Where did Marisol go? Come to think of it, I haven't seen Trevor either. I find my bedroom door opened a crack. I peer through and I find Marisol taking a nap on the bed. It's not her naptime? Oh, I get it. Mama's giving us some privacy.

I slip into my bedroom and I quietly walk over to the armoire and open it. I slip out my laptop bag, the whole time looking over my shoulder. That's when I hear the footsteps coming from the attic. I quickly hang the laptop bag over my shoulder and I give Marisol a quick kiss on the forehead. She stirs a little, so I'm forced to tiptoe out of the room as fast I can without making any noise. I leave the door how I found it and I head over to Mama's room at a hurried pace.

I find Mama on the bed reading a book. Her back is propped up by several pillows. She's wearing reading glasses—the print is too small for her aging eyes to see. With her free hand she strokes Trevor's back.

"Mama," I call out, as I walk over to her bedside and I sit down beside her.

"Marimar, what are you doing here? Where did Sage go? Is he gone? Why did he leave so soon?" she asks, all in the time it takes for her to take off her glasses and lay them down on the bed stand beside her.

"He's waiting by the door. We—I mean, I wanted to know if we can go out?"

"Where are you going?"

"We're going to go check out the library."

"Go ahead, have fun." I lean over and give her a kiss.

"Thank you." As always, I find myself looking over my shoulder for Casper as I run downstairs to Sage. I lock the door behind us, glad to be out, but I can't help feeling guilty about leaving them in there with it.

"Where to?" Sage asks after we put enough distance with his truck between us and the house.

"I was thinking we should go to the library. That will probably be our best bet if we want to dig up some information. We might be able to find out what we're up against."

"Good thinking," Sage says, pointing to my laptop bag.

"Thanks," I murmur.

"Why do you gather it's in your house?" Sage asks, continuing on with the conversation.

"I think it would like to make my life a living hell."

"You know I've heard that sometimes ghosts will haunt a place because they have some sort of unfinished business. Like maybe its life was cut short."

"I'm beginning to think that it's trying to cut my life short."

"Hmm." Short pause. "Are you cold? I could lower the air conditioner if you want."

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Okay."

Silence.

"Does it hurt?" Sage nods toward my hand.

"Not as long as I don't move it."

"That's good. What have you been up to?"

"Healing." He gives me a look as if to say, "Smartass."

And so ends that conversation. We listen to the radio for the rest of the way.

Sage finds a parking place on the second row outside of the small library the size of a double wide mobile home. He puts the truck in park. We unbuckle our seatbelts and head over to the entrance.

A rush of cold air hits us as we enter. We walk over to the front desk. The line is short; only two people are standing in front of us. I look around. For a small town they have a pretty good sized library. It's a lot bigger than it looked from the street. You can see where they made a huge addition in the back. There are rows of books and in the back is a long row of computers. All of the computers are taken, which isn't going to be a problem since I brought my laptop and the library has Wi-Fi. The atmosphere is peaceful, a great contrast to the atmosphere in my house. It's quiet, except for the occasional murmurs and the shuffling of books.

The line moves up and finally we're the only ones in line. We approach the elderly librarian, whose nameplate reads Mrs. Kimberly, at the front desk. She looks around her sixties. She has gray hair that is pulled up into a bun and warm eyes the color of amber. She's wearing a gray suit, and around the back of her neck lies a beaded chain that attaches to her old lady glasses that are hanging on to the tip of her nose. As we approach the desk a warm smile appears on her face.

"How may I help you two?" Mrs. Kimberly looks to Sage and then to me.

"I was hoping you can help me find a book about the old blacksmith's shop," I respond. The smile fades from her lips and her eyes lose all of their warmth. The whole place turns quiet—I can feel everybody's eyes on us. Mrs. Kimberly purses her lips.

"If I were you two, I would leave this alone and mind my own business," she scolds while shaking her pointer finger at us.

"This is my business, ma'am. I live in that house." I hear a few gasps and whispers.

"Well, then I hope you can find the information on your own." She gives me a smug smile. I hear a few stray laughs of approval. Bitch.

"Thank you, for your 'Southern hospitality,' ma'am. You were a great help," I retort, mimicking her accent; I even match her smile. Her eyes narrow. As I turn around and storm off with Sage at my side, every eye in the building is on us, condemning us. Their piercing stares follow our every move.

"That was weird," Sage whispers.

"Bitchy old broad," I mutter.

Strategically, we sit at a work table near the back of the library to make it harder for people to stare at us without it being obvious; some still do.

"I didn't realize that my house was so popular," I say aloud.

"Lower your voice," Sage whispers, "you wouldn't want us to get kicked out would you?" I don't answer. I hunch over and I glare down at the desk, tracing the rings in the smoothed wood. My hair covers my face, hiding me from the onlookers. He attempts to stroke my hair but I shirk his touch and I wave him away—I'm too angry even for his touch. We sit in silence for a few minutes as I try to tame my temper. The snide remarks circling around us aren't helping.

"That's it. I'm gonna go look for a book about your house. You can join me or you can sit here and sulk," Sage whispers while getting up from his seat. I don't budge. I can feel him hovering over me. He leans down close to my ear and whispers sweetly, "You know if you want to go we can leave, we don't have to stay here. But, you probably aren't gonna be able to find out any information if we do." He's really vexing me. I don't stir. If he doesn't leave me alone for a second, I'm going to go off on him.

I take a few deep breaths before I stand up and push back my chair. I slide my bag off of the back of the chair and I put it on my shoulder. I wouldn't be surprised if someone would try to steal it. I walk silently behind Sage as we head to the nonfiction section. I try to look straight ahead and ignore the curious eyes, but I can't help but glance to the side of me; I catch the eyes of a woman around her early twenties wearing an AC/DC shirt who has stopped reading and has been texting since we sat down. I quickly look away. What is wrong with these people? What have I done to offend them?

Sage stops short and reads a sign on the shelf. "Nice of you to join me," he says lazily without looking in my direction; pain in the ass.

"What are you looking for?"

"The history section."

He leads the way. I barely notice that Sage stopped in front of me until I almost walk into him. He stopped to run his fingers down the worn spines of the books. He finds one he likes and pulls it out.

"Look," he says, placing the book in my hand. The cover reads The One Hundred and Seventieth Anniversary of Valentin, Texas. "It's a new book. It just came out last year," he says.

"It could be helpful." I shrug.

"There're more like this over here," he says, gesturing to the section. We grab an armful of books and go back to our table. We lay the books we're not reading in a pile. We get to work. We spend the next two hours searching through books and for info on my laptop.

"Did you find anything yet?" I turn and ask Sage after a long while.

"No, not yet. Have you looked through that pile?" He gestures to the pile of books now scattered across the table.

"Yeah," I sigh, "nothing. The strange part is that I'm not finding any information on my computer either. All my searches are coming up blank. The only thing useful could be the first book you found about the one hundred and seventieth anniversary of this town. It has a list of a few senior citizens who might know something."

"That can be useful." I hand him the book and point to the page. He skims the page, looks at the index, and then flips through the rest of the pages. "Well, I only need this one page." Sage looks around the room and then starts tearing the page out of the book.

"What are you doing?" I utter, aghast.

"I would say this would make us even. Since nobody wanted to help us, we'll help ourselves." He tucks it in his pant pocket.

"Oh, and you were worried I was going to stir up trouble."

"I'm not making a scene," he scoffs.

"You better not get caught," I warn.

"I can't believe we've been here for two hours and that's all we found," Sage says in frustration, ignoring my last comment.

"Man, I hate this stupid town!" I say in answer.

"Shh! don't say that so loud. This may come to a surprise to you, but there are folks here who have a lot of pride in this town," he whispers in my ear.

Disregarding his last comment, I read under my breath to make it clear to him that I am so not listening. He stares at me for a second longer, his patience with me thinning, and then his eye's return to the page before him. We're sitting so close that we're almost touching. I rest my hand on top of a book, my palm facing upwards. It would be easy for him to casually slip his hand in mine—I wish he would. This time I wouldn't pull away from his touch. Damn, I should have never shirked him off earlier. Why do I have to have such a temper?

Occasionally, I glance sideways at him. Sage's brown curls are ruffled by him running his fingers through his hair out of frustration. His forehead is creased in concentration. He'll look up and I'll quickly turn away. The blush on my cheeks gives me away. I try not to look at him for a few minutes, but my restraint becomes weak and then my resolve disintegrates and I'll sneak another look; when I do I'll find him watching me. Even when I catch him he still doesn't look away for a few moments.

"I think I found something!" Sage says.

"What?" I lean my head in toward him to get a good look.

"There's a whole chapter dedicated to your house," he says, pointing to the index of an old withered book.

"What are you waiting for? Go to it!" I say excitedly, and a little too loud—my reaction causes people around us to turn and hush me. "Hush yourselves people. And you," I say pointing to a girl smacking her gum, "you have been chewing your gum like a cow for an hour and I haven't complained." Her mouth is agape, offended by my comment.

"Calm down," Sage warns, "are you trying to get us kicked out?" He puts his hand on my shoulder and forces me back down onto my seat. My excitement is growing every second that passes. Can't he flip the page any faster?

"What the—hell no!" I groan. The whole chapter has been ripped out of the book. "See, this is why you don't rip pages out of books. You end up screwing somebody," I lecture. "Now what are we going to do?" I continue, exasperated

"Missing a page won't kill anybody, and don't worry, we can order this online."

I am about to search Amazon for the book when the librarian appears behind us.

"There have been too many complaints against you two. I'm sorry to inform you that you will have to leave," she patronizes. "I will take that," Mrs. Kimberly says as she snatches the book right out of Sage's hand. She folds her arms over her chest as she waits for us to get out of our seats.

I slide my chair back, adding extra force—making sure the chair legs grind against the tile floor, "Oops, excuse me."

Slipping my laptop in the bag, I pull the strap over my shoulder as we begin heading out of the library.

"Yeah, I'm sure she was sorry," I say in the safety of the parking lot. "Do you remember the title of that book?"

"No, I didn't get a chance to look before she took it out of my hand," Sage says, glumly. "At least we have the page full of names."

"That might help," I sigh. Might is all we have right now and we might not find any information at all.

"Don't worry, we'll find something," Sage reassures me.

I wish I could believe that. We walk over to the truck—Sage walks to the passenger door and holds it open for me. I get in and he closes the door. He then goes around and opens his door and gets in. We buckle up and he starts the engine. As he starts the engine I notice a big black sport utility vehicle with dark black tinted windows pull in front of the doorway to the library. The woman with the AC/DC shirt comes out of the entrance and jumps into the rear passenger side door.

"So where to?" I ask, keeping an eye on the sport-ute which is just sitting there.

"It's almost lunchtime. Why don't we grab a bite to eat?"

"Cool. I'm starving. What do you have in mind?"

"There's a diner here in town. I go there all the time; it's just down the block."

"Sounds great," I say with feigned enthusiasm.

The diner is literally a minute away. When we get there we find an empty parking space close to the door. I'm bringing my laptop bag with me just in case they have Wi-Fi. Sage walks over and holds the door open for me.

Hopping out, I notice the black sport-ute from the library pass by, but I can't see the people inside due to the very dark tinted windows. Those windows would be illegal in Oregon, I think.

Inside we take a booth next to the window. On the table there is a sign reading free Wi-Fi. Cool, just what we needed. I look around the diner. All the seats are either red or purple and the rim of the tables match the colors of the chairs. The waitresses are wearing outfits of the same color scheme, a purple and red striped buttoned shirt, jeans, and either a red or purple apron. It's not so crowded here. We have been only sitting here a few minutes when a tall, blonde, Miss Teen Texas looking waitress comes over. Barbara or Barbie—go figure—looks about my age. She's about as orange as a fresh coat of spray on tan, and she is undeniably flaunting herself. Her plastic surgeon must be proud. She looks like a walking Barbie doll. Her breasts don't add up with the rest of her. She resembles a stick figure with two balloons attached.

"Here you go." She hands us each a menu. As she's talking she rests one of her professionally manicured hands on Sage's shoulder. This seemingly innocent gesture causes my blood to boil because the look on her face tells me that there is nothing innocent about it.

"I'll be back in a minute to take your orders." She gives Sage a warm smile and a slight squeeze before she turns and goes. He fidgets in his chair. I use the menu to hide my anger as I scan the list of choices. The waitress shows up a few minutes later.

"Can I take your order?" she turns and asks Sage while twirling her paper-thin hair around her finger flirtatiously. Her other hand is again rested comfortably on his shoulder.

"I'll have a large Coke and a burger with everything on it, oh, and some fries. Thanks." He hands her back the menu while looking away. I wonder why he isn't giving her any eye contact.

She turns and looks at me holding her pen to her paper waiting for me to answer.

"Ditto."

"Alrighty then, I will bring y'all your drinks in a few." Barbie tousles Sage's hair as she leaves. Tramp. What is wrong with him?

"Why are you acting so weird?" I ask Sage after a long duration of time.

"What do you mean? I'm not acting weird," Sage answers, combing his fingers through his hair. Why is he lying to me? I'm about to say something when the waitress shows up with our drinks. Again, she flaunts herself and Sage doesn't even look at her.

"Why don't you see if we can find that book on Amazon while we wait? Try searching for books on haunted places in North Texas," Sage says as an obvious distraction. I don't say a word as I pull out my laptop. I'm too mad to speak to him. Before I can access the Wi-Fi signal Barbie shows back up with our food.

"Here are your orders," she says with a smile. She places a salad and a plate full of celery sticks in front of me. I grab the Coke and take a sip. Eww. The soda wasn't what I ordered either. It's diet.

"Um ... excuse me, waitress," I say, grabbing her attention, not bothering to hide the provocation in my voice. She turns around and heads back to the table.

"Is anything wrong?" she asks as she looks down at our orders.

"Yes. As a matter of fact, there is. I had ordered what he ordered." A number of dumb blonde jokes come to mind.

"Oh, I know, honey. But that stuff isn't really good for you so I brought you something healthy instead. The salad and celery are good for the figure and so is the diet soda," she states innocently.

"Could you please, just give her what she ordered?" Sage pleads, finally giving her eye contact.

"What are you insinuating?" I say, irritation overtaking my initial shock.

"Nothing, but Sage likes his women thin and you're a tad bit thick." So this is why he's refusing to look at her, she's his ex. His clingy, jealous ex.

"Oh, so naturally skinny girls can't have curves is that it? Not everyone needs a plastic surgeon, darling, and believe me no amount of injections is going to cure that flat ass of yours."

"I was just trying to help. You know what they say: 'you are what you eat.'"

Now I'm insanely furious. "Uh, hmm, so now I'm not only fat, but I'm a cow."

"You are a little full-figured," she says, dovelike.

"That's it!" I jump up from my seat and I slam my hands down on the table. She takes a step back.

"This is not happening," Sage says. I turn to look at him. He's leaning his elbows on the table, his hands cover up his face.

I turn my attention back to Barbie, she glares at me—her eyes are full of hatred and jealousy. The rest of her face fumes. I glare back. Guess the dingy act's over. I clutch onto the edge of the table. If I let go I might not be able to stop myself from flying at her and separating the extensions from her head.

"Tell me, how many scarecrow looking blondes does it take to get me my damn order correct?" I hiss through clenched teeth.

"Are you calling me dumb?"

"What was your first clue?" She narrows her eyes and stands there like a bleach blonde bimbo, not knowing what she should do next. Come on make your move; give me an excuse to smash in that empty head of yours.

We stay at a standstill until the manager comes over and breaks the standoff, which didn't take long.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"First the waitress brings me the wrong order, diet food, and then she calls me fat."

"She called me dumb," she retorts sounding like a six-year-old.

"I don't remember those words ever crossing my lips."

"Sir, could you please just have the waitress get her what she asked for?" Sage says, exasperated.

"Fine," Barbie huffs as she gathers the diet food and drink onto a tray and stomps away to the kitchen.

"I'm so sorry about this. I'll take care of it. What was your order?" the manager asks; pulling out a pen and paper.

"It was the same as his," I tell him as I scowl at Barbie from behind. "A Coke, a burger with everything on it, and a side of fries."

"I'll have another waitress bring your food by in a few. Your meals are free of charge."

"Thank you," I say.

"I'm sorry about that. We used to go out," Sage says, recapturing his voice a minute after the manager leaves. His face is flushed with embarrassment.

"Oh, really!? I had no idea."

"I didn't realize she started working here or I would have never brought you here."

"She's a pleasant one, a real charmer. How could you stand to be around her? I mean I could feel my IQ points dropping just from being near her." Sage doesn't answer and I don't care to know why. I rest my elbows on the table and I cradle my head. My hair falls down forming a veil. I take in deep breaths. I'm glad someone else is bringing my order; she'd spit in my food for sure. I hope when he said, 'I'll take care of it,' he meant, I'm going to fire her. Can this day get any worse?

After another waitress brings me my original order, I'm finally able to calm myself down. Sage hasn't said a word since his apology. Probably because he thought I might lose it. I might have. Taking deep breaths was the only way I kept from going ballistic. To think, for more than a week I was jealous of some dumb bimbo I was sure Sage was dating. Please, I'm surprised that girl can keep a job; her brain cells must have died off long ago from lack of oxygen due to all those extensions being too tight. Ahhh!

Take a deep breath, Mar; don't give her the satisfaction of ruining your time with Sage.

I take a fry and munch on it as I try to think about something to say. Sage beats me to it. "Any luck on finding that book?"

"No," I sigh. "If you hadn't just held it in your hand I would think it never existed. What do we do now?"

"We should start with the list of senior citizens. Maybe their folks told them something about the house." I brighten at the thought. I take another bite of my burger and I wash it down with some Coke.

"It is not gonna be easy. You saw how people got riled up when we just mentioned that ol' house. Imagine how these old folks are gonna react when we go to their houses and ask in person. They might just have a coronary," Sage states as he waves a French fry around before shoving it into his mouth.

"It might be tough, but it's worth a shot." I take another sip of Coke. "Give me the list of names on the page."

"Okay, the first one is Marion and Louis Walker."

I type in Marion and Louis Walker, Valentin, Texas. Two hits come up. I click on the first one; Marion Walker age twenty-eight, no, too young. I exit that screen and go back to the search engine. I click on the second link. "Found it, here write this down."

"I don't have a pen," he states. I go through my laptop bag and find one.

"Here, write on the back of the page." I tell him the location and we go down the list. Out of eight people on the list, only six are still alive. "Let's head out and see if anybody knows anything," I say.

As we walk to his truck I notice the same black sport-ute parked down the street. I debate with myself whether I should say something to Sage. I decide not to since I can't tell if anyone's inside. Furthermore, if I tell him strange people have been following me for as long as I can remember he'll stop concentrating on the ghost and start worrying about cutting all ties with my psychotic ass. I give Sage a nervous smile.

We drive on in silence as we listen to the top twenty playing on the radio. Occasionally, we'll catch each other glancing and we'll blush in unison before looking away.

"This is the place," I say as I get out of the truck. I walk around and open Marimar's door. I'm not going to let up on my manners, especially after running into my ex. What a nightmare. She steps out and I close the door behind her. Turning around I take in the place. It's a very small shabby house and there's garbage everywhere. Here's what we call white trash. In this part of town you'll see either people living in shotgun shacks or trailers. This is the part of town where I live.

"I would think that they were having a yard sale if it wasn't for all the scattered junk collecting spider webs and rust. Look at the house, it's falling apart," Marimar comments. This house is a rung or two up from my trailer. "How can anybody live like this?"

I shrug. Of course she would say that. She probably has no clue what it's like to live on the poor side of town; to scrape by with the cards you're dealt. The only nice thing I have is the old truck my dad left me in his will and some other little keepsakes of his. Now, there's no way I'm going to let her know where I live.

We take the dirt path up to the house.

"I'll do the talking," I say to Marimar. "Since you seem to have a knack for getting folks steamed up." She gives me a fake toothless smile.

I can hear dogs barking inside and they don't sound too friendly. I hesitate before knocking. Hopefully, they'll react differently than the people in the library. If not, I might have a dog chewing on my ass. Well, there is only one way to find out. I knock on the door. I wait a few seconds, but I don't hear anybody. I knock again a little louder. This time I hear some signs of human life inside the house.

"Just a second!" an elderly woman hollers. I see the woman who I assume the voice belongs to look through the window shade on the other side of the door. Several latches unlatch, the door unlocks, and then finally the door is pried open despite its rusty hinges. An old man in a grimy undershirt and tattered jeans guards the door. He's not exactly Mister Jolly what with his smallish black eyes, yellow teeth stained black by his tobacco, greasy hair hanging around his shoulders, and beer belly. The guy is a foot shorter than me. The woman whose voice I had heard is looking over his shoulder. She has sky-blue eyes and gray hair with a few strands of white interwoven in a messy ponytail. She seems nice enough.

"Whatcha young'uns want?" the man asks gruffly.

"Evening, sir. I'm Sage and this is Marimar," I reply, indicating with my hand.

"Hi," Marimar says, waving slightly. I put out my hand for him to shake, but he doesn't make any movement and instead stares back at me blankly, still chewing his tobacco. This is going to be harder than I thought.

"Sir, is this Mr. Louis and Mrs. Marion's house?" Please say no. Please say no.

"I'm Marion and she's Louise," Marion says, first jabbing his thumb at himself, and then at Louise. Oops, if I had any chance of getting any information it's gone now.

"And what a lovely name it is," Marimar says, trying to recover the little civility we might have lost. He glares at me with cold eyes. I shift uncomfortably to the side. I clear my throat before speaking.

"Anyhow, we wanted to ask y'all a few questions about the old blacksmith's house."

"We don't know nothing, and if y'all don't get yer scrawny asses off my property pronto I'll sic the dogs on ya. Y'all must be Devil worshipers!" he snaps, black spit flies onto my face. Gross! I resist the urge to wipe it away.

"Get on outta here!" he gargles, before spitting the tobacco at my feet. It splatters onto my worn boots; bastard.

"I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you. We'll be on our way. Come on, Mar. Let's go." I grab her arm and we step down from the porch.

She turns and stops short.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Louis, Mrs. Marion." To top it off, she smirks. Oh, crap! Now she's done it.

"Badger! Bull!"

"Run!" I say, grabbing her from the elbow and hauling our asses to the truck. She runs to her side and I turn to mine. I can hear dogs chasing after us, barking savagely. They're gaining on us. I quickly unlock the doors.

"Get in!" I shout. We jump into the truck and slam the doors shut. The dogs have just now reached us. I about jump out of my skin as a pair of mangy hound dogs scratch at my window, snarling and foaming at the mouth. I start the truck and I drive as fast as I can to get out of there. As I am driving I keep one hand on the wheel and use the other to wipe away the tobacco spit off my face with my shirt sleeve.

"You know, we're going to need to work on your southern cordiality. That guy was packing!"

"Packing?"

"Carrying."

"Carrying what?"

"What!?" I turn and look at her, flabbergasted. "Jesus H., a gun! He could have killed us." I go back to staring at the road.

"But—"

"I'm not finished. At this rate we're not gonna get anywhere if you're not civil." I glance at her only to find she looks guiltless. Her eyes are sparkling in amusement, her lips are twitching at the corners—she sucks in her lips in an effort to suppress a laugh.

"Mmm-hmm," she nods, looking me in the eyes. Her childish antics are becoming even more aggravating. And dangerous. There must be something about the expression on my face she finds humorous because a wide grin sweeps across hers.

"It's not funny."

"It kind of is."

"No, it ain't. You could have gotten us mauled, or worse, one of us could have gotten shot! It's legal to shoot someone that's trespassing on your property here in Texas. What the hell possessed you to call him Mrs. Marion?"

"Okay, I admit that was pretty stupid, but I couldn't help myself. I mean what kind of a name is Marion?" she giggles. I grin at the thought. "Besides, it wasn't like I was the only one who offended him. The first thing you did was call him Mrs. Marion."

"Fine, fine, but what about earlier when you were being sarcastic and you said, 'Thank you, for your Southern hospitality,' or when you said aloud that you, 'hate this stupid town!'? Things like that'll get us into hot water."

"Okay, I get it. I'll try to keep my temper in check."

"Thank you."

"Back to business, we have two down and we now have four to go."

"Who's next?"

"Let's see ... Shiloh and Tootsie Juniper. They live only a couple miles out."

We're at the last name on our list and we still haven't found out any information. We've had doors slammed in our faces, been threatened, called Satanist or demonic, or we'd find that the resident is not home or that they'd recently moved. One recently bought the farm. We are both tuckered out at this point. One name left. This lady is our last chance. The orderly at the front desk of the nursing home escorts us to her room. I knock on her door.

"Loretta, you have visitors," the lady from the nursing home says.

"Come in," a feeble voice calls out. "I'd open the door for ya, but these old bones ain't like they used to be."

The lady opens the door letting us in. We see a frail old lady seated in a rocking chair covered with a quilt, she looks like she could keel over at any time. Mar read online that she's a centenarian. She's our best chance if we want to find out some information, if her mind hasn't gone that is. Her skin is very wrinkled and it sags off of her bones that are protruding from underneath. Her hair is white like all the color has drained from it. She has pale-blue friendly eyes and she's wearing a warm smile. She's sitting by the open window; the sunlight streaming in almost makes her appear iridescent. She could be the model for the saying "one foot in the grave."

"Good evening, Mrs. Azalea."

"Evening, I reckon I don't know y'all?"

"No, you don't know us."

"Good," hee-hee, "I thought y'all might be relatives and I'd gone and lost my mind."

"Actually we came here to ask you some questions if you don't mind, ma'am."

"What about?"

"We wanted to know if you know anything or heard anything about the history of the ol' blacksmith's house."

"Oh," she says. "I reckon everybody knows that there house. It's haunted ya know. Well, what are you two dilly-dallying over there for? Take a seat on the bed you two and I'll answer yer questions as best as I can. Sit-sit."

"All right, Loretta, I'm going to leave this door propped open and I'll be down the hall if you need me," the nursing home lady says.

"Bye, sugar."

"Try to make it brief you two, we don't want to wear her out," the lady whispers so only Mar and I can hear.

"Come on now," Loretta says. Mar takes the lead and sits down on the edge of the bed closest to her. I sit beside Mar. "So, why do you young'uns wanna know about that ol' house there anyhow?"

"I live there," Mar replies. Loretta's eyes open wide with fear and her jaw drops. She doesn't breath. Oh, no. One hand clutches at the quilt over her heart. Crap! I think she's having a heart attack. She takes a sharp inhale. Whew!

Loretta reaches for Mar's hand. "Sugar, you need to clear out of that ol' house. It ain't safe. Bad things happen there." Loretta's lips purse in fear. Her free hand shakes as she points to some pills on a TV tray beside a glass of water. I hand them both to her. She removes her hand from on top of Mar's and pops the pills with one hand and takes a sip of water with the other.

Mar waits for her to finish swallowing before she responds, "I know. That's why I need to know what happened in the house to get rid of whatever is in it."

"I'll tell y'all, but I reckon it ain't gonna do y'all any good."

"Any little bit of information is helpful. Please, continue," Mar says.

"Alrighty then," she breathes, "but keep in mind that what I'm about to tell y'all is a secret that folks here aren't keen on telling. No outsider ain't ever heard what y'all are about to hear. You two will be the first and the last. You can't breathe a word of it to anyone. Y'all hear?"

"We promise," we both firmly answer.

"Then get settled 'cause I'm fixing to tell y'all a tale. When I was a young'un that ol' house where you live now was already abandoned. My mother told me of the family that built the place, the Lumpkins. They were the wealthiest landowners in town. The Lumpkins were major givers to the town and the church ... Mr. Lumpkins was the son of a wealthy man. He had four brothers and each of them learned a trade to contribute to the family's wealth. One was a doctor, the other a lawyer, and another a banker. Y'all know what the fourth done learned?"

"Blacksmithing," Mar and I simultaneously answer. I lean forward in my seat waiting for her to continue. Every few seconds she stops to take a breather, or she smacks her lips like her mouth is dry, but she doesn't take a sip of water.

"Yes'm, and his pa wasn't too keen on it, it being a 'common man's' trade. His father said he would lose his inheritance if he didn't find a career worthy of the family name, but before he could the Civil War broke out. The brothers took up their arms and marched into battle. All of them died 'cept for the blacksmith. Now, oh ... where was I?"

"All of the brothers died 'cept for the blacksmith." Jeez, if she doesn't get on with it, she might up and die before we're through.

"Bless you, that's right. Now them boys were bachelors when they up and died. So all of their money and property now belonged to their brother. He sold all the land and all the property. He up and took the money and moved to this here town where he started up his shop and settled down and had a family. His wife bore him one child, a boy. Mind you, he plays an important part in this whole story. The boy was a very nice child, as sweet as can be. All the boys liked him and all the girls were sweet on him, my own mother was not an exception. One day, though, he got laid up and he stopped going to school or to church or anyplace. Nobody was allowed to see him, 'cause everyone was afraid of getting sick." She takes a long draw from her glass.

"This lasted for quite a spell. One day the Lumpkins' barn done caught on fire. The neighboring folks came to help put it out since them Lumpkins was nowhere to be found. Well, when the fire was done and put out, the good town folks went and took a look through the ashes of the barn ..." She takes a deep breath before continuing, "And they found the charred remains of the boy chained to a post. He was burnt alive.

"The Lumpkins were never seen hide nor hair of again." Loretta's eyes begin to well up and her lips begin to quiver. "That poor, poor little 'un."

"Would you like some more water?" Mar asks.

"Yes please, sugar." Mar hands her the drink. She takes a long draw.

Patience, I remind myself.

"So his parents murdered him?"

"Yes'm."

"How old was he?" I ask.

"Six."

"Do you happen to remember what the little boy's name was?"

"Umm ... lemme see ... I-I reckon it was ... I'm sorry, I think it plumb slipped my mind."

"Well, thank you for your time, ma'am. You were the only one that would tell us the history of the house," I say.

"I'd imagine. It was a tragedy. You see, most folks see that incident as an embarrassment. People were proud of this here town and when that happened it rocked the whole community. Other more superstitious people believe that the house is haunted and that the mere mention of the spirit will cause bad things to happen to them. Zealous members of the community will call you crazy or demonic for even having such a notion."

"Earlier, you were saying that it's dangerous for me to stay there. What did you mean by that? Have you heard any stories or circulated rumors by chance?" Mar asks.

"Plenty, but it was my own experience that caused me to believe the house was haunted. When I was a young'un I used to mess around with the boys, which led me to get into many a scrape. Little did I know that one day I would get myself into the worst scrape of my life. Now as I was saying, one day one of my playmates was pestering me to enter the house and to spend an hour in the boys' room. Messing around with the boys made me wild, so being the little tomboy I was, I accepted. Like I had said, I entered the house. When I came out I was different. I was found by a neighbor of the Lumpkins house, a farmer. The farmer heard me hollering and had come to take a look. When he found me I was stark-naked, battered, and pale as the moon from loss of blood rushing from the lashes blanketing my poor person. My mind was jumbled up. The farmer said I'd been rambling on about some nonsense." Her voice quivers and she brings her fingertips to her temples and rubs them like she's trying to relieve a migraine.

"Wait, what about the kids you were with? They just left you?" I ask.

"They did what any young'un would do, run. I don't blame 'em for leaving. I reckon I might've done the same too if it were me. Our folks forbade us from going near that house, and to disobey meant a sound whipping. Now, many a member of the community had seen me leave school with them boys. So after being questioned they finally 'fessed up to what we had done. They said that when they'd heard me hollering they just clean run off. To this day, I still don't have any recollection of what happened. The doctor said I had amnesia. Everything I have told you I got from a friend. It's 'cause of me that nobody ever enters that ol' house." Her fingertips again return to her temples like she's trying to suppress some bad memory. Something that she wants to keep to herself, something she's hiding.

"But," she laughs dryly, "there comes a time that every wild colt must be tamed, and after that day I was as tamed as a kitten."

Loretta looked spent after telling us her story. We thanked her for her hospitality and asked if we could stop by sometime to see if she remembered anything else after we left. She said she would love to see us again, that we made such a lovely young couple. Couple? Are we a couple?

"That poor lady," Marimar comments after I get into the driver's seat.

"Yeah."

We sit in silence for a few moments.

"I'm sorry for wasting your time, Sage. I really appreciate you helping me."

"You didn't waste my time. Look on the bright side, at least now we know who's been haunting you."

"Yeah, that helps. What does it matter if it's the little boy or if it's not the little boy who's out to kill me? We are still right back to where we started. There isn't any point of searching for any more information now, because boy or no boy, someone is still out for cold blood, my blood." I flinch at the thought.

"Did you notice she was acting kind of strange like she was hiding something?"

"I picked that up but I didn't want to press her any harder."

"I wonder what it was."

"Yeah." She pauses for a second. "Want to hear something funny?" Mar asks after a short pause.

"Sure, what?"

"Ever since I moved into my house I've been having these strange dreams."

"Dreams?"

"Yeah, dreams. Within these dreams I would feel myself being burnt alive and I could smell my flesh burning and I would see flames consuming me."

"Huh ... are you sure you didn't watch something or read something ...?"

"No."

"Hmm. You know I think I heard something on TV about how ghosts will sometimes show you what happened to them through dreams. Is there anything else that you might recall?" She thinks about it for a moment.

"No, that's it." Doggonit. I start the truck and I pull out of the parking lot. Mar reaches over and turns down the volume.

"Sorry, I have to call Mama." She pulls out her cell phone and dials the number. "Mama, we are heading home right now." Pause. "Yeah, we've been reading." That's her cover. You'd think her ma would have caught on by now. They must really trust her. "Mmm-hmm, we picked something up to eat. Okay, love you too, bye." She hangs up the phone and turns up the volume on the radio.

"What time is it?" I ask before she puts her phone back in her pocket. The clock in the truck is busted and I don't wear my wristwatch because it's one of those cheap ass watches, the kind that kids might buy. I had a nice watch. It had belonged to my dad, but last week I woke up and it was missing from my wrist. That same evening my Mom arrived home with some new narcotics. To add insult to injury, she gave me ten dollars back and said I should go see a movie, her treat.

"Six o-two."

"Damn, it's six already?"

"Yep."

"What time does your dad get home?"

"Six-thirty." We're thirty minutes away from her house; maybe if I speed a little I just might make it to her house before her dad gets there. I could make my good-bye brief and I could be out of there before her dad knows that I was even there. I'll tell Mar that I forgot that I have to do something to explain speeding. I know, I'll say I have to cook dinner. That sounds believable enough. I hit the gas. The speed limit is sixty, but if I go seventy and I take some back roads I might be able to scrape by without being pulled over.

"What's the hurry?"

"I have to get home. I'm making dinner tonight and Bubba hates it when dinner's late."

"Well, I'd hate for you to fall off the face of the earth for another two weeks. Just try not to get us pulled over, okay?"

"That's why I'm taking some back roads, cops hardly ever use these. I take 'em all the time when I'm in a hurry to get home."

"Gotcha. So what kind of work does your step-dad do?"

"He works at a bar." Where he gets drunk every night.

"Does your Mom work?"

"She works part-time at the drugstore and as a waitress at Bubba's bar." Neither pays much but both keep her in drugs.

"You never did tell me what happened to your biological father? You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

What's with the sudden interest in my family?

"No, that's all right. My dad died in a car accident when I was eleven. My Mom got remarried a year later, we were in a financial fix and Bubba seemed nice enough, so now he's part of our life."

"What do you mean by seemed?"

Jeez, what's with the twenty questions all of a sudden?

"I mean she was lonely and desperate and she just happened to meet him when she needed someone the most, so ..."

"Did you like him? I mean, when you first met him?"

"No, not really." It's kinda hard to like someone when your Mom is coming home with bruises.

"And you let your mom still marry him?"

"I didn't really have a choice. One night she came home with Bubba and announced that they were married."

I can still hear her voice ...

Mom: "Surprise, I got you a new daddy!"

I stood there in shock.

Bubba: "Those aren't my kids," he grumbled.

Mom: "Aren't you going to congratulate us?"

Bubba: "Do as yer told boy or I'll put a world of hurt on ya." His favorite words.

The truck is silent for a couple of minutes. My last answer seemed to render Mar speechless.

"What time is it now?" I ask before pulling up into the driveway.

"Six-twenty."

I have ten minutes to get in and get out. I have enough time. I shut off the engine and I take my keys out of the ignition. We unbuckle our seatbelts and I get out of the truck and I briskly walk over to open Mar's side. My heart is beating rapidly at the thought of her dad being early. She gets out at a leisurely pace. I tap my foot impatiently, when she becomes aware of it she hurries. I walk her briskly to the door. Mrs. Utterson opens the door with Mar's little sister hugging her side, their dog runs over and tugs on my pant leg. I reach down and give him a pat on the head. Mar pulls him off of me and gives him a kiss.

"Bye, Mar. Thanks for going out with me, I had a great time." Most of what I said is true. I got to admit, I like her attitude. I've dated plenty of girls and none of them have gotten me into as much trouble as she has. And I thought I was going to be a bad influence. I catch her free hand and give it a kiss. If her Mom wasn't there I'd probably try for a real one; maybe. "Evening, Mrs. Utterson. Marisol."

"You're leaving so soon? Why don't you stay for dinner?" Mrs. Utterson asks.

"I'm sorry—"

"He can't, he's in charge of making dinner."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Oh," her mom says disappointed. "Well, I made plenty of food, why don't you take some home with you? Come in while I go get it for you."

"Mawimaw," her little sister says, latching on to her waist.

"Ma'am ..." Mar's Mom has already turned and left. Goddamnit.

"Hi, Sunshine," Mar says, hugging her sister back and giving her a kiss on the head. "Sorry, Mama doesn't take no for an answer," Mar says, redirecting her attention to me.

"I've noticed," I say with a light laugh. Crap. This might take longer than I thought.

"Come in," Mar says. "Okay, okay, Sunshine," Mar laughs as her little sister tows her to the living room. "Guess we're going in here," Mar says over her shoulder to me as I follow behind. Mar places her laptop bag on the coffee table before turning to me. "Take a seat," Mar says as she sits down on the couch, placing Marisol on her lap. I sit down beside them.

"Don't sit thewe, you awe going to make Geowge angwy."

"Oh, sorry," I say as I get back up.

"You made Geowge angwy, say you awe sowwy."

"I'm sorry, George." She obviously doesn't want to share her sister.

"Sorry," Mar whispers to me.

"It's all right," I respond. "How old is George?" I ask Marisol, making conversation.

"Six."

"Marisol!" her mom calls.

"Coming! Come on, Geowge." She slips off of Marimar and runs out the door.

"How long has she had this imaginary friend?"

"Hmm, since we moved here."

We both give each other a look of total understanding mixed with fear.

"It's George," she breathes.

Holly shit! How did I not think of that? How could I be so clueless?

"Your little sister makes a new invisible friend and it never crosses your mind that he's your bushwhacker?" We seem to be on the same page.

"She's had an imaginary friend since before we moved here. It just never occurred to me that George was more than imaginary." That means she was telling the truth! It was George who had pushed me off the couch. Poor Sunshine, I never believed her. Poor me. All of a sudden I'm wishing it was her who had pushed me.

"I'm not crazy," I laugh. A wave of relief washes over me. Oh, I'm dead. The thought makes me laugh a little too wildly. Tears are streaming down my face. I'm going to die, I whimper inwardly, more tears are flowing. Now I'm both laughing and crying hysterically.

"You could've fooled me," Sage jokes before pensively pacing back and forth. Even he thinks that I'm marked for death. Sage comes to a sudden stop in front of me. "Something doesn't sit right with me. If the ghost is after you then why did it make friends with Marisol?" His question brings me up short, snapping me back to reality. The tears stop streaming down my face and I stop laughing.

Why is he friends with her? If he wants her then why does he want me? What does he want her for? To drive me nuts? Why hasn't he ever done her any harm? Why me? How could I be so conceited? While I was having my "pity party" I hadn't even considered the danger Marisol is in. Sage had to point it out to me. I'm pathetic. She's my flesh and blood.

"I don't know," I gasp, "but it can't be for something good."

I hear Mama's footsteps in the hall and my Sunshine's light footsteps trailing from behind. I quickly wipe my tears away with the back of my hand and I compose myself. We both sit down quickly and we pretend that we are talking about something.

"I hope you like lasagna," Mama says as she comes over toward us. Sage stands up in respect. She hands him a large container full of food. "I'm going to need that container back."

"All right, ma'am. Thank you kindly."

"I hope your parents don't mind you being late."

"Oh, I don't think that they'll mind seeing as I brought supper home."

"Good, good."

"Oh, um, thank you again, ma'am," Sage says with a nod. "Mar, Marisol."

"I'll walk you out," I say. Mama and Marisol don't follow.

"Thanks for the help, Sage. I really appreciate it."

"No problem. I'm just sorry that we couldn't find anything more useful. Call me if something happens, all right? I'll be over to help."

"Will do."

"Good luck." He reaches down and brushes my cheek with his lips as he rushes to escape. I close the door before he turns back, in fear that he'll notice me blushing. I lock the door and am about to head up to my room when Mama stops me in my tracks.

"He kissed you!" Mama exclaims ecstatically. Nothing gets by Mama.

"Eww," Marisol says, wrinkling up her nose in disgust, before walking away.

"It was only on the cheek."

"Still, it won't be long now until you get a real kiss."

"Yeah, okay, Mama."

Mama's comment about Sage kissing me pulls me back to today's earlier conversation with Loretta when she said we made a cute couple. Neither of us bothered to correct her. I was still processing everything she told us to care and Sage didn't seem to mind. In fact, now that I think of it, he seemed rather pleased. My heart sinks. I can't deal with that, not right now. My only priority right now is to get rid of George, and how can that work if I'm trying to balance a boyfriend as well? What would happen if we did become a couple and it doesn't work out? He's the only one who believes me. What would I do then? I send the thought into a locked drawer, put away for another day, deep into my unconscious. I have more important things to worry about than a boy; for instance, now that I know that the ghost is actually George what am I going to do about it?

I got it!

A shiver shimmies down my spine the moment I walk into my bedroom. He's in here all right. For once I'm glad. I want to lay everything out on the table and settle this once and for all. I block the door so that it's forced to stay open; even though I am consciously aware that it wouldn't stop him from closing it if he wanted to. Cautiously, I creep over to Marisol who is sitting on the bed, her feet dangling from the edge—this unnerves me because if it were my feet dangling from the bed I'd most definitely be dragged under by my ankles—her dolls encircle her.

"Want to play?" Marisol asks, taking note of my presence.

"Actually, I was wondering where George is?" I ask, as I hop onto the bed and I press myself against the wall. I settle down on my side of the bed since it's closest to the door. If this gets too intense, I'll grab Marisol and bail. I wrap my arms around my legs, I interlock my fingers—this position might slightly increase my chances of not being dragged off the bed by my feet, theoretically. I'm hoping that theory won't be put to the test.

"Sitting ovew thewe," she states, as she points to the rocking horse. Sitting on the rocking horse is Socks the sock monkey. The horse begins swaying back and forth on its own.

That's not creepy at all.

"Geowge wants to know why." The horse gains a little more momentum. I resist the urge to grab my sister and run screaming from the room.

I clear my throat. "I want to talk to you. Alone."

"Geowge says, 'the giwl stays.'" With all my heart I wish she didn't have to be present for this if things do turn ugly. But I have no choice. I need an interpreter. I nod my head.

"I have a few questions for him."

The rocking horse is swaying a little harder. The stuffy still sticks to the seat like it's glued to it.

"He has a question foe you."

I try to clear my throat to hide the fear and panic settling inside of me. "Really?" I ask sheepishly, stunned.

The chair suddenly starts rocking slowly.

"Sunshine, what's he saying?"

"Geowge asks, 'whewe did you go with that boy?"'

I really have a sudden urge to pee.

"To the library," I half lie.

The rocking chair starts going like crazy, supernaturally almost a blur, but the monkey stays put.

"I can't wepeat what he's saying. I'll get in twouble."

"Just this once, Sunshine, repeat everything he says and I won't let you get in trouble. Say everything," I repeat for emphasis.

"He says, 'you awe a fucking liaw. Y'all wewe digging into shit that oughta be left alone.'"

"How did you—?"

"Mmm-hmm, I'll tell hew. Geowge says, 'I'm dead, not blind, ya stupid bitch! I told ya I don't like liaws. Yew awe gonna pay for this!"

"What do you want with me?"

"'Evewything,'" Marisol informs me. "No, Geowge! Leave hew alone! Don't huwt hew!"

The rocking chair suddenly stops.

"Marisol, run, go and get Mama," I whisper. George is stomping right toward us.

"No, Maw," she whimpers; clinging to my arm.

A Barbie doll lying on the floor has its head crushed in. I can't help but imagine that being mine.

"Marisol, go get Mama, now!" I manage to shove her away from me with one arm. "Run!"

Marisol runs for the door, she's about to reach it when the door block I created flies across the room and the door slams shut. Marisol jiggles the doorknob, but it doesn't budge. She bangs on the door while wailing. The footsteps change direction. He's heading right toward her. "No, Geowge! Geowge, no!" Marisol pleads, her back pressed against the door.

Shit, shit, shit. I leap off the bed and land a foot away from Marisol, blocking his path. Over my dead body; I stand in place, my body tense. I grit my teeth in an attempt to keep them from chattering.

"Aaahhh!" I screech. I'm hit with such tremendous force on my legs that I'm knocked off my feet and fall forward onto my stomach. I land, palms first, preventing my face from suffering damage from the hardwood floor. I cry out in pain causing Marisol to let out a high-pitched shriek like I've never heard before. I am rolled over. I try to get up but I am forced back down. My legs are being crushed under George's weight.

"I said the girl stays. I want her to see this," says a disembodied voice which sounds like an angry little boy throwing a tantrum. I try to scream. I feel a hand clamp down hard on my mouth. "Shhh. Ya wouldn't want yer Mommy to hear. That's a good girl. Be nice and quiet. Don't try and resist, you'll only make this worse on yerself."

I hear Trevor come bounding up the stairs, stopping at our door. He scratches at the door, barking like crazy.

"Trevor, move!" I hear Mama yell.

"Mama, hel—Aaahhh!" I howl in pain. My arm is on fire, blood trickles down it. A bite mark is visible.

"Marimar?" Mama throws open the door and at once all traces of George are gone. "What happened?" Mama gets down on her knees beside me and examines my arm. She gasps. "Marisol Catalina Utterson, did you bite your sister?"

"No, Mama—" I try to say.

"Don't you dare cover for her. Marisol, why did you bite your sister?"

"Damn it, Mama, look." I show her that the bite mark, although a child's, has front teeth marks. "See, Marisol is missing her front teeth. It was George."

"George?"

"It's like I've been trying to tell you, a ghost is out to get me. Look what he did to my arm."

"Let's go downstairs, and you can tell me what happened while I disinfect your wound," Mama mumbles, lost in thought.

I run my arm under the faucet in the downstairs bathroom. The cold water soothes the sting, almost to numbing. As I wash away the blood, Mama is getting the peroxide to disinfect my bite mark. She's rummaging through the medicine cabinet. Marisol is sitting on the seat, still crying softly.

I grab a towel from the rack located by the sink and I cautiously dry my arm; making sure that I don't apply too much pressure. With a cotton ball, Mama applies the peroxide. I wince as the peroxide makes contact with my wound—foam forms on my flesh as it disinfects it.

"Okay, now calmly explain what happened," Mama says, visibly disturbed. Her face is drained of all color. Her hand is shaking as she applies more peroxide. If I'm going to tell her then I'm going to have to tell her everything, even the part where Sage and I were sneaking off all over town for the so-needed proof. It doesn't matter now, I was right and it is basically their fault I had to lie. They didn't believe me in the first place. Still, I'm willing to risk getting into trouble. What's worse, getting grounded or getting attacked by George?

"So, there is no possible way that you can dismiss what happened. No way. This is no coincidence," I say after relaying my story.

"Ow!" I yelp as Mama pours betadine.

"I'm sorry, Mamí, but we have to completely disinfect it." I grit my teeth and I wait until the pain eases before I go on. "Believe me now?" I say, exasperated from my tale.

"Yes, but it's not me you're going to have to worry about, it's Papa. He will be home in a few minutes and we will have to explain this to him together."

"I'm sure he can't brush this aside."

Of course I was wrong. When Papa came home the first thing we did was tell him what happened in the bedroom—with a few exclusions regarding Sage—and he just shook it off.

"How do you not believe me?" I ask, angrily.

"Because it's not possible," Papa answers, stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Oh, you got me, we made it all up. I even had Marisol bite me for a special effect," I retort, causing Papa to get red in the face.

"You know the girls wouldn't lie to us," Mama calmly responds, pretending that I hadn't spoken.

"I'm not saying they did, Ana. All I'm saying is that ghosts aren't real. There is no heaven and there is no hell. When we die, we're dead, we're worm food, and we no longer exist."

"But, Papa, who says there isn't another alternative? Scientists can't even explain away everything. They can't even agree on how the world was created, how we were created. The thing is we don't know all the answers. Anything is possible."

"So now you're religious all of a sudden?"

"I'm just saying that maybe there is a higher power, that God does exist, and so do spirits."

"Let me ask you something."

"Ask away."

"What does your boyfriend believe in?"

"Excuse me?"

"What does your—?"

"Why does that matter?"

"Can't you just answer the question?"

"He doesn't have a religion ..."

"So he doesn't believe in God?"

Lie, lie, lie.

"He does." Damn it, why didn't I lie?

"Ah-hah! I knew it."

"He has nothing to do with this."

"Oh, he doesn't?"

"Exactly."

"I knew that boy was a bad—"

"—influence? I'm not being influenced by anybody! You know what, scratch that, I have been influenced by George!" I show him my arm; I unwrap the bandage so that he can see the teeth marks. He brushes his fingers along it.

"Ow! I tell you it hurts and you touch it?"

"Sorry, but I don't know what to tell you. I don't see a bite mark. All I see is a red scab."

"What? No way. No freaking way!" In place of the individual teeth marks, is a crescent-shaped scab which looks like it could be a bite mark, but could have been made by something else.

"What do you guys want to eat?" Papa asks as he parks the car close to the eatery so that we can keep an eye on it and Trevor. Trevor is going to stay in the van with the windows up and the AC running, Papa fixed the AC the day after he started work since he couldn't take the heat anymore, figures. Papa's taking us out for a treat to get our minds off of home. It's Papa's way of humoring us.

"A cheeseburger, small fries, and a chocolate shake."

"Me too please," Marisol says.

"I'm getting the same, except I want a strawberry shake," Mama replies, getting in line.

"Why don't you guys go find us a seat?" Papa suggests. "Wait," Papa says, stopping me. "Actually, I'm going to need you to order what you want on the burger, I'm not going to remember."

The guy in front of us steps aside for us to order.

"How can I—Mar?"

"Sage, you work here?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Funny, I was just going to call you."

"Ahem," Papa clears his throat.

"Evening, sir."

"Sam."

"It's Sage, Papa," I whisper.

"Whatever," Papa answers curtly, discarding the rules of proper etiquette. "I'd like to order now if you don't mind."

"Of course, go ahead, sir." Sage takes his order.

"What time is your break?" I ask. A small line is beginning to form.

"It's not for like another two hours."

"Bummer."

"Why?"

"It can wait."

Sage comes around to bring us our meal a couple minutes later. "Here are your orders."

"Sage, I didn't know you worked here. How are you?" Mama asks.

"Hi." Marisol gives a slight wave.

"I'm fine, ma'am—"

"Sage, it escalated," I cut in.

"Don't you think we might wanna talk about this in private?" he whispers as he hands me my milkshake.

"They know."

They all give a terse nod.

"Turns out Casper the friendly ghost isn't all that friendly," Papa chimes in; not taking any of this seriously.

"Everything?" Sage asks a little nervously.

"Mostly." Papa shoots me a look and I just shrug my shoulders. "Mama will tell you later."

"Sage!" a voice behind us calls out.

"Be there in a minute."

"Go, we don't want you to get into trouble," Mama says.

"I need you to come over later so we can talk. What time are you off?"

"I'm off at eleven, I'll be there A.S.A.P."

Timidly, I step out of the van toward the house. My feet feel like cinder blocks, the only thing guiding me toward the house is Mama pushing on my back forcing me to move forward. Papa pulls out his keys and opens the front door.

"What the fuck?" Papa half says under his breath as we enter the hallway. Someone had a tantrum. A family portrait is smashed on the floor just inside the door alongside the antique vase; all the fresh flowers that were in it are dried up and dead. How is that even possible? "Quick, quietly go back to the van. I think we've been burglarized."

"No, Papa. Look," I say pointing toward the wall.

Blood-colored, child-sized handprints are visible along the walls around three feet high. Ha! Finally real evidence! Marisol walks into the house and over to the wall before Papa can stop her. She places her hands next to the handprints. The prints on the wall are larger than hers.

"Do you believe me now?" I ask Papa. He doesn't answer but walks over to where Marisol is at to get a better look. I repeat the question. The only answer he can muster up is a dull, Uh-huh.

They wait for me as I close the front door; locking us in this house of horrors. We then carefully make our way into the living room, being extra careful not to step on any shards of glass. The living room seems to have taken the worst of the hit. Stuffing is scattered across the room, the majority dislodged from the torn couch cushions. The couch has been knocked over. The curtains give the impression of having been put through a tree chipper. The photos that once hung on the walls are littered across the floor with every glass cover bashed in. The flat screen TV looks like someone took a bat to it; now it's personal. Sticking out from under the couch is one of the coffee table's legs, lying underneath that is a corner of rough gray nylon. No, no, no. I grasp the armrest of the couch and I hoist it off of the table. I swiftly flip over the table. My laptop! My laptop bag has been annihilated; torn to shreds. I rub the loose fabric between my fingers. "Where's my laptop?"

"I'm sorry, Mar. It's got to be around here somewhere," Papa says, his hand on my shoulder. He gives my shoulder a gentle pat before walking away. I throw down the shredded fabric, not wanting to look at it for a moment longer. That's when I see my laptop poking out from under the couch. Sliding it out, the first thing I notice is a big crack in one of the corners. Testing to see if it's still alive I open it up and push the power button—ironically, saying a little prayer. It works! Thank God.

"It's getting late and everybody's exhausted, so there is no point of cleaning the whole house tonight. We better just scavenge up some blankets, some flashlights, et cetera and camp out here in the living room together," Papa announces.

The four of us get to work. The buddy system has been initiated, i.e. either Mama or Papa have to accompany Marisol or me at all times. Even if you have to use the bathroom you must bring a buddy; that part is a little awkward, but hey it's a lot more awkward to be found half-drowned in a bathtub naked. As we walk through the house it looks like a robbery had taken place; every drawer is open, beds are turned over, and clothes are thrown carelessly all over the bedrooms.

Minutes later ... we head back into the living room with our necessities. On my way back down the hall carrying supplies, I stub my toe. I look down and see an open can of red paint. "At least that's not blood on the walls," I tell Mama.

We were able to scavenge a few flashlights, batteries, and bedding. Piling them in a corner, we get to work clearing the debris so that the living room will actually be inhabitable again.

Piles upon piles of trash are gathered into heavy duty garbage bags outside and what we couldn't fit into the trash bins are encircled around them. Our mattresses Papa carried down are strewn across the now clean and swept floor. Marisol is sleeping on the couch. I'm just counting the minutes until Sage gets off work. He should be off in an hour.

Mama and Papa are still cleaning up as I fire up my laptop and search for information. I type in: how to get rid of an angry ghost. About six million two hundred seventy thousand results pop up. Great, this may take a while.

The first site I look up explains it is all about the negative energy that has been brought into the house. Really, this is all my fault; next. Okay, this one says to meditate on a positive energy force field surrounding the house. Yeah, and Papa's gonna have us all sit in a circle, holding hands, singing Kumbaya and we'll watch George, the unholy ghost, skip into the bright light. Get real. Maybe there is something to the negativity theory. No, what about the previous family. I'm really getting flustered trying to figure out what we're going to do about George. We can't just sleep in the living room together forever. We have to do something. More research. Number one answer: Move! Not an option. Other solutions: call a priest, pastor, Wiccan, medicine man, psychic, medium, use crystals, sea salt, holy water, smudge different herbs, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera ... Aaaaaahhhhh! I'm not feeling very positive. Where is Sage?

An hour or so later we hear a knock on the door causing everybody to jump. I check the time on my phone, it's eleven-thirty. That must be Sage. We all get up and go to the front door. Papa looks out the eyehole, his fingers speedily unlock the door.

"Evening, sir, ma'am. Mar," Sage says, politely.

"Come on in," Mama says. Sage lets out a low whistle as he sees the handprints on the wall.

"If you think that's bad wait until you hear about what happened to me." I fill him in.

"What's with you and crawling under people's skin? Even the dead," he lightly laughs. His remark doesn't deserve a response. "Luckily for you, I found some people that might help y'all out. I was listening to a paranormal talk show on my way over here and I just so happened to get a website for a paranormal group that travels all over Texas."

"That's great, Sage," I say as I clap my hands together. My slight irritation passes. I am so happy I could kiss him. I would if Papa wasn't in the room. This buddy system thing is beginning to backfire.

"You should have led with that, buddy," Papa says, slapping him hard on the back.

"We appreciate you helping us," Mama says.

"I'm glad that I can help, ma'am."

Back in the living room, we gather around the laptop like cavemen to a fire; eager to understand and curious to find out what we're dealing with.

"Time to get down to business," Sage says, closing a tab that I had left open that was explaining how ghosts gain power from fear. I guess George is getting pretty powerful.

"So, Sage, do your parents mind you being here?" Mama asks with her motherly concern.

"Definitely not, I already had permission to spend the night at my friend Cameron's house. My folks really don't keep track of me unless they need me to watch my little bro, and Oscar is sleeping at a friend's house. Sometimes he stays there two or three nights in a row. My folks are probably glad that they have the house to themselves for a spell."

"In that case, then why don't you stay the night over here?" Mama offers. "We have a packet of unused toothbrushes and Wally would be more than happy to let you borrow some of his pajamas. The couch may be too small for you, but there's a spare sleeping bag upstairs in our closet and we have plenty of pillows. Right, Wally?" I wait eagerly for Papa's response. This should be entertaining.

"No problem." My jaw drops to my chest. I close it quickly before Sage or my parents notice. What? I study Papa's face. This must be a trick of some kind. I study Sage's face. He seems to be thinking the same thing. Again, I examine Papa's expression. He looks dead serious, but there is an underlying expression that I can't put my finger on.

"Ar-are you sure?" Sage stammers out. "I wouldn't want to put y'all out."

"Positive. You are welcome anytime in this house," Mama assures him earnestly.

"So what's it going to be?" Papa asks almost eagerly. What? I am so confused right now, it's not even funny.

"I—okay," Sage says unsure. "Thank you."

I whip my head toward Papa. His expression reads ... relief? Why would he be relieved? When the realization hits me, I hardly have the self-control to keep from laughing out loud. O.M.G. No, that can't be. But his expression is undeniable. Papa wants another guy in the house because he doesn't know how to deal with this problem. He's scared. Compared to all of us who don't know zip about ghosts, Sage is the expert.

This new proposal distracts me from the stress of our current ordeal. Sage is sleeping over! Yes! I guess it would be too much to hope that he'll be able to sleep beside me. Papa would never allow it. He'll probably do something embarrassing like make Sage sleep next to him.

Sage types in the website. He has to nudge me to bring me back from staring into space. I hope no one else noticed. Naturally, Mama does. She flashes me a huge smile from behind Papa's back. A page shows up that reads, The Visionaries: Paranormal Investigators. They are based in Austin. On their webpage is a picture of a group of people. Their names and occupations are listed below the pictures. There are five members of the group. The group leader is a clairvoyant medium.

"Their page reads that they'll be in Austin on Saturday."

"What's today?" I ask.

"Friday," Sage answers. "They're gonna be making an appearance at the Bluebonnet Hotel. They're giving a presentation on famous haunted places in Texas, promoting their new book."

"We can totally go!" I say.

"Type in the address and get directions!" Papa says, ecstatically. Sage's fingers fly across the keyboard.

"Four hours and fifteen minutes away."

"What time will they be there?" Papa asks while he strokes his chin pensively.

"It starts at five."

"I don't want to be in this house any longer than we need to be. Here's my idea. What do you guys say about getting up at eight, that way we can spend the rest of the day checking out the area?"

"Sounds great," Mama says.

"I'm in," Sage says.

Mama is about to open her mouth but Sage beats her to the punch. "I'll call my folks tomorrow." Mama's appeased.

"We better hunker down and get some sleep. It's going to be a long night," Papa says. "But first we better pack some extra clothing. I think we should sleep in our regular clothing in case something happens."

We all take turns in the downstairs bathroom, getting ready for bed. Returning from the bathroom, I notice Papa is "packing." He lays his shotgun next to his mattress. Is that for the ghost or to ruffle Sage?

"I told him it wouldn't do any good," Mama says, catching my eye.

"It just makes me feel better," Papa responds. "Besides, this way I know Casper doesn't have it."

I make up my bed on the floor and crawl in fully clothed. Marisol is going to sleep in between Mama and Papa for the night. The day really has taken its toll on her. Trevor's snuggled in her arms. Mama and Papa had moved the couch back into a corner so we have visual of the hall and so that they have room for their mattress.

Sage, who has just returned from the bathroom, grabs his sleeping bag and starts to look around trying to figure out where to sleep. I pat the empty space next to me. He gives me a nervous smile and looks away, catching Papa's eye. Papa points to the far corner of the living room. No harm in trying. Papa is so annoying sometimes. Is this some kind of I-know-how-boys-think-at-that-age thing or is he trying to humiliate me? I glare at Papa who returns my glare with a smirk as he gets settled for bed. It's a humiliation thing, totally. This isn't over old man! Pretty soon you'll be sleeping and then Sage can make his move.

"You don't have to lay over there, come over here," Mama says as she waves him over. Yes. Please.

"Thank you, ma'am, but I'm fine here." Damn.

"No really, you're so isolated over there," Mama persists.

"Yeah, Sage, why don't you come over here?" Papa pats the space next to him. He sounds inviting, but you can see the threat behind his eyes.

"No really, sir. I'm fine."

"No really, I insist," he says with mock politeness.

"Thank you, sir, but this looks like a good spot." Sage lays his sleeping bag down, throws the pillow on top of it, and lies down; all before Mama can make a third objection.

"As you wish," Papa says. He suppresses a smirk. Mama is about to protest, but Papa cuts her off. "Mama, let him stay there. That's where he wants to sleep," he says with a devious twinkle in his eye. It's light enough in here that Mama catches it. She rolls her eyes before turning over.

Everyone exchanges goodnights except for me.

"Marimar, aren't you going to wish me a goodnight?" Papa asks. I already gave him a kiss goodnight before I laid down, he's just trying to annoy me. Silence or acknowledgment there is no way that I can't give him satisfaction.

"Marimar did you—?"

"I heard you," I mumble, cutting him off before I pull the sheets over my head. My cheeks are so red that I bet Sage can see them glow, even under here in total darkness.

Desperately, I try to stay awake despite the sandman's attempts. But the spinning sensation of my mattress is so relaxing ... Stay awake! I demand of myself as I fight against its soothing lull. I have to stay awake. But it's so hard. It's like I'm drunk or something. I feel kind of out of it. George wants me to fall asleep and I am not going to fall prey to him. By circumstance, I'm forced to suffer in silence underneath the covers.

George. Just thinking his name causes me to quiver. I stop thinking and start to listen for any irregular noise that only he could be responsible for. "Whew," I exhale, nothing. All of a sudden I'm struck by a terrifying thought, Can George read my mind? That harmless thought causes me to become unhinged.

Soon all I can see behind my eyelids is an image of George as a twisted little demon child biting into my arm, although I saw nothing at the time. My heart is starting to beat faster and I'm starting to sweat. The air under my blanket is becoming stale, stifling. I get to the point where I feel like I'll pass out if I don't get a breath of fresh air through my lungs. Of course, this causes new chilling thoughts with problems all of their own. If I move will that catch his attention? If I make a sound, would that cause him to come out of the shadows? He's got to be still pissed about earlier and by the fact that we're attempting to take actions to remove him from the house. I would be. You're going to pay for this, he threatened through Sunshine. How exactly am I going to pay for it? I wonder. If he was going to try something now would be the time since everyone's asleep. The snores surrounding me confirm my fear. Wait, I'm not hearing any snoring coming from Sage's corner; maybe Sage is awake or maybe he doesn't snore. I hope he isn't a heavy sleeper like everyone in my family. I'm going to at least need one person to hear my cries for help. I bet Trevor will come and help me unless George decides to take him out of the picture first.

I lay rigidly still to the point where my muscles start to tense up and begin to cramp. I try to quiet my breathing using the techniques Papa drilled into me, but the air is so dense that I can't. I'm breathing too loud.

He has to have heard me by now. He's coming for me. I just know it. I can't handle it any longer.

I snap. I begin to pant. Oh, no! He's getting closer. The floorboards are starting to creak and I'm hearing heavy footsteps. Trevor begins quietly growling. My heart is pounding so hard that I'm surprised it hasn't given out. I can just make out the sound of Papa snoring. That's just what he wants. If he wants nobody awake, then asleep they will stay. He'll probably smother me with my sheets. I try to cry out, but I find that my vocal cords are blocked. I decide to reach for the flashlight I laid beside me in hopes that if I shine the light in their eyes it will startle them awake. I attempt to reach for the flashlight only to realize I can't feel my arms. I try to wiggle my fingers but those aren't working either. I can't even turn my head. My heart sinks as the realization that I am paralyzed hits me.

The barely audible footsteps stop right in front of me. I lie here helpless, waiting. I can hear his low breathy chuckle as he stands there watching me for a moment before he makes his move. I feel my mattress sink as George steps onto it; I feel him slink over to me. Trevor's growling becomes louder as he crawls on top of me. My chest compresses as he mounts me. His weight is making it so unbearably hard to breathe that my breaths come out as wheezes. The sheets block out all air as he presses down on it, covering my nose and mouth with enough force that I can feel my pillow sinking down into my mattress. I guess, subconsciously, I knew that this was coming. I should be grateful that he's giving me an easy out. This scenario could have been far worse; he could have chosen a more tortuous ending.

I fight hard to break away from this immobilizing paralysis. I can feel my spirit thrash around inside of its trapped vessel, trying hard to break free. Within moments his weight is lifted off of me, and I begin to regain control of my head. Moving my head side to side, I manage to lift the sheets up a little allowing in the fresh air. The air is refreshing to my lungs.

More air is allowed in as my sheets are being pulled off of my head by an invisible hand. This is worse. He's going to drag me out of my bed to God knows where, and do God knows what to me! I close my eyes. I can't watch.

Wake up! Wake up! Please, wake up! I beg of the others. All the fight has left my body. I'm too tired and exhausted to fight. There's no point.

I feel hands grab me; I can feel his body hovering over me. A surge of energy flows through my body, and despite my exhaustion, my fight is back. "No," I whimper breathlessly as I thrash in the air. I jab at the air but my fingers hit something solid, warm; skin. I open my eyes as my fists are caught by two large, warm hands. The moon's light is now streaming through the glass window and allows me to see the glow of the eyes hovering over me.

The eyes that stare back into mine are warm, safe, hazel. Relieved, I throw my arms around Sage, pulling him down to my level and I blubber on his shoulder like a baby.

"Shh," he says as he rubs my back with one hand and strokes my hair in a soothing motion with the other. I'm pretty sure my pride's going to be sore tomorrow about this, but the fact that George's body could have enveloped me instead of Sage's safe embrace makes me rejoice in this moment. Strangely, Trevor is still growling like he has rabies.

"Shut up, Trevor!" I snap, tacitly, trying not to wake my parents now that I'm safe in Sage's arms. "Bad dog!" I say a little louder. He doesn't listen. He's acting like Sage is hurting me. Papa trained him well. "Just ignore him."

"What's the matter?" he whispers in my ear. "I heard your dog growling, so I came to check on you." He unwraps me from my constraints and draws me onto his lap, wrapping his arms protectively around me. My body conforms to his. He sways back and forth. This simple gesture reminds me of how I'd pull Marisol onto my lap when she's crying. Shame washes over me at the thought.

Overcome by embarrassment, I shield my face away from his sympathetic eyes by burrowing my face into his chest. My hands slide down to his chest and I clutch at the soft cotton fabric. My tears cool my skin before being sopped up by his cotton shirt. It takes me a moment to clear my throat so that I can answer.

"Him," I answer with a broken whisper, too afraid to call out the specter by its name. My answer was too softly spoken because he asks me to repeat myself. "Him," I say a little louder.

"Don't worry, I got you. I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs gently in my ear. "You're safe with me." He kisses the top of my head. "I won't let anything hurt you." His words are the most intimate ever spoken to me.

We stay like this for a while, even after my tears run dry. Sage rubs my arm with long strokes, not releasing his other arm from around my waist. He slips his hand down onto one of mine, covering it. He coaxes my hand to release the tight hold I have on his shirt. He brings my hand to his face and strokes his cheek with the back of it; our fingers interlocked, he sweeps it down his jaw and brings it to his lips for a kiss.

"Nightmare?" he whispers in my ear. I shake my head no. It's not like I'm lying. I'm just not exactly sure of what just occurred. "Then what happened?"

"I couldn't sleep." My voice comes out slightly muffled. I turn my face a little bit so that my speech is unaffected. "All I could think about was him."

"I gotta tell you, I'm disappointed. I was kinda hoping you were thinking about me. I was thinkin' about you." The thought makes me smile. Now that my initial fear is gone, I am fully able to appreciate this moment. I can feel his body heat radiating through his shirt; the tightness of his muscles against my body. All I can think about is him. My thoughts are running wild. It's like I'm not in control of my mind. I break my face away from the damp fabric sticking to his chest. I gaze up at him. His tender look shoots me with a bolt of electricity. My heart flutters around in my rib cage. With my free hand I brush his hair back, his messy curls wrap around my fingers. My hand doesn't stop until my fingertips find the nape of his neck. I wrap my hand around it and I pull his head down close to mine. I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips. My lips are just about to conform to his when ...

"ZZZZZ," Papa lets out a thunderous snore, causing us both to jolt up. Sage pulls away from my lips.

"No, no. Don't worry about him he's asleep," I whisper. I tear my eyes away from Sage to check. Yep. We're good. "He's a heavy sleeper ... matter of fact they're all are heavy sleepers ..." I turn back to Sage. He's still unsure. Timidly he looks over in Papa's direction. I cup my hand under his chin and I gently face it toward me, ensuring that his attention is fully engaged on me. "Don't worry, I got you. You're safe with me," I tell him. He grins. He leans into me and we kiss. At first his kisses are gentle but then they start to become rough, more aggressive. Instead of trying to break away I find myself wanting more.

Sage releases my face and places his hands on my waist. My arms freely wrap around his neck as he lowers us down to the mattress. His arms are out onto either side of me, his palms pressing down on the mattress. His knees pin me down, holding me in place. His lips are still locked to mine. He has no intention of unlocking them and neither do I.

"You said they were heavy sleepers. Define heavy?" he says, breathlessly between kisses. His warm breath curls around my lips.

"Enough talk." Sage flattens himself down on top of me, the weight of his body crushes me but I couldn't care less at this moment. I make no protest as he removes his fingers away from my face to explore other areas, lingering in some places ...

"Sage, what are you doing?" I protest sheepishly, breathlessly between kisses. He's placing his hands past my comfort zone. His innocent actions have taken a turn to the extreme. "Sage, stop! Please!" I beg in distress. I try to shove him off but he won't budge. His nails are beginning to dig into my skin causing burning pain. The discomfort in my voice seems to trigger something in Trevor because at the moment he's growling like he's about to attack. I'm clinging to the hope that maybe he'll manage to wake Papa up. I try to wriggle out from under Sage, but I'm pinned. Sage doesn't respond. I'm frightened by his aggressiveness. His eyes just glare at me harshly, like I'm annoying him for breaking the mood. All signs of romance and playfulness are gone. He wants something more. Something I don't want to give. "Sage, what are you doing?" I cry out a little louder.

"Trying to sleep," I hear Sage respond from across the room. "Can you get your dog to stop growling?" I'm startled awake. My eyes open wide with terror. If Sage is in his corner then who the fuck is on top of me?

"Shh, you wouldn't wanna wake the baby would ya?"

The voice doesn't belong to Sage. The voice belongs to George.

Time stands still. Was I fully dreaming or just partially? I swallow down the puke in the back of my throat forming from the realization that I may have just made out with a little boy; a dead one. I want to break away from George but he has me pinned by invisible arms much stronger than any living six-year-old.

Stay calm, I remind myself, Trevor is still going nuts and I didn't answer Sage, so he should be coming over to check on me any second now. George's form materializes over me. He'd be adorable if he wasn't so menacing. He has blond curly hair and blue eyes, with heavy purple bags underneath them; chubby cheeks, a button nose, and full lips. He's smiling down at me. I try to scream, but my screams are muffled by his hand. The more I look at him the more his face starts to change, no, burn. Blisters cover his little frame and his skin seems to be melting off of his face, in some places his skin is charred. George stretches his mouth wide open. It grows and distorts until it's large enough to swallow my head whole. He is getting ready for the kill shot. Any second now, Sage!

I close my eyes. I'd rather not see this. I brace myself for the searing pain I have yet to bear, but it doesn't come. What is taking Sage so long?

Get up, you idiot!

I open my eyes to see what's delaying his attack. I wish I hadn't. I see that George's attention is preoccupied with something over by Sage's corner. Sage. He whips his grotesquely enlarged head around (in a one-eighty). "Shh!" he whispers at Trevor who is growling. Now Trevor starts going berserk, barking and gnashing his teeth. I snap my eyes close before he turns his attention back to me.

"OH MY GOD!" Sage yells. In a split second, the fully formed apparition dismounts me. I open my eyes again. He's now at my feet standing over me. He begins to laugh as he lowers through the carpet and under the floorboards. Everybody except Marisol is awake at this point, freaking out but too terror-stricken to move.

"Where'd he go?" I'm afraid to hear the answer. I pull myself up on my elbows and I feel inside my sheets for my flashlight that was lying beside me. My hands grasp the cylindrical case. I flip it on and frantically search around the room; everyone else is doing the same.

"I think it left?" Sage assumes. Guess again. My mattress begins to move underneath me as if it's breathing. It lifts me up with each inhale and on each exhale it puts me back onto the ground. My flashlight suddenly dies as the light fixtures begin to flicker on and off. As I look into the faces surrounding me, I notice all their eyes fall to their flashlights that are suddenly drained of power.

"Papa!" I yell as I jump off the moving mattress. The second my feet hit the floor I'm dragged backward by my ankles. I scream as I try to grab for anything, but everything's out of reach.

Sage recovers from his initial shock and sprints toward me at the speed of light before anybody else has had the chance to slip out of their sheets. Trevor is right beside him. George pulls me fast, in a split second I am dragged, screaming, through the entrance leading to the hall. I grab onto the doorway in an attempt to give Sage more time to reach me. "HELLLP ME!" I shriek before he yanks me hard, forcing me to let go. I dig my nails into the wooden floor, desperate to get away. I ignore the blood and searing pain in my fingertips as my nails are bent backward, some of them are torn away as they get caught between the floorboard panels. Adrenaline sets in as I enter the debris zone. Shards of glass scrape and dig into my body as I am swept across the floor, my body becomes numb.

My initial thought was that he was going to drag me upstairs, but instead George tows me toward the cellar. There is an excruciatingly short distance between Sage and me, but George seems to keep me just out of reach.

"Sage!"

My desperate plea for his assistance seems to give him the extra boost needed to close the distance. He makes a dive, and miraculously he catches my hands. Trevor takes a hold of his pant leg. This does nothing to stop or slow down George, he's too strong. Sage and Trevor are being dragged along with me.

"Don't let go!" I plead.

"I'm not going anywhere," he assures me.

We just pass the great room when Sage's hands begin to slip.

"Don't let go!"

"I'm trying not to," he says, grasping my hands tighter. His hands begin to slip more and more. Even with the combination of my blood trickling down my fingers and the sweat on our hands, Sage holds on. George jerks me sharply to the left going around the wall to the breakfast room; slamming Sage into the corner of the wall. He lets go.

"Mar, I'm so sorry!" he shouts after me.

I hear the kitchen door fly open before we reach it. It closes behind us blocking Trevor who had almost caught up to me. As we enter into the kitchen I turn my head to see the cellar door open like a giant gaping mouth preparing to consume me; presenting the ever looming darkness that hides inside.

"No, no," I whimper as I am dragged down the steps. I'm immersed in the darkness. My body slams hard against each step. When I reach the last step I'm flung aside into the middle of the room like a rag doll. I hear him come toward me. He saunters in a circle around me. Fear envelops my whole being. Compared to this the whole suffocating thing doesn't seem so anguishing. I can hear my family promising me that they'll get me out. I have no doubt of that, but will that be before or after I'm dead. The door lets out a slight groan as either Papa or Sage or both are slamming into it. In my mind I scramble to come up with a solution to save myself, somehow I do. Pray. I have to pray.

I start silently praying out loud, "God, if you're there, please save—"

"Shut up," George growls, striking me across the face with enough force that I wouldn't be surprised if some of my back teeth were dislodged. My mouth tastes like blood. My tongue probes my mouth and I find that my teeth had sunk into my cheek. My face stings where he struck me and on top of that there is a burning feeling. It's not until I feel the blood trickling down my cheek do I realize that he had scratched me.

"Do ya think he can save ya? No one can save ya," he taunts. "Like no one saved me." He stops circling me. "I begged 'em to stop. I swore I'd be a good boy from then on, 'cept they wouldn't stop. They burnt me alive."

"I'm sorry—"

"Shut up! They showed me no mercy, and so ye shall have none! I figured it'd be mighty nice to start off where we left off, don't you?" I know that you should never run. That it would embark some primal instinct to kill. But what choice do I have? He's going to kill me anyway. I bolt up and toward the door. I run up the steps, keeping my hands on the railing to ensure my balance. When I reach the door, I start pounding.

"Let me out!" I yell. I grab onto the doorknob only to be knocked backward. I fly through the air nearly halfway down the staircase before my hand grasps the railing. I feel George grab onto my calf, his nails sinking into it. Still I have no intention of releasing my hold. My fingers are pulled back to the point of almost breaking, forcing me to let go. I am dragged back down the steps. I twist around trying to feel the rail when I feel him bite into my upper leg. The adrenaline can't save me from feeling this.

Blood seeps down my leg. He rolls me over. The more I struggle, the tighter he squeezes my leg where he bit me.

"What's the matter, Mar? Scared? Don't be frightened, quit yer fussing and this'll be over in a bit. I don't get why yer hollering so. Why, ya seemed to enjoy yerself the last times. Don't ya recall us sharing sheets?" A memory of my nightmares materializes: my sheets being lifted off of me and a small figure crawling on top of me.

I feel George's weight moving up my legs.

FLASH! I see a huge blinding light appear in front of me in the shape of a man. It brings with it comforting warmth that I have never in my life felt before. George shrinks back in what appears to be fear. For a moment it stands in place and then it brushes past me, as it passes I feel a feathery touch like a wing. Behind me I hear a skirmish. Sage and Papa burst through the door and take me to safety.

Papa carries me out of the house and straight to the minivan. His shirt is covered in blood; my blood. He lays me on the third-row seat. Mama is rummaging through the trunk for the first aid kit. Marisol is still sound asleep, oblivious, even after Sage swooped her up in his arms and followed Papa to the van at a full sprint. Mama appears at my side with the first aid kit in hand. I wished there was some morphine in it, but I know that would be a false hope. I wish even harder that I could go to the hospital and be drugged, but we can't. It wouldn't look good since I just recently had been there for being shoved off the stairs. They would call Child Protective Services for sure, so Mama does the best she can.

"Take these," Mama says as she hands me a couple of leftover pain pills Papa had stashed in there, just in case. Thank God.

"I am so sorry," Sage repeatedly says. I ignore him. I'm in too much pain to deal with him. How could he let go? My fingers were bleeding and I still held on. So much for, "I'm not going anywhere."

Sage and Papa run back and forth loading up the van with the bags we already had packed. Mama carefully rolls up my pant leg to address still more injuries. "The lacerations don't look deep. The skin just seems to be cut on the surface layer, but we need to make sure they don't get infected. This is going to hurt a little bit," Mama warns, but her expression reads; brace yourself.

"Aaahhh!" I cry out in agony as she begins cleaning my wounds.

"I'm sorry, this has to be done," Mama says. Couldn't this wait until the painkillers take effect? Sage offers me his hand, but I don't take it. I bite down on my lip, trying not to scream. I close my eyes trying to focus on the bigger picture. If George is strong now, what will he do when we try to get rid of him and what was that thing down there that saved my life?

The doors slam, the van pulls away, and exhaustion overtakes me.

I'm pulled out of oblivion by the sound of Papa's booming laugh. I can hear Sage laughing along with him. Half-asleep, I still know that's weird. I turn my head just a little bit just so I can get a good look at them. My head still rests against the window. I take in the sight of Papa driving with Sage riding shotgun, they are engaged in deep conversation. I incline my head toward my left and find Marisol sandwiched between Mama and me, Trevor is by her feet. They are all asleep. That isn't such a bad idea. My eyes begin to get heavier and heavier. I begin to drift back to sleep.

I feel someone gently shaking me awake. I open my eyes to see Papa. "We're here," he announces. I squint and look around; the bright Texas sun scorches my eyes. It takes a few seconds to adjust. Everybody is already out of the car. I look up at Papa. He has on a new change of clothes, no blood. No proof of the horrors that had taken place this early morning.

I look down at myself. I'm wearing a totally different outfit. Mama must have changed me while I was passed out. I unbuckle and step out of the van. I stretch, not realizing how sore I am from sitting in the van so long. Then I realize most of the soreness is coming from my injuries. I'm able to walk but slowly. Besides both my hands being bandaged most of my injuries are covered, except my face, which Mama did a great job covering with makeup. There is an enormous difference from the cool air that had radiated from the van to the hot and humid air that reigns outside. I hope my makeup doesn't melt off.

Sage walks over to me, probably to apologize all over again. His head is bowed in shame and he's running his fingers through his hair. I divert my attention to anything but him.

"There are no words to express how sorry I am." I look up at him; he's standing over me. His eyes look into mine pleading. I open my mouth to comfort him. But that unsettling moment flashes into my mind. How his hands slip out of mine and he lets go. It was the only thing I asked from him and he failed miserably. "I feel lower than a bow-legged caterpillar," Sage says, smiling. Not funny! Anger flashes through me like a red haze. "I really do feel like crap," he says, quickly realizing the joke didn't work.

"You should. It was your fault that it dragged me into the basement. Some knight in shining armor you are! What happened to: 'I'm not going anywhere'? Or, 'Don't worry, I got you. You're safe with me'?" I mimic.

"I don't recall saying that last part," Sage mumbles; his cheeks getting redder. He looks back down on the ground and kicks a rock around.

Well, maybe he didn't say that last part, but he did promise that he wasn't going anywhere.

"That's not the point!" I yell. I'm about to yell some more when Papa steps in.

"You shouldn't blame Sage. It wasn't his fault. Casper dragged you around the corner and smacked Sage's head into the wall," he says, calmly.

"Oh, so now you're on his side! I see how it is. When did you two become buddy-buddy, huh?"

"Calm down, you're making a scene," Mama pleads. I don't respond. I look around at the people passing us. They're gawking at me like they would a two-year-old throwing a tantrum. Embarrassed by my outburst, I storm away into the motel, not bothering to look back at Sage.

The motel room is light and airy. It will be a little crowded since Sage is staying in the same room because Papa doesn't want to spring for another one. There are two queen size beds. Sage will be sleeping on the floor. There is a small table with a coffee maker on it and two bedside tables. I immediately collapse on the bed to my left and spend the rest of the morning napping.

When I wake up I'm not in the mood to talk to anyone.

"Hey, Mama, it's too crowded in here, I'm going to hang outside," I say, not wanting anything to do with Sage. She is sitting at the edge of her bed playing a card game with Marisol. Papa is already under the sheets snoring away.

"All right."

"Do you want me to come—?" Sage starts to offer.

"No!" I answer cutting him off. I walk out of the room, avoiding Mama's eyes.

I loiter outside by the main entrance. I need a breather. I have to come to terms with my thoughts. Every time I look at Sage I can't help but feel total disgust. What he did was unforgivable. He left me for dead. I counted on him and he wasn't there for me. I feel a hot angry tear run down my face; I speedily wipe it away.

Whoosh. The door opens; to my great relief it's not Sage.

"That's that girl from earlier," an elderly lady whispers to who I assume is her husband.

My mind replays Sage and my heated exchange from earlier.

"What happened to, 'I'm not going anywhere'? Or, 'Don't worry, I got you. You're safe with me'?"

"I don't recall saying that last part."

His last sentence bangs around in my head. He didn't say that last part, did he? I feel my cheeks flood with color. I'm starting to see this situation in a new light. Am I really mad at him for letting go of my hand, or is it that I can't look at him without remembering what had happened between me and George? After deep reflection, I conclude it's the latter. Driving that notion home is the fact that Sage's mere mental picture brings to surface the memory of my dream, giving me an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, and fresh tears.

I can't seem to shake George's words. "What's the matter, Mar? Scared? Don't be frightened, quit yer fussing and this'll be over in a bit. I don't get why yer hollering so. Why, ya seemed to enjoy yerself the last times. Don't ya recall us sharing sheets?"

Is he speaking the truth, or is he lying? If so, why didn't whatever saved me down in the basement save me all those other times? Could I have possibly imagined the celestial being's presence?

I shiver just thinking about his cold body pressed against mine. When I woke up from dreaming and found him over me. God, he looked so young, so innocent. How could he do those things? Why would his parents burn him alive? A memory from yesterday afternoon comes to mind ...

"Shhh. Ya wouldn't want yer mommy to hear. That's a good girl. Be nice and quiet. Don't try and resist, you'll only make this worse on yerself."

Thinking back, all of my recurring dreams were actual events. So keeping that in mind, the dream where I saw myself as a child attacking Papa must have been a scene which had taken place with George and his father. It's making some kind of sense now. George's father must have abused him. But that still doesn't make any sense. He said they burnt him alive. Which means his mother had to be involved somehow ... right? I find myself torn. Half of me sympathizes for his pain and the other half can't help but feel loathing and disgust toward him. I'm starting to piece the puzzle together, but something still isn't quite fitting. If his parents were the ones to have killed him then why isn't he after Papa or Mama? Why me?

My thoughts are interrupted as a vehicle catches my eye. It's an all-black suburban with very dark tinted windows. Just like the one at the library that seemed to be following Sage and me the other day. I try to look inside but the tint is too dark and the front windshield too high for me to look in. I walk around it and notice a small AC/DC bumper sticker on the left rear bumper. Not wanting to be anywhere near the car when the owner returns I head back to the motel's main entrance. My foot has just reached the pavement when the door to the motel is thrown open and out comes Sage. He scans the area before his eyes meet mine. He heads over to me.

"Look, before you jump to conclusions; no, your folks didn't send me out here to babysit you. I'm out here on my own accord. I know that I'm probably the last person you want to see, but in my defense, I tried my hardest to save you. I'm sorry that he hurt you, but it wasn't my fault. I swear on my mother's life, I tried my hardest. And if that's not good enough for you, then I'm sorry."

"Okay."

"Fine then—Wait, what?"

"Okay. I know it wasn't your fault. I'm the one who should be sorry—"

"No—"

"No, no. Let me finish. I was unfair to you. Totally unfair. I was being a bitch, so don't even try to defend my actions."

"No worries, I wasn't."

"Fair enough."

"I was kidding."

"So you forgive me?"

"Hell, yeah!"

"Friends?"

"Friends."

I sit down at the edge of the pavement. Sage seats himself beside me. "Now are you going to tell me what is wrong or are you going to make me guess?" I don't answer. "I've got to tell ya, I suck at guessing. We might be here all day."

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

"Try me. What's bothering you?"

"Everything, this whole thing with George. It's draining me emotionally and physically. I want to get this over with, and it seems like ..."

"It won't ever end."

"Exactly."

"But it will. We're going to get through this. You'll see." I try to force a smile but he's not convinced. "What's wrong? There's something else bothering you isn't there?" He tries to pull me close to him, but the action causes memories of yesterday's episode to manifest so I cringe away. He drops his hands into his lap.

"When I was dragged down into the basement—"

"It's all right, you can tell me anything."

"That's not it," I sigh. Here goes nothing. "Right before he dragged me down there, I found him on top of me ... and then down in the basement, he told me ... he told me ..." I can't finish. I rest my head against his arm and he puts his arm around me, drawing me closer to him. When I continue I am hardly audible.

"Let's go back inside. It's getting hot out here and you can go splash some cold water on your face. Okay?" Sage says after a long period of time elapsed. He gently kisses the top of my head and we go back inside.

"Excuse me, sir. Where is the group, The Visionaries, lecturing?" Papa asks the man at the desk.

"It's being held in the main conference room. Just go down the hall and go through the first door on your right," the guy says, eyeing us like we are a group of freaks from a side-show. A few weeks ago I'd probably have thought the same.

"Thank you," Papa says.

We step into a large room with a stage on the far end. There are hundreds of people here. And we're twenty minutes early. I can't believe so many people are into this. We should have gotten here even earlier. We seat ourselves in the second to last row. I take a seat next to Sage. In the back of the stage is a large screen and to the side is a laptop on top of a podium. On the left side of the stage, there is a long table with all sorts of weird gadgets. To the left of the stage, there is a closed door leading to who knows where and on the opposite side is the exit. Above the mouth of the entrance hangs a clock which I use to count away the minutes. Nineteen minutes ... seventeen ... ten ... three ... The room becomes even more packed as the presentation is about to start. There are people of all ages, ethnicities, and backgrounds; all bound by a love of the paranormal.

I turn back around and turn my attention to the clock. One minute to go. The door next to the stage opens and out comes the paranormal group. Everyone begins to applaud as they make their way onto the stage. A close up image of them is projected on the screen behind them. They all look around their late twenties or early thirties. They are wearing identical headsets with little microphones attached to them. They're a ragtag group, as diverse in personality as most of the people here. I don't remember any of their names, but what I do remember is the tall biracial woman of African descent is a medium and the leader of the group. She is very curvy, with brown curly hair and big brown, sparkling eyes that seem to look through you and into your soul. She's clothed in a flowing skirt and a lilac top with frills around the neckline. She is adorned in jewelry. The medium takes her place at the head of the stage; the rest of the team follows behind.

"Welcome," she announces, in a sweet yet booming voice. "For those who don't know me, my name is Calista. I am the lead investigator and clairvoyant medium of this group. Behind me are our investigators, Lawson and Gunner." She gestures to them with her hand.

Lawson is a burly man. He has long dirty-blond hair slicked back into a ponytail, a scraggly beard, dark green eyes, and his arms are coated with tatts. His garb is a pair of ripped jeans and a black t-shirt with a skull on it.

Gunner is of a stocky build. He's a Latino. He has black, piercing eyes and a crooked nose. He is also wearing jeans, but his are falling down his ass, showing off his boxers. He has on a heavy green sweater with a large number seven in white, and a red cap that he's wearing "gangsta" style. Hanging around his neck, over his sweater, is a gaudy cross. But it's not like any cross I've seen, there seems to be something else scrawled on it.

Both men come across as cocky. Are we so reduced by desperation to enlist their help? I'd much rather be left alone in a room with the biker dude behind me than be left in a room in the dark with either of them. "Our technicians, Adelaide and Allan Avery." Calista gestures to a young couple who are both holding hands.

Adelaide has straight blonde hair that she has pulled back into a sleek bun, light blue eyes magnified by her bright pink glasses, and a pair of white shorts and a pink buttoned up blouse. Allan is Asian; his jet-black hair is spiked up. He has on a pair of big grayish-blue glasses that magnify his light-brown eyes. He is tall and thin. He has on a white shirt with blue stripes going across and a pair of skinny jeans.

"We are here today to talk a little bit about what we do. For those of you that don't know about us, we travel around the Southern states looking to debunk paranormal activity. More than seventy percent of the locations we've been to have had actual phenomena."

"Wow," people murmur in the crowd as they stare at them in awe.

"And in four out of ten cases we get actual footage and readings." Wouldn't they have to get at least seven out of ten cases with actual footage to prove seventy percent of locations? I look over to see what Papa thinks, but he is staring intently at the group, as are Sage and Mama. Marisol is sitting on the ground quietly playing a game on Papa's phone. I turn my attention back to the group. They go on for a little while talking about what they do.

God, hurry it up already! I'm dying here. The right side of my face is partially swollen, my eye is blackened, my leg is killing me, and every little movement brings shooting pain throughout my being. Somehow I manage to nod off anyway.

By the time I recover, Adelaide and her husband Allan have just begun to go over their equipment. They start with an EVP recorder which basically stands for an electronic voice phenomenon. It's a device they use to communicate with spirits. This is what tells them if it's an intelligent haunting or not; they informed us that an intelligent haunting is when a ghost or an entity can interact with you, like George. An unintelligent haunting is when you are experiencing residual energy, basically a recording of the spirit's life being played in a continuous loop. In that kind of haunting the ghost will not even be aware of your presence. I wish that was the case here.

"Those kinds of hauntings are not to be confused with poltergeist activity in which case a person is experiencing psychokinesis. Psychokinesis is when a person's mind, without consciously knowing, will be what's causing the disturbances," Allan explains.

Next up on the list of equipment they mention is an EMF meter or an electromagnetic field meter. It is used to detect fluctuations in the magnetic field which are said to be caused by ghosts. The one they're using has little lights on it and they sometimes use it to have conversations with ghosts who will answer their questions by touching the box and making the little bulbs light up twice for a yes and once for a no.

The last two important pieces of equipment they use is a motion detector and an infrared camera which they set up in a room said to be inhabited by a ghost.

Once they're done talking about their equipment, they switch off the lights and play back some footage they captured, some audio recordings, and some photos—some of them contain orbs, others faces; still others contain unexplained masses, like the one I've seen, also known as manifested spirits. The only thing that really catches my attention is an audio recording captured of a spirit saying, "DIE!" Must be a friend of George.

They go on like this for another half hour until someone flips the lights back on. Then Calista announces that the lecture is over and that they will now be answering questions, which will cause me about fifteen more minutes of discomfort.

"If angels exist, then why don't they help spirits cross over? Why do spirits need mediums?" a man behind me asks.

"That's a good question," Calista says. "The thing is that sometimes spirits don't want to go into the light. Sometimes they want someone to know their story, so they will decide to stay earthbound no matter what any angel or spirit guide or even their higher-self suggests. God gives you a choice whether you want to go or not and he respects your wishes."

"What's a spirit guide?"

"A spirit guide is a spirit that will help you all through your life's journey. Sometimes it's a relative or a friend that's passed, even one you have never met, or a friendly spirit; other times it will be a spirit who had experienced many past lives who will ask God if they may help you. Some may be somebody that you had asked for assistance from on the other side before you entered into the physical realm. Some are here to help you achieve a goal in life so that they themselves can rise to a higher state of consciousness. They're also known as your guardian angels."

"What's a higher-self?"

"Well, we are made of four components; our mind, body, soul, and spirit. And, we have three levels of consciousness; the conscious, the subconscious, and the superconscious. The conscious level makes up our mind, body, and soul; basically it makes up our personalities and who we are. The subconscious level is the mind of our soul where we can connect with our three-dimensional self and our spiritual self. The superconscious level is our spirit which is made in God's image. The part of us that is pure. This is your higher-self, the self that is at one with God.

"It is also our higher-self that chooses for us to reincarnate so that we may become even more in one with God, so that we may overcome past karmic debts."

If that's the case then my higher-self has some serious explaining to do.

Calista continues, "Most people don't know this, but God does not put you into hell, you do. What level depends on your guilt and your deeds on earth and your time there will vary. There is no time up there, a few earth seconds down here can feel like years up there or vice versa."

"Is trying to overcome your past karmic debts always the case for entering into the earth plane?"

"No, sometimes you just want to experience being human or you come down to help others. Other times God will ask for you to come down because he has a purpose for you, but ultimately the choice is yours."

"But doesn't your higher-self want to do his will so it will choose for you to go down?" one man remarks.

"Yes, exactly."

"What are some other reasons ghosts will stay?"

"First of all let me point something out, a lot of spirits that I have come into contact with have said that they don't like the term 'ghost' because the word is mostly seen in a negative light, most prefer the word 'spirit.'

"Now for your question, there are different reasons for them being earthbound. Sometimes they stick around because of unfinished business or perhaps they feel that they didn't have a lot of time down here. Some may have died tragically and they haven't coped with their deaths. Others may not even know they died because their deaths were sudden or unexpected causing them not to see the light. In a lot of cases, I find that they believe something they did while still in their physical forms will cause them to go to hell. Thus, they are in no hurry to enter their fate."

After a number of repetitive questions, I tune out their voices. I focus all my thoughts on one thing. How in the world are we going to approach them? I hope someone else thinks of something brilliant because I've got nothing.

I'm standing the second they announce that we can now purchase merchandise and that they will be signing books. I follow behind Sage as the rest of the slowpokes are just starting to move. What's with them, I'm the one who should be really sore.

We begin to walk down the aisle toward the people getting in line for autographs. We might be able to get a word in edgewise with the team as they sign a book; if Papa will spring for one. This is taking forever. Two-thirds of the audience seems to want a freaking book signed. We are halfway down the row of seats when Sage stops in front of me. "What are you doing? Hurry before the line gets any longer!" I urge him gruffly.

"I'm trying, somebody stopped in front of me to tie his shoe."

"What are you stopping for?" Papa asks Sage.

"Someone stopped to tie their shoe," I answer without turning to look at him.

I groan as I tap my foot impatiently, waiting for this idiot to move. Buy slip-ons! Eventually the man finishes tying his shoe and we make it to the line. How convenient, we are like the last people in line. I just know these people are going to have to leave before we get anywhere near them. How are we going to ask for their help? I wonder. I try to look around the large obstruction that is Sage to the table where Calista should be seated.

"Just ask," a calm soothing voice calls out behind me. I turn around and find Calista standing beside me, her soul searching eyes fixated on me. I jump back in surprise.

"How did you—?"

"Can I talk to you and your family in private?" Calista asks, ignoring my question. I am so dumbstruck by her appearance that all I can do is nod assent. She gently takes my hand and leads me out into the hall to where nobody is in earshot of us. The rest of my entourage follows behind.

Had I spoken my question out loud or did she somehow read my mind?

Calista clutches both of my hands and she lowers her face close to mine. "Girl, you need our help," she says earnestly like she already knows the gravity of the situation.

How did Calista know that we needed her help? I don't think I heard anybody mention it. Did she ... but that would be ... impossible.

"Anything is possible," Calista responds, answering my unspoken question. "The  
Lord Jesus once said, '... If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain ... Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you.'"

Whoa! God almighty! She can read my mind? Back up. What am I saying, mind reading? Bullshit! Mr. Utterson is standing beside me. Maybe he asked a question. But that doesn't explain how she knew we needed help ...

"Is it? Is it really bullshit? I'm surprised at you people. Especially you, Sage," she says, pointing her finger at me. How did she know my name? "With what all y'all been through, I thought you guys would be more open-minded. Mmm-mmm-mmm," Calista says with a shake of her head in disappointment.

Calista looks back at Mar like she's waiting for her to respond. "What's wrong, honey, cat got your tongue? Now about George, he's targeting you, correct?" Mar nods her head.

Fuck me! She can read minds.

"And you want to know why?" Another nod.

"You have a special gift Marimar. You come from a family of spiritualist. Your great-grandmother, Tita, possessed the gift of mediumship. She was a Daughter of Light. She helped spirits to cross over. Your grandma and your mother both have always possessed the gift, but they denied it. Now you and your sister possess the gift, more so you."

"Me?" she says.

"Mmm-hmm."

Marimar looks over at Mrs. Utterson for validation.

"She's telling the truth, my Abuelita was said to be able to talk to the dead and she would help them cross over to the other side, along with possessing some psychic abilities. But my mother took after her father and her father was a skeptic. My Mama said it was all nonsense and that I was to have nothing to do with it and she told my Abuelita that she was not to poison my mind with her lies."

"See," Calista says, "God has great things in store for you."

Oh Lord, what am I getting into with this girl?

"Being a Daughter of Light signifies that you are destined to be a light onto the world. Both the physical and spiritual. People and spirits will be attracted to you and ask for your help. Light also attracts darkness and positive attracts negative. That is why you may have noticed that you are always being followed by those who have darker energy. You need to be careful around those people. They will continue to try and get closer and closer. They desire to extinguish your light."

"Someone just shoot me now and get it over with," Mar interjects in her normal sarcastic tone.

Calista gives her a look like a mother correcting her child. "Mar, you don't have to worry about that. God is protecting you. You should know that. You saw the angel down in the basement protect you," Calista says. What angel? Mar nods in answer. "All you have to do is ask for his help. 'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you ...' Got it?"

"Not really. I don't get why George has a problem with me being whatever you just said?"

"You're a Daughter of Light. He despises you because he knows that you can cross him over. Marisol is too little to be seen as a threat. In case you weren't paying attention when I was answering questions, I'll run through some things for you again.

"You see, some spirits won't see a light because they don't realize that they're dead. Others feel guilt and shame because of the bad things they did in this world, so they won't go into the light because they believe they are not worthy, and still others won't go because they believe they will be eternally damned. Now I believe that George is the last one. Understand?"

"Starting to."

"Good." Calista heads over to Mrs. Utterson, no, to Marisol holding her hand. She kneels down in front of her so that they're at eye level, she grabs her free hand. "Hi," Calista says.

"Hello," Marisol says shyly.

"Did you make friends with George?" Marisol nods her head. Bashfully, she hides her face in her mom's leg.

"He wasn't a very nice friend, was he?" Marisol nods her head. "That wasn't your fault. That wasn't anybody's fault but his, okay? He's just a big meanie."

"Geowge is scawy."

"I know. But you don't have to worry about him anymore, baby. We're going to make him go away. He's not going to be able to hurt you or anybody else ever again. You are a good girl. Don't ever let anybody tell you any different, especially George, promise?"

"I pwomise."

"So you'll help us?" Mr. Utterson asks.

"Of course. I'm going to have to talk to my team, but we will be at your home tomorrow around three p.m. That should give us enough time to set up before nightfall and get some rest. I'm going to go get a pen and paper so you can write down your address and we can exchange phone numbers.

"Don't worry, honey," Calista says turning to Mar, "we're fixing to get that bad boy out of there in a blink of an eye." She gives her a wink before turning to leave. I watch her in awe as she enters back into the conference room.

On the ride back to the motel I spend most of the drive talking to Mar's old man. We finally seem to have hit it off. We found a common interest in self-defense philosophy. We've both studied the same style, although I've only studied the unarmed version. We both researched what martial art would work for real-world self-defense and came up with World War II style combatives. He's continuing the lecture he started on the way up here on its history. He's a big military history buff and so am I. Every now and then I glance over at Marimar who appears to be asleep.

We are spending another night at the motel so that we won't have to stay in the house.

The day is passing by without a hitch. I can't believe I'm actually feeling comfortable around her family. We're staying in our room and Mr. Utterson rented a comedy on the TV. We're all going to go to bed early because we're still spent from Friday night.

The next morning we ate the continental breakfast provided by the motel and we plan on stopping someplace for a long lunch. Good, I'm in no hurry to get back to their house. The Visionaries called during breakfast. Mr. Utterson told us their plan is to get a motel near Valentin around noon and then head over to the house to set up just before three when they believe George will be the least active. Calista told Mr. Utterson that three p.m. is called the blessed hour, also known as the Hour of Divine Mercy, which is supposedly the hour in which Christ died. It is the opposite of the Witching Hour or three a.m. when ghosts are at their most powerful.

We don't need to be there, so Mr. Utterson told them where a key is hidden. It will take them at least a couple of hours to set up all the equipment. Because of the severity of the haunting, they will be running all power back to the generator hooked up to their van. All their computers will be kept in the van and their van will be used as the control center. The team will meet us at dinner around six near our motels and explain to us the plan, what they expect, and what may happen. Then we will all return to our motels and rest up for a long night. We'll meet at the house at eleven-thirty. We're not to enter the house without them.

Up until the phone call, the atmosphere was sort of peaceful, too peaceful. Like the calm before a storm. I think we can all feel it brewing. Everyone's demeanor has changed. Especially Mr. Utterson's, he's become very serious since briefing us on the phone call.

The sun is still high in the sky. In four and a half hours, give or take an hour depending on traffic, we should be back in town. We already located a pet-friendly motel where Mrs. Utterson, Marisol, and of course Trevor will be staying out of harm's way. I was hoping that Marimar could stay with them while Mr. Utterson and I help get rid of the problem—I'm not leaving him to deal with the task on his own, I'm too invested in this family—but Calista said no. She said that since George wants Marimar, she has to be present for the cleansing ceremony and she has to be the one to send him into the light; no exceptions.

Mar said that she would have flat-out-refused if she had been told to stay away. Her reason was, "Everything that happened to you guys happened because of me. So it's only fair that I'd be the one to get rid of it." She seems to have forgotten how well that worked out last time.

The mood in the van is sort of somber now. The last time George found out that we were taking actions against him, he didn't take it so well. Mar almost died. This time, I don't even want to think about what he's got in store for us. Whatever it is, it's sure going to bring us hell.

Two hours pass quietly, the only thing breaking the barrier of silence is the radio.

"So, Sage," Mr. Utterson says, "we both know that it's not going to be easy getting Casper out of the house."

"Mmm-hmm, I was just thinking the same thing." Mr. Utterson positions the rear-view mirror so that he can check the back seats. The girls are all crashed out, including Mrs. Utterson. He repositions it and returns both hands to the wheel. Suspicion arises inside of me. What is he going to say that he doesn't want the girls to hear?

"I wanted to say that I'm thankful for your help. I really appreciate it."

"I'm glad I can help, sir."

"I know. I know. But, that's not all I wanted to say." Of course there's a but. "I want you to know that I wouldn't think any less of you if you want to back out. Wait, before you say anything, think about your folks and your little brother. What we're dealing with is dangerous, that you already know, but what any of us don't know is how much power this dead kid possesses. Let's be realistic here, even with the 'Oracle' and her guardians this isn't going to be an easy task. This little ghost boy is like Casper from hell on steroids. If this goes south, all our lives might be at risk."

I never did give it much thought about what would happen to Oscar. He poses food for thought. I'm basically, no, I am his only caretaker. What's going to happen to him if something happens to me? I'm the only barrier between Bubba and him. I made it clear to Bubba that he could do whatever he wants to me but if he touches a hair on that kid's head, there will be nothing stopping me from going ape-shit on his ass.

Why did he have to hang Oscar's life over my head? What am I supposed to do? I'm invested in this family, in Mar. Even though I just met them I can't help but feel like they are family. They've treated me like I'm one of them. Like I'm a human being. The polar opposite of how I'm treated at home. They are what a real family should be. What my family used to be like. And I can't help but want a part of that. But ... Oscar has only me. I can't just abandon him. For years he was my only reason for living. I'm not going to kid myself, I've contemplated suicide many a day since my dad died, but when I thought of him ... I knew I had to keep going. With me out of the equation, what will he do? If I'm no longer there Bubba would sure take full advantage and Mom ... Mom would just stand back and watch, like always. The kid's only six. He'd seriously hurt him for sure. I'm so confused. Goddamnit! What the fuck am I supposed to do? The Utterson's need me. Marimar needs me. Oscar. Marimar. Oscar. There's only one thing I can do ...

"I understand where you're coming from, sir, and that is why I'm just going to have to make sure that I don't die."

Death is not an option.

"It's not that simple. I want you to think about it. You have at least two hours. Take your time and really think about it. Clear your head. Don't go by blind love. I know that you want to be Marimar's knight in shining armor, but you just met her. Sometimes playing hero ends in tragedy." His words make me doubt myself. Is that what I'm doing? I've never in my life felt this protective of any girl. There never was one that needed it. Is this really love? I've never really had much to compare it to. All the girls I ever dated pretty much asked me out, she was the first one I've ever pursued, the only one who I've ever felt drawn to. The other girls, they were nice and all, but what were they really? Another excuse not to be home, another warm body, somebody to take my mind off of the problems at home. But she ... she makes me feel different. She's different.

"I get what you're saying, but—"

"Just think about it. Don't make a rash decision that you might regret. Can you do that for me?"

"Sure." I know that he has my best interest at heart, but I also know that even he's fully aware that his words will have no effect on me. Mar needs me and it's my time to step up to the plate. This time, in her moment of need, I'm not going anywhere.

"I hope these people really know what they're doing," Mr. Utterson says as we pull into the parking lot of the small waffle house. The Visionaries' suburban isn't here yet so Mr. Utterson gets us a large table in the back where we'll be able to talk in private, even though there aren't more than three people here. Everybody is feeling kind of anxious, so we sit in silence, either examining the menu or staring absentmindedly at the surroundings. Marisol's doing neither, being conked out since it must be way past her bedtime; her head is lying against her mother's arm. They're serving all you can eat waffles but it doesn't look like anybody has much of an appetite. I stare down at the menu and pick apart the straw wrapper to pass the time.

I am halfway down the wrapper when the door opens and in comes the Ghostbusters, Calista leading the pack.

"How y'all doing?" Calista inquires.

"Even better now that you're here," Mr. Utterson says.

We all shake hands and exchange cordialities.

"Enough small talk, time to get down to business," Calista says after we've ordered. "Now the game plan is that when we arrive at the house we are going to be using the buddy system. Under all circumstances you three are to stick to me, especially you." She points to Marimar. "Now first I am going to create a protection circle and call on God and the Goddess to assist us and protect us, which Al and Adel will be joining us for. It's our protocol. After that we'll start by smudging, which is simple enough. Gunner and Lawson will be assisting me while Al and Adel will be in the van watching the footage on the monitors. The smudging should calm George down a bit and that's when I'll channel him."

"Channel?" Mrs. Utterson asks.

"It means I'll be allowing him to speak through me. Now don't worry, this isn't my first rodeo. George will be simply borrowing my body. I will be in control at all times. At that time I want you, Marimar, to tell him to go to the light. Tell him in the light he will feel no pain and that he'll be happy, that God does not judge you but you judge yourself so all he needs to do is forgive himself. After that we'll recite some prayers and send him off to the great beyond with a crossing over ceremony, easy enough. Any questions?"

"I've got one, what if George doesn't want to go?" Marimar asks.

"You have to firmly tell him that you want him to go. But remember, he was once a living person too, so you have to be respectful about it. '... whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them ...' Once you tell him, he will have no choice but to leave. The power to make him go is in the combination of the prayers and the crossing over ceremony.

"I want you all to keep in mind that nothing will happen to you. Negative energies feed off of fear. You have to keep your emotions in check. The more fear you give off the stronger he will be, but he cannot kill you. Keep that in mind. God needs you alive not dead," Calista says, leaning in close to us.

To wrap up our meeting Calista and the gang tell us some personal experiences that happened in similar cases before we say our good-byes and we head back to the motel.

I suck in my breath in anticipation. We are almost there. My heart is pounding and my muscles are tightening as we are nearing the corner that will take us to their house. The waffles I ate at dinner a few hours ago threaten to make a reappearance. Thank God Mr. Utterson stopped at a gas station in town. I think we all have nervous stomachs. I knew I shouldn't have had that third plate, that's what happens when they offer all you can eat waffles.

The car radio is low enough that I can hear Marimar's shallow breathing. I want so badly to protect her, to wash away all her fears, to take her somewhere else, just jump in my truck and drive, but I can't. For the past hour I haven't even been able to look her in the eyes. I don't want to see the doubt she has in me lying behind them; Mar knowing George already beat me once and that tonight I can't protect her. She must rely on Calista and I'm near useless.

I can hear her breathing intensify. With every second that passes the ache in my heart magnifies. Does she know how much pain her being here is bringing me? Is she feeling the same way? Knowing what she told me about George hurting her isn't helping me come to terms with the idea of her being there either. What's to say it won't happen again? I want so badly to reach out and touch her, to comfort her, to tell her everything is going to be all right. But the ugly truth is that I really don't know. None of us do. I recall my only memory of being able to hold her in my arms; heaven on earth.

"Whose truck is that?" Mr. Utterson asks.

As we near the driveway, I see a truck parked smack dab in the middle of it. The headlights illuminate the back of the Visionaries equipment van they set up earlier, leaving the truck in the shadows. I watch as someone staggers out of the truck. It takes me a moment to recognize who it is. No, it can't be. My worst fear is confirmed when Mr. Utterson turns into his driveway and the minivan's headlights light up my own personal demon.

My brief moment of bliss as part of this family has just been extinguished by Bubba. He brings the bottle to his lips and takes a swig of his beer. He's highly intoxicated. And pissed. Instantaneously, I get out of the van and I hoof it over to him.

"What are you doing here?"

Bubba takes the bottle away from his lips.

"Shut up ya little shit!" he slurs. To other ears his speech would be unintelligible, but after years of living with him, I'm well versed in drunk.

"I'm sorry, what was that? You were mumbling," I say, fed up with his constant humiliation.

"Don't ya fucking talk me ...!"

"You cocky piece of shit!" I say, finishing his sentence. Crap, I'm in for it now.

"Why I'm gonna put a world a hurt on ya little smartass!" Bubba staggers toward me. He boxes my ear with his left hand. Mr. Utterson steps toward me and intervenes. If Bubba wants to get to me he'd have to go through him. I know he's drunk but I don't think that he's that drunk. Bubba squints as he sizes him up. He takes a step back.

"Is there a problem?" Mr. Utterson asks, taking up a defensive posture.

"No, it's all right, he was just leaving. He wouldn't want you calling the cops." I put my hands on his chest while trying to push him back to his truck. Bad mistake. Bam! He nails me in the jaw with his bottle. I stagger sideways. That hurt.

"Cops rest you!" Bubba says, jabbing his finger at me. "Where da fuck have ya been? Do ya think I'm a fucking idiot! I know what you been up to! Been pissing off da whole town. People telling me I can't control my son ... that my son been going 'round stirring trouble up with some wetback b—"

"Shut up! Don't ever talk about her like that you drunken son of a bitch!"

"What ya fucking call me? What ya fucking call me little shit? I'm gonna put a world a hurt on ya!" He smashes the bottle on the side of his truck and stumbles toward me.

This time I get ready to defend myself when Mr. Utterson intervenes. It all happens in a blur. Mr. Utterson swipes me to the side as he comes to my defense. Bubba, still holding the broken bottle in his right hand, makes a prison style uppercut thrust at his midsection. Mr. Utterson deflects it with a swat of his left hand across his body while he pivots, his hips turning right. As momentum brings Bubba past him, Mr. Utterson catches Bubba's right arm above the wrist and uses his left to create an armbar as Bubba's arm straightens out. Mr. Utterson continues his momentum around to his right, running Bubba in a tight one hundred and eighty-degree circle face first into the side of his own truck; knocking him out cold. That's going to leave a mark. His body thuds as he hits the concrete.

For a moment, I just stare at the bloody mass on the concrete, speechless. His nose is smashed; blood is flooding out of his nostrils and out of his mouth. His face is starting to swell up. I don't see any signs of breathing. Did he kill him? I nudge his rib with my foot. I hear a slight moan. I'll be damned.

I look up at Mr. Utterson who is taking deep breaths. "Thanks," I manage to say.

"No problem," he says as he squats down and turns Bubba over on his side. "Thanks for sticking up for my daughter."

"I'd have done it any day."

"Your jaw all right, son?" Mr. Utterson asks while still checking Bubba for any serious injuries.

"Yeah, just a little sore," I say while rubbing my jaw.

"Papa, are you all right?" Mar asks, running up from the van.

"I'm fine, don't worry." He gives her a kiss on the head; she returns it with a peck on the cheek. She glares down at Bubba.

"Are you okay, Sage?"

"I'm as good as ever."

"What are you going to do now? You can't go home. Not after this."

"I don't know. I planned on moving out before he kicked me to the curb. I always imagined I'd be dreading this moment, but right now I've never felt more liberated."

"You can live with us until we figure something out," Mr. Utterson says. "Welcome to the family, son."

For the first time since we met we shake hands.

"Wait, what about Oscar? I can't just leave him to suffer the same fate as me."

"We'll work on getting you emancipated first and then we'll try to figure out a way to get you custody of your brother. But I'm not going to lie, that's going to be a long battle inside a courtroom. If I'm assuming correctly that your parents are going to be difficult."

"You're assuming correctly. They'll just want him to spite me."

"Not unless we find a way around it," Marimar says, mischievously.

"And how are we going to do that?"

"Because of this," she holds up her phone for me to see. It takes me a moment to register what she's saying. "I caught the whole thing in color."

"You're a genius!"

"I know. All we have to do is hand this to the police and Bubba here will be locked up in jail, unless—"

"—unless they give me custody of Oscar."

"Bingo."

"Blackmail, girl, you really are a bad influence." She grins in self-satisfaction.

Bubba lets out a moan. We all look down at him. "Now what?" Mr. Utterson asks.

"Let's drag his fat ass to his truck. I'll take him home." I grab one arm and Mr. Utterson grabs the other and we tow his lard ass to the passenger seat. Marimar trails behind us. I buckle him up and I close the door quietly. I want to keep him in his drunken stupor.

"What's next?"

"Why don't you call your mom so she can pick up his truck?"

"She could, but I think it would be best if I drove him home. I'll pick my mom up so she can pick up his truck and I can talk to her. Plus, I need to grab my clothes. Oscar is staying at his friend's house again so I don't need to worry about getting him until tomorrow. Bubba should be conscious pretty soon and he's going to be enraged, so now's basically my only chance."

"Guess you're right. I wish you would have thought about that before. Now we're going to have to drag him to your truck. Get him out," Mr. Utterson sighs.

"Sorry."

"Yeah."

After he's in my truck I pull up to Mar.

"See you in a bit," I say.

"See you."

I look down and she's staring up at me. I look into her eyes; those same eyes that I've been avoiding. Instantly, the euphoric cloud I've been floating on since Mr. Utterson said I can move in with them vanishes. I just realized they'll have started the cleansing before I can make it back. I won't even have the chance to try to protect her. What if Calista fails her? What then? What if the unspeakable happens? I can feel the color drain from my face. I know that all the fear in those big brown eyes is reflected back in mine.

Mr. Utterson senses the change in mood and takes his leave. "I'm ... just going to go back to the van to ... yeah." Mr. Utterson puts a hand on my shoulder before he turns and leaves. I don't watch him go. My eyes are locked with the girl standing in front of me. I step out of the truck. I can read the thoughts forming behind those gorgeous eyes. She'll be facing George without me by her side. I've failed her again. Thanks to me being a smartass.

"Good-bye," she whispers. Her words linger in the air. I can hear the quiver in her voice, the undisguised fear.

"Bye," I say quickly. I hug her to me and I give her a light kiss on the head. "Be safe."

I jump back into my truck and drive off before she can see the tears streaming down my face. I hear Bubba moan and I look over at him. He's leaning toward me and is beginning to fall over. I give him a straight right to the chin, knocking him back.

I watch as Sage's truck drives out of sight. "Good-bye," I whisper under my breath. If things go wrong this might be the last time that I'll see his face. Of course, Calista assured me that nothing will happen to me. Call it woman's intuition, but I have a feeling that today will not be my day.

I wipe away the tears streaming down my face. I take a deep breath. That was a lot harder than I thought. My heart feels like it's breaking, leaving me with a hollow ache. I never had the opportunity to tell Sage what he's wanted so badly to hear. The words hung on the tip of my tongue; that I am his girlfriend and that I love him. Now I may never be able to.

No. I did have the opportunity and I let it slip through my fingers. Like the idiot that I am. I never even got to kiss him. Feel his soft full lips lock with mine. Feel his warm breath tickle my ear as he tells me he loves me.

I reluctantly head over to the passenger seat of Papa's van. Beside myself, I let out a shaky breath.

"Are you scared?" Papa asks, reading my sharp exhale as fear.

"Sort of," I respond, playing along. It takes all my will to keep my voice from cracking. He pulls me close to him and plants a kiss on my head.

"Don't be scared. The Visionaries are going to help us get that thing out of here, and then our lives will go back to normal." Normal. God, I pray so.

"They're here," Papa announces. I see the lights of a white suburban behind us. It parks at the side of the street. Their white utility van is already parked in the driveway about thirty feet from the house with cables running into it and a generator sitting just outside. I half expected Calista to have painted it like the Mystery Machine in Scooby-Doo. I bet Lawson and Gunner would have just loved that. On the side of the van is a cross, on the cross is a pentagram surrounded by a circle.

We get out of our minivan. I make my way over to the driver's side door.

"Boy, you two have had a long week," Calista says, crossing over to Papa and me. The other members of the team are checking out their equipment.

"No kidding," I answer. Do you know everything? I ask telepathically.

"Just about," she says with a wink.

That must get annoying, I think to myself.

"I heard that."

Sorry.

"Thanks for coming. We really appreciate it," Papa says on a different note. They shake hands.

"Yes, thank you," I echo.

"Our pleasure," Calista answers.

"So, Ms.—?"

"Calista's fine."

"Calista, can you—?"

"Sorry, honey, I'm not a psychic. I'm a Claircognizant Clairvoyant. It means that I know things without knowing why. I am able to tap into a higher consciousness."

How convenient.

"Very."

"Do you mind not doing that?"

"Sorry, bad habit. I'm on block, your thoughts are now yours."

"Thanks. So, does mind reading come with being clairvoyant?"

"No. I'm also telepathic."

"Ah. So I don't suppose, I can do that? Can I?"

"Don't worry. When this is all over we're going to keep in touch and I'll mentor you in the craft. I'll teach you all I know."

"Cool, thanks. I'll hold you to that."

I notice something dangling from her neck. It's the same symbol that's on the van, and the same symbol hanging around Gunner's neck, but I don't remember it being one of her accessories at the book signing, possibly it was hidden under her shirt.

"I've seen that symbol before," I say, touching the place on my throat where her necklace sits. "What does it mean?"

"I was waiting for you to ask. It's the symbol of a Christian Wiccan."

"Hold on. Let me get this straight. You're telling me you're a—?"

"—witch. Yes. And soon I'm going to teach you the trade," Calista answers.

"Don't Christians frown upon witches?"

"Most Wiccans don't accept us either."

Something catches Calista's eye preventing us from further discussing the topic, all traces of her smile vanish.

"It's starting," she says, raising goose-bumps up my arms. Her eyes stare over my head and they sweep around the yard. My eyes follow.

Perched in the tree branches are a whole flock of ravens. As my eyes search the yard I realize we're surrounded by them. They are not just in the trees but are completely covering the entire roof of the house and they are even lining the telephone and cable wires. They're everywhere. More and more ravens pour in. Some even begin to circle above us. They all stare down at us as if we are a bunch of dead carcasses that they can't wait to devour. Their soulless eyes pierce through me. It almost feels like we're in the movie The Birds, but much more ominous. I feel as if any moment they will begin to swoop down and peck at us. But they just sit on their perches and caw. "He is much stronger than I perceived," Calista says to herself.

"That's not going to be a problem is it?" Papa inquires, unable to conceal his worry.

"It might take a tad longer but that should be about it." I am about to ask what does she mean by "about it" but she has already begun giving out instructions to her team.

Honk. Honk. Allan beats on the van's horn in an attempt to scare off the squatters, to no benefit. A few fly up to the safety of the trees, only to be replaced.

Cautiously, we all tread to the house as the ravens intently watch our every footfall with their icy gaze, pecking at our feet as we shoo them away—some stand their ground and squawk and flap their wings in irritation as we walk around them. Every second that passes brings more. It takes great effort to avoid stepping on the ugly creatures as they fill the walkway.

We creep stealthily forward. I hear a commotion on my left and I turn and see Lawson kicking the raven at his feet. The raven is not happy.

It latches itself onto his shoe. He tries to kick it off causing him to stumble backward, sending several ravens to take flight in distress. "Stupid bird," he growls.

Uneasy, I scan the yard, hoping that his hot-temper hasn't put us all in danger of a bird attack. All the birds have stopped their chatter; their eyes are fixed on us. They've turned to stone. I stop in my tracks and I don't move an inch.

All I can hear is the commotion of Lawson trying to detach the bird. Lawson lets out a shriek of pain, causing me to jump. A sickening sound like the sound of a stick being snapped in half follows. Lawson lets out a victorious snicker; he carelessly tosses the lifeless body in the crowd of birds, causing some to take flight, screeching as they go. He cradles his hand. In the moonlight I can just make out a liquid dripping from his hand, blood. Honestly, I don't feel bad for him, he deserved it. All of the ravens turn their attention to Lawson, hatred glows in their eyes. "Move very slowly," Papa whispers. I inch my way on my tip-toes; painfully slow around the birds at my feet that are now animated.

"What did you guys stop for?" Papa asks as we reach the porch. Calista and her gang are standing by the bottom step. My eyes follow theirs. The door is wide open, welcoming us in.

"What's that noise?" Adelaide asks. "I don't suppose you left the iPod on?" My ears pick up piano music drifting out the door.

"No, it wasn't even in its dock when we left," I answer slowly, my skin beginning to crawl as I make it to the door. "But I've heard that music before in the great room." We all look to Calista.

"I don't feel threatened by it. It feels residual; he's just magnifying it for effect."

Calista fearlessly steps in, followed by the bravado duo and Adelaide. Papa and I hesitate at the door.

"Are you ready?" Papa asks.

"As ready as I will ever be." I shrug. He grabs my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before stepping through the doorway into hell on earth.

As soon as we clear the front door it slams shut behind us, causing everybody to jump.

"He's watching us," Calista says, stopping in her tracks. Her eyes sweep the area. We're all frozen in the hallway. The house is abnormally dark as if the moonlight can't penetrate through the windows. The power to the house has been turned off at the breaker. The only light is from each of our flashlights. The team surrounds Papa and me, taking up all sides as we step into the living room. The sick-to-my-stomach feeling once again returns. My eyes scan the room, but I can't see anything. The room is quiet as we all hold our breath. I don't hear him, but George is probably using the music emanating from the great room to mask his movements.

Our base camp is set up in the middle of the living room where two days ago I was viciously attacked. It's really our only viable option as it's closest to the door and it is the only room in the house that doesn't look like a bomb went off in it. When they set up earlier they moved all the mattresses up against walls on their sides. The team sets down their backpacks and begin to pull out their handheld equipment. Adelaide says she is going to have a look at Lawson's wound.

Gunner places a bag down in front of Adelaide and she pulls out candle-lit lanterns just in case the flashlights stop working. She lights them up and some of the denseness of the room dissipates. Lawson is nursing his hand as Adelaide pulls out a medical kit out of her pack. She pulls out a little bottle, which I am assuming is some kind of disinfectant. Gingerly, he holds out his hand and she pours the liquid onto it. He bites his lip trying not to let on how much it's hurting him. He lets out a grunt and his hand shakes like he's having a seizure. Some of my earlier resentment toward him fades into sympathy as I remember how much pain I was in when Mama dressed my wounds. I notice in my peripheral vision that Gunner has turned his attention to Lawson. He's trying to suppress his amusement but is unable to. A strangled laugh comes out which he tries to turn into a cough, but Lawson is not deceived. Lawson narrows his eyes; the fury inside them seems to sweep over his features. Gunner does the same and up starts the pissing contest, dumbasses.

I find Calista off to the side staring intently at some of the broken family photos. Her forehead is creased in concentration. She clicks her tongue and turns on her heels and walks over to us. "Let's get started."

Papa and I are ordered by Calista to stay camped in the living room with her and Lawson. Meanwhile, Adelaide and Gunner leave to check on the equipment. Allan stayed back in the van to keep eyes on us in case George decides to try anything while we are setting up our first ceremony. Each of the team members has on a walkie-talkie with an earpiece and microphone. Papa and I don't need one since we'll be by Calista's side. Meaning if I need to use the restroom I'll have to bring Calista. Thus I have strongly resolved to hold it.

"Sea salt?" I ask.

"I'm going to use it to make a protective circle," Calista says, resting the box beside her bag. "Salt has purification and protective properties. If George decides to act up during the summoning of the Goddess then he won't be able to cross the circle." The next items to follow are four different colored candles. She explains to me that they each represent the four elements. She pulls out a bundle of herbs which she says we'll be using for the cleansing. It's composed of sage, cedar, and sweetgrass, which will all be used to cleanse the house. She lays the bundle on an abalone shell so when lit it will catch the embers.

To smudge you have to light the bundle, also called a stick, and you fan the smoke around the house—she's using a bird feather—and the smoke is said to remove negative energy. The sage is supposed to cleanse, heal, and bless the person, or place, or thing being smudged. Cedar is used as protection; it removes negative energy while protecting the person, place, or thing. The sweetgrass is supposed to be a reminder of how the earth provides us with everything we need.

"When you light the smudge, you always have to remember to use a lighter. Matches give off smoke that can interfere with the properties of the smudge stick, due to the chemicals used to make them."

Armed with the box of salt, Calista walks around us in a large circle. Spilling the salt as she goes—as she does this she also chants something in a language I can't understand—forming a line of salt. She does this three times, making sure she doesn't leave any breaks in the circle.

"If the circle has any gaps then George might be able to get through. And if anybody even lifts so much as a toe out of the circle during the ceremony, the circle will break and I can guarantee all hell will break loose." When she's done she radios the whole team to return back to the living room. When everyone has returned she reminds them not to break the line of salt while coming into the circle.

Calista gathers us around her in a loose semi-circle and sprinkles each of us with the blessed water while once more chanting. After we are all blessed she places all of the tools she will be using during the cleansing ceremony in the middle of the circle and then gathers us around.

"Gunner, take the ticket and place it down beside Mar," Calista orders. Gunner takes it from his pocket and puts it down. I strain my eyes and recognize it to be some kind of movie ticket.

"Movie ticket?"

"This was in your room. We needed something of Sage's to assure his protection."

"How's that represent Sage?"

"He bought it for you didn't he?"

"Yes."

"There you go."

Calista grabs the candles which she had set against the wall, places them on four sides of the circle, and lights them. Once the candles are lit she extinguishes the candle lanterns. The thick darkness has once again returned to the room; the candles only cast a little light.

Calista enters the circle and takes her place in between us and the cleansing objects forming the epicenter of our protective circle. She raises her arms and drops her head back and starts talking in a different language. She goes on like this for what seems like forever. At last she becomes silent. Calista's head is still hanging back but her arms have now dropped limply to her sides. She starts convulsing.

Uneasy, I try to back away from Calista, but Allan catches me by my elbow. Let go of me, you idiot! I think. Allan conveys a whisper of reassurance that everything is all right. His demeanor appears to match his words, so I hold my place, trying to choke down the fear steadily building inside of me. The shaking stops. Her body slopes forward and she lets out a gasp, her body tenses. The candles flicker and go out leaving us in total darkness. Calista lets out a yelp. At this point I want to take flight, but Papa and Allan hold on to me. I can't see in front of me, my eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness. I hear a loud crash in the far corner of the room, followed by a crunch. Zoom. Something flies past our heads and is smashed into a wall.

I hear the click of a lighter. We all look like distorted figures as shadows dance around the room while the candles are relit. The abalone shell laid on the ground makes a scraping sound as someone picks it up. I then get a whiff of sage as someone fans the smoke. "We ask Father and our beloved Mother for your love to flow in this place," Adelaide says. Without hesitation, we all repeat.

Someone lights a lantern. As the room lightens a little more, Allan gets to work on the rest of the lanterns and in a moment's time we are immersed in light.

"Calista?" the team calls out, but there is no response. Calista has disappeared and there is a break in the circle as if George lured her out. Allan fiddles with his walkie-talkie trying to reach her, but all he can get is static. Gunner and Lawson start a search party. Meanwhile, the techies, Papa, and I head out to the van to check the monitors.

"Nothing but static," Allan says after several failed attempts at re-establishing the camera feed from within the house. He lets out an exaggerated sigh of frustration. Everything seems to be going haywire. The laptop lets out this rumble of static and then the screens are back on. The screens are divided into different sections of the house.

"There," Papa points out while hovering over the couple. Calista is standing in the middle of the attic in a dreamlike state. Her hair is in disarray, her hands are by her sides, and she is butt naked. She is covered in blood. It runs down her arms and her legs, ending up in a pool. Long scratches run down her body. On the left side of her face is a scratch that starts from the outer tip of her eyebrow to the corner of her lip. Her skin is pale and her eyes are swollen and glazed over. Vomit is dripping down her mouth, covering her bare chest, mingling with the blood. Yet, the smile she has been wearing hasn't wiped off.

"Oh My God!" I exclaim. We all jump. In a split second her face appears close up to the camera, distortedly rounded, staring into it as if she can see us.

"Can she hear us?" Papa asks. Calista leans her head in closer to the camera. Allan shakes his head no and Calista's eyes follow. Allan grabs the pencil laid next to his hand and moves it from side to side. Calista's eyes follow the pencil. I watch as his face loses all color.

Adelaide speaks into her walkie-talkie, "We have a visual on Calista."

"Where is she?" Gunner asks relieved.

"She's in the attic."

We watch on the screen as the door opens behind Calista, welcoming the chary Lawson and Gunner in. They lead her down the stairs to the upstairs hall. Calista's lips move repetitively, uttering a mute statement. Then all the screens turn to static.

We all get out of the van and race toward them, sending ravens scattering as we shuffle through them.

"Did you see what happened?" Lawson asks as we rejoin them in the hall outside Mama and Papa's room.

"Not at all, the screen went blank and then there she was," Allan answers.

"He calls to me," Calista murmurs.

"George?" I ask.

"He calls to me." Her expression is blank.

"Let's get her cleaned up," Adelaide says. Adelaide and I take her into my parent's bathroom. The men guard the bathroom door, as Adelaide and I try to help Calista into the tub. She still hasn't stopped repeating, "He calls to me," and it is starting to play on my nerves.

The faucet makes this loud rumbling sound as I turn it on and in place of water a steady flow of roaches bursts forth, filling the tub. Within seconds they start to cover Calista's body like a living blanket. Adelaide and I both start screaming in unison. Papa and Allan burst through the door, meanwhile the cockroaches scurry up our arms. Frantically, I wave my arms around smashing them into the walls. I dig my fingers underneath them and I toss them onto the ground. I stomp on them. The bugs let out a gross crunching sound under my foot. I jump up and down, but they are everywhere. Calista is blanketed in them. Some of them are crawling into her mouth; the smaller ones make their way into her nostrils. Her mouth is moving, forming what has now become her mantra, but I can't hear her between Adelaide and my shrieks. The cockroaches are pouring out of the tub. Papa and Allan are still trying to make sense of what is happening.

"Help her!" I screech, pointing to Calista. Papa bolts in and turns off the faucet while Allan grabs Calista's hand and hoists her out of the tub. Gunner barges in and helps tow her to safety. I jet out the bathroom door after them. Lawson races past me and comes back with a hand towel which he then uses to swipe the bugs off of Calista. Papa helps swat off the roaches climbing on my back as I kick off the remaining roaches trying to swarm up my legs. I'm finally bug-free. Allan is currently in the process of ridding Adelaide of her last roach while the boys battle Calista's persistent swarm. There really is no way to stop the bugs from spilling out of the bathroom, so once the boys have managed to rid Calista of her last roach we clothe her in Papa's robe and retreat downstairs to the living room.

Once we reach the living room, Allan heads over to his camera to see what it caught. "Goddamn it!" Allan yells.

I turn to see what he's looking at. I let out a sigh. The tripod is bent out of shape and broken glass is littered on the floor. Allan races over to the other side of the room where earlier we heard an object crash into the wall, not surprisingly, we find the camera.

"It's totaled as well," he grumbles as he turns it in his hand. It's an old-fashioned film camera but with a motion detector attached to it. The lens is busted, the film is shredded, and the camera is crushed. "That's no help," he grunts as he throws it back onto the floor.

"Y'all having a party without me?" a voice calls out from behind us. I turn to see Sage standing at the entrance of the living room. "What's with all the birds?"

"What the ... happened to her?" I ask, staring at the dazed and confused Calista who is rambling on, "He calls to me." She is coated in what looks to be blood and all she has on is a bathrobe.

"Anyone wanna fill me in?"

Mar clues me in. When she finishes we both turn our attention back to the discussion. Allan is now in charge since our leader has been taken out and both dumb and dumber declined the job. Now what are our odds of getting out of here alive?

"Your house is fucked!" I say without thinking and then I catch Mr. Utterson's eye. "Pardon my French." I smile nervously.

"No shit, Sherlock," Mr. Utterson responds.

"Do we have a plan?"

"Yes. The plan is that we all stick together. Lawson, you take care of Calista and make sure she doesn't wander off. The rest of us will go ahead with the cleansing."

"Got it," Lawson says as he begins towing Calista out of the room toward the front door.

Adelaide blocks the exit. "No, you don't. You have to keep her in here. She's covered in blood. If the ravens catch a whiff of her they might attack." He grudgingly listens and brings her back, swearing under his breath. Chicken-shit, I bet the second he got into the van he would have driven off.

"I think we should start the cleansing process," Allan says, noticeably unsure of himself. I'd be too if I were in his shoes. We can all see what befell their last fearless leader. Allan picks up a giant seashell from off the floor and sticks what sorta looks like a small hay bundle inside it.

"What's that?" I ask.

"This is sage, cedar, and sweetgrass. I will light them and let the smoke drive out all negative energy. Who has a lighter?" Gunner pulls one out and hands it over to Allan. Allan is just about to light the bundle when he stops. "What's that sound?" he asks. Everybody becomes still, listening hard.

"It sounds like—" Mar begins to say.

Ravens slam into the windows, breaking the glass, letting an endless stream of birds fly in. Like a dense black sheet, they cover us. The smell of smoke fills the air as they knock over lanterns. Somehow, over the flapping of the wings, I hear someone howl in pain. I stumble blindly—desperately searching for Mar—not daring to uncover my face in fear that they will go after my eyes. The bird's long sharp claws dig into the exposed parts of my face and they persist at pecking at my ears. I use one arm to cover my eyes as I swat them away. "Fuck off already!" I trip over something. I don't pick myself up, it's probably better on the ground where they can only attack my back. I cover my head with my hands and I grit my teeth as the ravens continue to peck at me and claw my back, ripping holes in my shirt.

Seconds pass, then all at once I stop feeling them. The flapping of their wings no longer fill my ears. I look up. They're gone just as fast as they had come. Most of them anyhow; a dozen or so lay dead on the ground. A red haze illuminates the air caused by the small fires.

I hear a loud moan coming from behind me. I turn to see Lawson leaning against the wall. His hand cradles his badly bleeding eye. I come closer to him, leaning in to get a better look. He seems to be missing a small chunk of his left ear, but he doesn't seem to notice. Gunner comes to his side, pushing me out of the way. "Talk to me, man!" he pleads.

"Dude, I can't see anything out of my eye," he groans.

"You'll be all right, buddy," Gunner promises.

I stand and scan the room for the others. Mr. Utterson, Allan, and Adelaide are stomping out small fires that were started by the lanterns that were knocked over. They all look fine, just a few cuts and scrapes. Lawson's the only one seriously injured. What did he do to piss them off?

I scan the room for Mar. I don't see her or Calista.

"Shit, where's Mar?" I say frantically, catching the attention of Mr. Utterson. Fuck, not again! Why does it always have to be her?

"Where's Calista?" Gunner asks Lawson.

"Marimar! Calista!" we all shout. No answer.

"Maybe they took cover in the van?" Gunner suggests.

"Or the birds were a distraction so George could take them!" Mr. Utterson says, panic-stricken. Since the lanterns were destroyed he takes a flashlight to go look for the girls. The rest of us follow his example.

I rush to the front door and carefully crack it open to peer outside. "All of the birds are gone!" I call back to everyone as I open the door and step outside to see if they're just hiding. Gone, not a single one left.

"Adelaide, take Lawson to the hospital," Allan directs. Allan rushes Adelaide and Lawson to the suburban and then we regroup by the stairs.

"I think our best bet is that they're both in the attic where Calista was found earlier," I say. I'm the first one to reach the steps, followed by Mr. Utterson. Halfway up the stairs, we hear a gut-wrenching scream coming from downstairs. Mar! What could it be doing to her?

"I'm coming, baby!" Mr. Utterson shouts. Turning abruptly, his elbow catches Gunner in the nose knocking him into the wall. I push him out of the way and run behind Mr. Utterson, my stomach twisting. We make it to the downstairs hall. Where could she be?

"The basement!" I shout.

"Pap—!" Her scream is cut short. Did he kill her? Halfway down the hall, Allan and Mr. Utterson are still ahead of Gunner and me. Gunner and I try to get there faster by cutting through the dining room, but the table and china closet are blocking the entryway to the breakfast room. We fight our way through to the breakfast room and make it a few seconds after Mr. Utterson and Allan. Mr. Utterson and Allan have just entered the cellar when the door slams shut behind them. I try turning the doorknob, but it won't budge.

"She's not in here!" Mr. Utterson shouts. Just then, we hear a loud bang upstairs over our heads. I'll be damned, another diversion. "Go and find them, we'll be all right."

We head out of the kitchen, creeping slowly down the halls ensuring we don't run blindly into another trap. I can feel him watching us, lurking somewhere in the shadows; just waiting to take us out. I listen carefully for any sounds indicating another attack. As we walk further on, a door slams behind us causing us to jump. We flash the lights around but there is nobody there. "Do you think they got out?" Gunner asks.

"I don't think that's them," I say.

We increase our pace, flashing the light this way and that. We hurry up the stairs.

"I think the attic is this way," I say, leading to a hall I haven't been to.

"Keep going," Gunner directs. "The stairs are past the parents' room. It's where we found Calista. I set up cameras and motion sensors there this afternoon too, but nothing is working right."

As we go down the hall the temperature begins to decline. I can see my breath in front of me. We make a turn and head down another hallway. As we are still walking my flashlight dims, then goes out.

"No, no, no!" I say. I stop and bang on my dead flashlight in a sad attempt to turn the light back on. "Come on," I plead with it. "Shit, the batteries died," I inform Gunner. I stick it in my pocket. I'll use it as a weapon if needed, "Piece of shit."

"Look on the—"

"If you say 'look on the bright side,' I swear I'll pop your ass."

We walk in silence.

"What was that?" I say, jumping back.

"What?" Gunner asks as he waves around his flashlight.

"I thought I saw a shadow run past me."

"Like that," he scoffs, pointing to my shadow.

"No, dumbass, it was the size of a child's."

"You're just seeing shit. Shut up and keep walking," he snaps back. "Amateur."

As I am walking, something in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I stop to look. A shiver runs down my spine. On the wall there are three shadows. I spin around. There is nobody behind me, but the shadow says differently.

"Gunner," I choke out.

"What?" he asks annoyed, turning to look at me. I point at the wall. He lets out a gasp as he gapes at the shadow. He looks back at me and then back at the wall. As we stand there dumbfounded, our only working flashlight begins to dim until it turns completely off. Leaving us in complete darkness. Gunner's desperately banging on it, chanting, "Come on baby, come on baby." It pays off. The light turns back on, but the shadow disappears.

"Shit."

"Fuck. Where'd it go?" he shouts. He frantically flashes the light around but there still is no sign of the shadow. Without saying anything, we bolt like lightning. The light bouncing around the walls creates a strobe light effect making it hard to see where we are. Somehow I manage to see the attic stairs coming into view. Abruptly, the light goes out again. I stop in my tracks to adjust my eyes. I turn around to face Gunner, but he's not behind me. I can't even hear him panting.

"Gunner?" Dead silence. "Gunner?" Again no answer. You've got to be fucking kidding me. I start retracing our steps. I trip over a flashlight on the floor. I pick it up. That's not good. In the distance I hear a weird noise. I repeatedly tap the flashlight against my palm, directing it toward the sounds. The light flashes on exposing Gunner's legs kicking in the air frantically a few feet off the ground. My eyes are drawn upwards to the horrifying sight of Gunner dangling from what looks to be an invisible noose around his neck. His face is red, his eyes show utter panic, and his lips are beginning to turn blue. I know I have to do something fast, but how do I cut him down from an invisible noose?

"Hold on, I'll get you down!" I promise. What to do? What to do? I circle around him. That's when I notice again on the wall there is a third figure. Mine, Gunner's, and George's shadow hovering over Gunner. His hands are around Gunner's throat. Gunner desperately claws at the invisible hands, but it does no good. His face begins to turn blue and his lips are purple. If I don't stop the attack, he's going to die before my eyes. Ideas begin to race through my mind. One sticks. After years of attending Sunday school and being drilled prayers and passages, one prayer, in particular, comes to mind. I have a fifty-fifty chance of it working, or pissing George off even more. But it's all I got. Gunner's on the brink of unconsciousness. I begin to recite The Lord's Prayer.

"'Our Father which art in heaven ...'"

"Shut up!" George growls at me. But I keep going.

"'... Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come ...'" It's working, the shadow is beginning to shrink. "'... Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our ...'" Suddenly, George releases Gunner's throat and he drops to the ground unconscious. I continue, "'... daily bread.'" I feel hands around my throat closing my airway. Now he's pissed. I keep calm and mouth the rest of the words. 'And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.'

"Shut up!" George is beginning to loosen his grip.

'And lead us not into temptation ...' He lets go of my throat. I catch my breath and keep going. "'... but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory ...'" I begin to go faster as I'm about to finish up. "For ever. Amen."

I pick up the flashlight and search around the room, but there's no sign of his presence. The temperature in the room is beginning to rise. The prayer worked! Why didn't I think about that before?

"You stay here," I address Gunner as he's beginning to come to. He nods in approval, not even having the energy to speak. I take one last look at him. I feel guilty about leaving him here in his condition, but I have no choice. I have to go save the girl I love.

The birds fly in, covering our view of each other. They come at us from all angles. The sound of wings beating against each other fills my ears with their chaotic rhythm. I let go of Papa's hand, trying to use my arm to shield my face. With the other hand I swing my flashlight around knocking birds away but more replace the ones that I had cleared. I keep at it until a large group of them rush at me. The ravens push me back. My body thuds against somebody else's.

"Come on, sweetie, we got to get you out of here," Calista says; somehow managing to whisper in my ear. The chaos seems to have snapped her out of her trance. I try to pull away, not wanting to leave Papa or Sage. "They'll be all right. It's you he wants remember?" Calista grabs my hand and leads me blindly toward the general direction of the hall. I cover my head as we push through the birds. They claw and peck at us every chance they get. One grabs a strand of my hair and yanks it.

"Ow!" I cry out. I use one hand to swat at it. I don't realize that we're out of the living room until Calista starts pulling me up the stairs. How can she even see? I hear someone cry out in pain. Who was that? What's happening to Papa? Sage? The others? When we begin to approach the landing the birds begin to thin out as if they are being pulled back for some strange reason. When we reach the landing they stop altogether. I whip around and see the birds staring at us intently. They continue to flap their wings, ready to attack, but they don't approach. They act as if the landing is some invisible boundary that they cannot cross. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think they corralled us up here. I turn to tell Calista, "I think they—" Wham! Calista strikes me.

"Ooh." My head is throbbing. I attempt to rub the sore spot, but I can't move my hands. Why is that? I open my eyes. I find I can't move my hands or legs, nor can I speak. My hands and legs are bound. My voice is restricted by a gag. I turn my head a little to the side. My eyes take a moment to adjust. As they focus I see Calista walking around the room. Her back is turned against me. Everything in the room has been pushed back to the walls. What is going on here? I try to make sense of it all. I try to remember the last thing that had happened. That's when the memory floods back. It all makes sense. The way she could find her way in all the chaos. How she led me upstairs instead of taking me outside. That's not Calista.

"Yer awake," George says through Calista carelessly. "Girl, ya ain't as ignorant as ya look. Now don't look at me all bamboozled. Ya came on yer own accord," he says, before clicking his tongue at me.

Calista walks toward me with a canister of lighter fluid and pours it in a circle around me. My only act of defiance is to stare him down, but this only makes him look more self-satisfied. He's going to drag my death out. God, save me!

In fear I begin to pray in my head. Please, God, help me! If you don't mind, now would be a good time to send one of your angels!

"Filthy whore! God said, '... the soul that turneth after such as have familiar spirits, and after wizards, to go a whoring after them, I will even set my face against that soul, and will cut him off from among his people.' And, 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' I believe ya know the consequence of being a witch. Witches burn."

I flip him off. I'm going to die and he's already going to torture me to death. What more can he do to me?

George continues, "'... the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone ...'"

He uses her body to light a match and throws it onto the lighter fluid. Promptly, I am engulfed in a circle of flames. Calista's eyes are aglow.

Just then, I hear a loud crash as the attic door explodes open and in comes Sage. Thank you, God! The flames are starting to rise. The world seems to freeze. Through the flickering of the flames, I can see Sage's eyes are on me. Horror flashes across his face as he sees my predicament.

Don't just stand there, do something! I think. The flames are starting to spread toward me. Hurry! I scream in my head.

Crash! Sage's body slams into Calista as he tackles her to the ground. Sage tries to pin her down, but she manages to wriggle one arm free and scratch him across the face. Sage gets hold of her arm and regains control.

"'Our father ...'" Sage begins.

"Shut up!" George shrieks.

Just then, Papa and Allan run into the room. But there's no time to celebrate. I'm still in danger of being burned.

"Help!" I cry out only to be muffled by the gag. It hurts to breathe. My nose and throat are stinging. My lungs are on fire. My eyes are watering. Sweat is beading on my forehead. A flame licks at my shoe. Without delay I smother it out. The wall of flames is inching its way toward me. All I can hear is the crackling of the blaze. I feel a tingling sensation on my back. In an effort to kill the spark I roll a little on my back, quenching it. Sizzle.

"Aah!" My hair! I watch helplessly as the flames eat away at my curls. Rashly, I fling about trying to douse the flames but that only makes things worse. Whoosh. A large packing blanket envelops me, suffocating the flames. I feel a pair of hands tuck the blanket so that it's hugging my body. The blanket is then removed. Papa is standing over me, to my right Allan is in the process of stomping out the last embers as he has doused the flames with another packing blanket. Calista is still being pinned down by Sage, but she is no longer struggling.

Papa pulls my gag off, he then pulls out his knife and unbinds me. Thank God that's over!

I give Papa a quick hug.

"Are you hurt?"

"No. Is she dead?" I ask, looking over to where Calista/George is at.

"No, she's just out cold."

"Sorry to break up the family reunion, but I'm going to need your assistance. Marimar, you are going to help say the prayer," Allan says. I race over to him. He takes off his backpack and pulls out candles, a box of salt, a smudge stick, and a lighter. He hands me the box of salt. He directs me to go around in a circle and pour it around Sage and Calista. As I begin, Calista's eyes pop open. He/she thrashes in Sage's arms so much that Papa has to step in and help him. When I'm finished with the salt Allan has me light candles around the circle, leaving a gap for the boys to exit out of.

"Okay, now on the count of three, Mr. Utterson, Sage, you are going to let go of her and step out of the circle."

"What!?" the three of us turn to him and ask. Did I hear him correctly? He wants them to let go?

"Are you fucking crazy?" Sage asks. I did hear him correctly.

"Trust me, he can't cross." They still look unsure, but they get ready to move. "One ... two." Everybody is tense. "Three. Do it now!"

They both let go and jump out of the circle. Calista supernaturally rises to her feet. I jump back as she runs toward me only to be knocked down on her back by an invisible wall. It worked! She spits on the ground in frustration. Papa and Sage take defensive positions on either side of me. A moment of relief washes over me, only to be broken.

"This can't hold me!" he shouts. We pull back, but Papa keeps my hand. He's probably never going to let me out of his sight again.

"We're not done," Allan remarks shakily. He places the remaining candles in the gap the men escaped through outside the salt. He then slips out of his pocket a piece of paper and hands it to me. "Read this. Everybody repeat after her."

"'Preserve me, O God: for in thee do I put my trust.' Knoweth thee as thou knew my father Adam and my mother Eve. Grant me thy refuge O Lord and covereth me with thy shield. Separateth me from the darkness as thou separateth the light, so I too may be good. Blessed be."

"I asketh for the blood of thy Son to cleanse me from the stain of mine own sins and the sins of my father and the sins of my land, and cast out the snake from my garden so my soul may be pure and my body may be fit to serve as thy temple.

"Shut up ya bitch!" George screams directly at me. The entire time we've been praying he's been hurling obscenities at each member of our party in an attempt to break our concentration.

"Sendeth thy warring angels to guard the four corners so they might delivereth me, and with their flaming swords banish all evil."

"No! No! Damn y'all, no! I ain't going. Y'all can't make me!"

"Keep going."

"May the souls of the wretched be saved through Christ's salvation as I release them unto thou. Blessed Be. Blessed Be."

"Shut up!"

"Heal me O Goddess with thy maternal touch. Bless me Mother as Father blessed me and bestow upon me thy nurture. Grant me thy peace. Allow my body to be thy vessel so thy love may flow through me and into this place, so I too may heal. Blessed be. Blessed be. Blessed be.

"With the strength of the Father, the Mother, and the Son I am now made whole."

"Now everyone close your eyes and take a deep breath. Good. Now on your next inhale, I want you to count up to ten filling in your lungs. When you exhale, I want everyone to imagine a door appearing inside the circle. See the color of the door, what it's made out of," Allan instructs.

"Y'all are gonna pay for this!"

"Imagine the door opening and a brilliant white light shining out of it, feel the warmth on your skin and the radiating peace and love seeping into your body. Now imagine George leaving through it. Marimar, tell George to leave."

"Please don't do this!" George begs, "The light burns! Yer sending me straight to hell!"

My knees are almost buckling with fear as I say, "George, I want you to leave. I'm sorry but this is not your home any longer, this is mine and you no longer have any business here. You've suffered enough. I think it's time for you to rest. I know your family hurt you, but that was a long time ago. It wasn't your fault they did those things to you. It was your parents. God does not want you to be in pain, and you're only hurting yourself by staying here. Go to the light! Please, George, go to the light!"

"Nooo!"

Calista's body slumps to the floor.

"Calista?" Allan asks. Everybody leans forward. Did it work? Calista sits up unsteadily.

"Where am I?" she asks, still dazed.

"Wait, how do we know it's not a trick?" Papa asks.

"If it's a trick she won't be able to pass the salt," Allan responds calmly.

"What's going on? What happened?" she asks, hoisting up the collar of the bathrobe that was flashing part of her boob. Clutching the fabric conservatively around her chest.

"Calista, if you will come toward us," Allan requests. Papa wraps his arm protectively around me. Sage is standing between Calista and me, blocking her. Everybody backs away as Calista attempts to exit the circle. She crosses the circle of salt. Calista's back! It worked!

"Don't worry, we'll answer all your questions later," Allan promises. "Just in case, keep your eyes on her," he whispers to Sage.

"It's safer if you stick with me," Sage says to Calista, looping his arm with hers.

"Okay," Calista answers.

"Now we will smudge," Allan says, holding up the smudge stick. "This will make certain he won't come back." He pulls out a shell from his backpack and then a feather. With a shaky hand he lights the smudge stick over the shell. He allows the stick to smolder. He fans the smoke onto me starting from my feet to my head and from my front to my back. He then hands me the shell and the feather and directs me to fan the smoke onto each of them the same way he did me. He instructs me to chant, "All negative energy, I command you to leave in the name of the Divines," for the duration of the smudging.

Allan has me go around the room counter-clockwise smudging every corner, while the gang gathers their stuff. Allan, Papa, and I go through every room; working our way from the attic, to the second floor, to the first floor, then the cellar, and finally to the front of the house until every nook and cranny in the whole home is filled with smoke. Allan opens the front door for me.

"All negative energy, I command you to leave now!" Allan has me wave the smoke out for a minute longer before I'm allowed to snuff out the stick.

"It's gone," he pronounces wearily.

Nobody says anything. We stand unspeaking, unmoving, staring at the open door, watching the remnants of smoke disperse into the dark sky taking with it the spirit of my tormenter and emptying the house of the dark shroud that had been hanging over the house and my family since we moved here. It's gone.

The air is light, peaceful. I feel ... relief but shouldn't I be ecstatic? I feel sort of happy, I can't deny that, but strangely ... mostly, I feel exhausted. But there's something else ... some feeling I can't explain ... something I can't seem to shake. I think that maybe, I'm just ... in shock.

I mean it felt like this would never end and now it's just ... over? It's almost unbelievable.

All of a sudden, I feel myself being lifted in the air. The next thing I know I'm being swung around; held tightly in Sage's arms. He's laughing and is in high spirits. He puts me back on the ground. And then it happens. Before I can react, he kisses me.

For a fleeting moment his warm lips are pressed against mine and I feel that shock of ecstasy I had been missing and then ... Papa pulls him back from his shirt collar separating us.

"Not on my watch."

Sage's eyes widen as the realization of what he had just done hits him. "I-I—"

"Sage, give me a hand with the equipment?" Calista asks mercifully. She walks over and loops her arm with his. She sneaks me a wink.

Thank you, I think. She nods in reply.

"Right," he says relieved. He avoids making eye contact with Papa as do I.

"I'm going to go help them ... a, yeah." I reach on my tip-toes and give Papa a quick kiss and a hug before I follow after them.

Life is great. Texas is growing on me. Well, Sage is anyway. I still can't stand the heat and I long for the mountains. It took almost a week to clean up the mess. It was actually really entertaining watching Papa try to make up stories for the window repairman who kept finding blood and feathers. I think that's why he and Sage did all the other repairs themselves. Papa kept him so busy we never saw each other when he was around. Luckily, Mama made sure we had some time together, but not too much so Papa wouldn't freak. It was great having Sage under the same roof while it lasted. Two weeks ago he moved out. Papa has a court date for him to be declared independent and a friend of Papa's at work had a rental property in town he was willing to let Sage rent. Of course, I'm not allowed to go to his place, but that's okay. I can wait until I'm eighteen. Speaking of gaining independence, Sage's mom agreed to let Oscar live with Sage and let Sage adopt him when he becomes legally an adult in exchange for keeping Bubba out of jail.

Sunshine is back to her normal self, totally unfazed, except she no longer has any invisible friends. Thank God. It was truly a blessing that she was spared from almost all of the horrific events by her ability, like most children, to sleep through anything. Mama and Papa still have nightmares, and Mama refuses to be left alone in the house.

I still have nightmares; mostly about the cleansing night ... when it went bad. Calista called again today. She said I can expect to keep having bad dreams because it was a very traumatic experience, but that they should become less frequent and less severe in time. That gives me something to look forward to. She even told me how I can get rid of them faster, but here's the catch. To do so I'd have to accept my gifts and learn more about the spiritual realm. She's really anxious to have me start training with her. I keep putting her off though, as I really don't think I want to help spirits "cross over" after my first mission as a Daughter of Light.

Calista told me the team has all but recovered. Except for Lawson, who suffered a detached retina. They were able to reattach it, but he lost some of his peripheral vision and has a nasty scar.

On a different note, Sage is working almost every night trying to save up enough to buy furniture, to pay the rent, and to cover the legal fees. He's working late again tonight so I'll see him in the morning when he picks up Oscar—we watch him when Sage is working and my parents babysit when we go out. I'm still healing from some of the wounds George gave me so tonight I'm going to bed early so I look rested when I see Sage in the morning. Sunshine is already asleep and Trevor is snoring next to her. Please let me sleep through the night ...

"Marisol!" I scream, terrified by what the creature is doing to her. I can't run. I can't move. I'm helpless. Invisible bonds keep me from her.

"Mawimaw," she sobs. "Mawimaw, help me!" she wails.

The sickly gray creature just smiles; revealing its jagged yellow teeth. Marisol is suspended a few inches off the ground, appearing as if bound by invisible ropes. The lanky emaciated creature circles around her as if evaluating its prey; coming to a stop directly in front of her. It grabs her top jaw with one hand and with the other it grabs her bottom. What the hell is it doing?

"Leave her alone!" I scream.

The creature pulls her jaws apart. Marisol screams and wails. The corners of her mouth start tearing apart. Noooo!

"You bastard!"

Marisol's eyes widen in terror. Tears pour out. The demon's body contorts as it pulls itself into her through her mouth. Marisol? What is it doing to her? Marisol convulses as her joints pop out of place, and her bones snap and reconfigure. It's killing her from the inside. I watch as horns pierce through and extend from her scalp, blood pours out from the perforations. Her fingers lengthen, claws rip through her skin replacing her fingertips. My Sunshine's legs elongate and bow like a dog standing on its hind legs. As her eyes roll back, they leave only the blank whites showing. Then a set of inhuman glowing red eyes roll down in their place and stare back at me.

The monster smiles and then it bolts straight at me.

I awaken from my own scream. Fresh tears blur my vision as my eyes try to make sense of my surroundings. It's dark out. I hope I didn't wake Mama and Papa as I do most nights. I don't have to worry about waking up Marisol, nothing ever wakes her up. I don't hear anyone coming, so I guess I'm good. I turn over and my fingers feel for Marisol's body but all I find is the still warm bedding. "Marisol?" I call out.

I sit up ramrod straight only to see a small figure standing at the foot of my bed. "Marisol?" I ask nervously. No answer. What if it's not Marisol? But who else could it be? George is gone. Is it possible she could be sleepwalking? I keep my eyes on the figure as I reach, with a shaky hand, for my flashlight on the bedside table. I turn it on in the direction of the figure, revealing Marisol.

I let out a sigh of relief. "Sunshine, you scared me. Did I wake you up?"

She doesn't answer but stares at me with a strange expression. She's standing perfectly still; her head is tilted to the side. Her skin is ashen and her face is beginning to twitch. She keeps her eyes fastened with mine, unblinking.

"What are you doing out of bed?" I ask. I am beginning to think I am still trapped in a nightmare.

"How did you like your nightmare I gave you?" Marisol asks, grinning. "Did you understand it?" she says sweetly.

"What?" Her speech impediment, what the fuck happened to her ...?

Marisol's features distort and a demonic voice spews from her mouth, "We have begun!"

END OF BOOK ONE

Thank you Adonai (God), Jesus, and God's Angels, for guiding us along in this endeavor. Thank you to Joseph, Annabel, and Helen for haunting us.

Thank you to Katie Hobson and her wicked editing skills.

A special thanks to our number one fans, our parents, who encouraged us to finish what we started and helped us on our way!
