The Ghost Files

Chapter Eleven

Part II:  Lies

The sound of thunder wakes me. My room is pitch-black and I rub my eyes. The hard sound of rain beating at the walls and the roof drowns out the room's white noise. I can't sleep without some kind of white noise. Never could, not even when I was little. I can hear the wind whipping the trees outside into a frenzy. We live at the end, on a cul-de-sac. Behind the house is a small forest that wraps around the entire neighborhood. I can hear the trees wailing even over the sound of the storm, which is odd.

My eyes roam blearily to the clock. It's 5:47 a.m. Dear God, almost time to get up. Can't believe I agreed to a 7 a.m. meeting of the minds with Dan. It's unheard of to get up this early on a Saturday morning. The alarm is set to go off in exactly thirteen minutes. Do I go ahead and get up or lay here waiting for the alarm to go off? I'm fond of option two. I got into the habit of it around foster home six. You lay half awake, half asleep and just watch the clock. It's weird, but I love it. Your thoughts wander, never resting on any one thing.

There is one thought I can't get away from. Why haven't I seen Sally again? Mary seems to find me without problem, but not Sally. I've only seen her the one time at the party, but not since. I don't know if that's good or bad. Sally never was much of a fighter. What if she just gave up? Is that why she isn't trying to find me now? She thinks everyone has given up on her? That bothers me more than anything. What if it were me? What if I thought no one even cared enough to look for me? I'd be pretty depressed, too. Can ghosts even get depressed? I don't think so, but who really knows?

I've been immersing myself in the world of spooks, reading everything I can get my hands on. I even went to the library. Normally, the only time I visit a library is for school projects like a huge research paper. And even that's pretty rare, since I get most information I need online. There is another reason I avoid the library. It's the smell of the old books; it reminds me of my mom. She loved to read and would read aloud to me every night – even when she was high as a kite. I ended up trying to read the book. It was a tradition for her, for us.

My mom has been on my mind a lot the last couple of days. All the ghost activity makes me wonder why I've never seen her. I mean she's dead and all. It stands to reason I should have seen her, at least once. Right? Is she avoiding me? Ashamed of what she did or just sorry she didn't finish what she started? Some part of me wants to ask her those questions, but another part doesn't. What if I don't like what she'd tell me? Sometimes not knowing is its own kind of hell, but thinking about knowing the truth – would it make things worse or better?  I think I'll stick with not knowing – for now, anyway.

I glance at the clock and smack the alarm button off. 5:59. I yawn and stretch before hauling myself out of bed and heading to the closet. Where is that old UNC sweatshirt? Then I flip on the light and rummage. I find it and yank, causing a small box to fall down and smack me in the head. "Ow." Grumbling, I bend down to pick it up. The contents have spilled out. I freeze as my eyes land on the picture staring up at me. It's the one of me and my mom, the one before she flipped out. Our faces are side by side. I was about two. Strange that we look so normal. I'm all smiles and she's laughing at whoever is taking the picture. I've often wondered if that person was my dad.

She is so beautiful in that picture. I don't look a thing like her. She has blonde hair and brown eyes. I have dark brown hair and hazel eyes. Her coloring is a bit darker than mine too. She used to smile so much, before the drugs. In the end her eyes were dull and lifeless. She looked about ten years older than she really was too. It was definitely the drugs. That stuff burns you out, makes you older than you really are. I won't touch that crap. I've seen what drugs can do. When you see the damage firsthand, you'll never, ever even think about trying them.