The Ghost Files V2

Chapter One

*** DISCLAIMER:  ONLY THE FIRST FIVE CHAPTERS ARE PUBLISHED DUE TO PUBLISHING CONTRACT RESTRICTIONS  ***

"Go away," I hiss, trying to ignore the elderly lady staring at me. Her eyes are so clouded with cataracts it's hard to determine their color. Iron gray hair hangs in stringy waves down her back. The ratty old nightgown she's wearing has stains on it. Her lips thin at my whispered command.

"Mattie Hathaway, did you turn the air conditioner down again?"

I wince at the anger in Joan's voice. She's determined to keep the power bill at or below fifty bucks a month, which means we suffocate in the Charlotte heat. The ghost opens her mouth again and I glare her into silence. Every freaking time one of them shows up and the temperature takes a nose dive, I get blamed for turning down the thermostat. Ghosts are good for nothing except causing me trouble.

It's not like I can come out and tell her it's not my fault, it's the ghost. She'd ship me off to the loony bin so fast my head would spin. I don't go around confessing I've been able to see the little buggers since my mom tried to kill me when I was five.

"Why the hell is it so cold in here?" Joan demands, coming into what she calls the living room, but is more like a corner of a box.

The tiny, cramped apartment looks clean on the surface. The walls hold no decorations and the furniture is plain and utilitarian. The gray carpet has a few spots, but otherwise is clean, but that's only because I clean it. Busted up hands or not, she makes me work.

Joan Myers, my latest foster mother, does not impress me. She's in her mid-forties, twenty pounds overweight, and her bottle blonde hair is messy. Her face has a permanent frown on it. As bad as she looks, Joan can't be worse than the foster mother who turned out to be a serial killer and tried to kill me.

Joan's voice is high and nasally like she's on the powder train. I so hope she's not a hidden junkie. I won't deal with that ever again. My mom was a heroin addict and I know what that does to a person. I refuse to put up with it ever again. Although most junkies are paper thin, Joan here isn't afraid to over indulge, so maybe I'm wrong. I haven't actually found any drugs...yet. I've only been here for two weeks.

"Don't know," I shrug and flip the page in Star Magazine. Seems Kim Kardashian is trying to use her kid for even more press coverage. North? Really? Why would she name the poor kid that? I shake my head in disgust. Celebrities.

Joan stalks over to the thermostat and lets out a string of curse words. I'm pretty sure the thermostat is still set on eighty. She starts mumbling about broken things and hauls up the phone to call the building's super. I feel sorry for the poor man. Joan can be a pain in the rear when she wants to be.

My ghost seems to take offense to me ignoring her and gets right up in my face. I cringe back. I hate it when they touch me. The cold they bring with them hurts, but more than that I can feel what they're feeling. This old lady is desperate for her son to know she forgives him for what he did to her. Judging by the cigarette burn scars on her arms, I'm not so sure she should forgive him.

"Not now," I whisper and glance at Joan, who is still arguing with the super.

"Please," she wails. "He needs to know that I forgive him."

Since I started talking to the spooks a few months ago, they all seem to think I'm their personal messenger. Uh, no. I tried ignoring them again, like I used to, but it's useless. They know I can see them now. Ghosts are the worst gossips I've ever seen.

"If you freaking don't leave me alone right now, I will contact your son and tell him you despise him and will never forgive him," I tell her. Not that I will, mind you, but sometimes being mean is the only way to get them to leave me alone. I am not freaking Jennifer Love Hewitt from that stupid show. This is my life and I refuse to be Ghost Girl.