I snuggled under my duvet and started reading. If only I had special talents like Bod in The Graveyard Book. Maybe if I’d actually grown up seeing ghosts like Bod or any normal psychic, then I wouldn’t be so freaked out right now. A freaked-out freak. So much for being the most popular ghostball player at school. I scowled at Mrs. Wilson’s round bottom, which sat plunked on the edge of my bed. She hadn’t said a word, but kept bouncing. Bouncing. Bouncing. It was driving me crazy.
“Would you please stop,” I snapped. “I told you we’ve got holy water. If he comes back, I’ll throw it on him.” I sounded way braver than I felt. Who was I to try and comfort a ghost, anyway? I set the book on the bedside table, picked up the three-ounce vial of holy water, and studied it. Would it actually do any good?
“What could have happened to the key?” It was the six hundredth time Mrs. Wilson had asked the question.
“I told you. I. Don’t. Know.” I rummaged around my bedside table again. “It was there last night. Now it’s gone.”
“And you’ve checked the floor? Under the bed?”
“You know I have. And if you ask me one more time, I’ll dump the holy water on you,” I growled, feeling instantly guilty I’d said something so nasty.
But the squeaking bounce of my bed stopped immediately, and Mrs. Wilson sat frozen on the edge . . . her eyes superglued to the door.
The handle twitched and began to slowly turn.
My chest grew tight and I gripped the glass vial, hard—ready to spray the nasty spirit.
The handle turned all the way.
I put my thumb just below the plastic lid and prepared to pop the top.
The door creaked open; Mrs. Wilson let out a high-pitched shriek and tore out of the room.
The door swung open.
Dad.
I let the bottle of holy water dip beneath the covers. If I wasn’t so scared, I would have laughed at Mrs. Wilson who had shot through the bedroom wall in a blur.
Dad came in and sat on my bedside, his well-trained eyes avoiding the family picture with Mom that I kept on my dresser—the only picture of her up anywhere in the house. Maybe that’s why Dad barely ever came in here. “I thought I saw your light on. What are you still doing up?”
I dropped the bottle of holy water under the sheets, reached over, and grabbed my book. “Reading.”
“The Graveyard Book?” Dad squinted at the cover.
“It’s for Language Arts. It’s on the required reading list.” I flipped it open.
“Humpf.” Dad didn’t look impressed. “How is it?”
“Pretty good.” I didn’t say that I wished I knew Bod and his graveyard full of ghosts. Maybe then I’d actually know how to handle them better.
Dad took the book and read the back cover. “I’m not sure you should be reading about ghosts right now. It might make your nightmares worse.”
Not this again. “It’s fiction, Dad.”
He set the book on the nightstand. “Well if it gets too much for you or you start having those nightmares again, let me know. Dr. Midgley is only a phone call away. I’m sure he’ll be glad to write a letter to the teacher . . .”
I’ll bet he would. Dr. Midgley had been the one who’d convinced Dad that no one could see ghosts or be psychic if they didn’t already have the abilities by age ten—something about brain development—and that I was really suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. If he wrote a note, then all of the teachers at Rey would think I was wacko. “No thanks. I mean, I’m fine. Really. It’s just a book.”
“Okay . . .” Dad gave me a stiff kiss on the forehead. Not something he usually did. “Maybe just try to read it during the day. Not right before you go to sleep.”
“Don’t worry, Dad.” The holy water rolled against my leg as if to remind me that not worrying was definitely not going to happen. “I’ll be fine,” I lied.
Dad stood up and flicked off the bedside lamp. “All right, then. Have a good night’s sleep.”
I lay back, whispered a prayer as I touched Mom’s amulet, then gripped the holy water in my hand and closed my eyes.
Thunder rumbled, leaves thrashed, and rain slapped against my bedroom window, ripping me away from the comfort of sleep. My eyes snapped open and darted around the shadows of my room. White walls. The alarm clock, glowing pale green. My picture with Mom.
A scratching rustle made me sit up on my elbows and look toward the window. My sigils were still intact. Good.
Skretch.
It must be a tree branch.
Skretch.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t at the window. I sat up a little taller and looked around the room. Maybe a squirrel had gotten inside looking for shelter.
Skretch.
The sound of claws against the floorboards crept right up next to me. I tossed back the covers, ready to bolt. But something cold shoved me back in bed so hard the air left my lungs in a whoosh. I gasped, struggling for breath. Then the pressure started, like an elephant sitting on my chest.
The pressure was so intense I could barely breathe. I opened my mouth to call out. For Mrs. Wilson. For Dad. For anybody . . . but only a small whoosh of air escaped and Mom’s Nazar Boncuğu amulet slid uselessly over my shoulder. So much for it keeping evil away. If I didn’t do something, and soon, I’d black out. I’d die.
And I didn’t want to die.
I’d survived the accident for some reason. I had to survive this. I fumbled under the sheets, fingers groping for the holy water I must’ve dropped while I was sleeping.
The bed shook, rattling itself against the wall, then began to rise. A low moan of cold air hissed out of the entity’s mouth, inches from my face.
If I could scream, I’d do it now. I didn’t care if Dad thought I was crazy. There was a real evil presence in my room. Right on top of me. And if I didn’t find the holy water, this ghost was going to kill me.
Nails tearing over the sheets, I searched the spaces between the pillows. A cool glass bottle rolled against my arm. I hooked the bottle in the crook of my left arm, then wiggled my right hand across the top of my chest. I couldn’t quite reach it.
The entity laughed. The same cold, dark laugh I’d heard when I found the desperate woman calling through the basement wall.
I shimmied my left arm up, right hand reaching down. My fingers grazed the plastic cap. Almost.
There. Got it. I flipped the lid off with my right thumb, tore my hand loose from the covers, and threw the contents of the entire bottle on the dark mass.
A scream more horrific than the screeching of car metal clashing filled the room. The weight immediately lifted from me and a sharp pain jolted my wrist, knocking the empty bottle from my hand. A roar of anger ripped through my bedroom, blowing the books from their shelves, and finally exploding through the bedroom window.
Glass rained down on the carpet like shredded glitter.
I cupped my throbbing wrist and sat totally still. Waiting. Watching. Wondering if he was gone.
Silence except for the soft patter of rain and rustle of leaves.
There was no way . . . no way . . . I’d be able to explain any of this to Dad.