Morning came quickly, and before I knew it, I was in the Lower Garden District knocking on the front door of the old Wilkes place, peeling white paint lodging itself under my fingernails.
Frank had gone back to his office to make some final preparations, but Aunt Elena stood to my right and Hannah to my left. And, as usual, Jason had my back. Somehow I’d become the leader of this paranormal expedition and I didn’t like it. Maybe I was psychic, but it’s not like I had a clue what I was doing. Aunt Elena had taken on the case. Aunt Elena was paid to clear the house. Aunt Elena was the paranormal expert. Not me.
The sound of tires on gravel made us all turn.
A Cadillac squealed to a stop and Mr. Barrett, a tubby man with a worried face and thinning gray hair, heaved himself out of the car.
He slammed his car door and teetered up the steps and onto the porch, hand extended to Aunt Elena. “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t really want to be alone in there anyway, you know?” He chuckled.
Did this idiot know what we were up against?
Aunt Elena shook Mr. Barrett’s hand.
“You brought your kids today. So the place must be safe now, right?” Sweat glistened on Mr. Barrett’s balding head despite the early autumn breeze.
“Not quite. We’ve identified the source of the haunting—and it is a haunting—but we need to . . .” Elena hesitated. “Would you like to go inside so we can discuss this?”
“No. No, I’m fine right here. As you know, the town psychics couldn’t handle it. They wanted to bring in another group from out of town, but that group wanted to charge a fortune. Blasted psychics. And the feds.” Mr. Barrett tossed up his hands. “OPI has me on a waiting list. So, no. The town psychics warned me to keep my distance. If that thing is still in there, I’m not going in.”
Whoa. If the town psychics couldn’t handle it, why in Solomon’s name had Elena taken the case? She wasn’t even a registered psychic. My confidence drained out of me like I was a spaghetti sieve. Was she trying to get us killed all for the sake of building her business?
Mr. Barrett frowned up at the house then back at Aunt Elena. “Maybe I should have waited for the OPI to send someone.” Sweat trickled off his forehead and into his eye.
Aunt Elena exhaled through her nose, obviously annoyed. “I realize the town psychics were unable to dislodge the spirit of Mr. Wilkes. However, I have other skills and a partner who previously worked for OPI. We can handle it.” She pulled me forward by the elbow. “Mr. Barrett, this is Alex Lenard. And he’s taking the lead on this case.”
My insides felt like Mr. Barrett’s face looked—sick. Aunt Elena was definitely trying to get us killed.
“He—he’s what? He’s just a kid,” Mr. Barrett stammered. “Where’s your partner?”
“My partner will be present for the clearing. Alex may be a kid, but he’s also the strongest psychic I’ve ever met. And we’ll need him to help your grandmother cross over and put your grandfather to rest.”
“My—my grandfather?” A stutter I hadn’t noticed before colored Mr. Barrett’s words and he ran his stubby fingers through his thinning hair. “It—it can’t be . . .”
“It is . . . and to make sure he’s gone, we need your permission to open up the basement wall.”
“To do what?” A vein throbbed so hard in Mr. Barrett’s neck that I thought he might have a heart attack. That’s just what we needed, another Wilkes family ghost on our hands.
“Mr. Barrett,” my voice sounded more confident than I felt. “An angry spirit, who we believe is your grandfather, has taken an interest in attacking me.”
“And why in Solomon’s name would he do that?” Mr. Barrett gulped.
Before I could respond, another Cadillac pulled up the gravel drive, tossing dust into the air, and a thin, elderly woman stepped out.
“Momma?” Mr. Barrett’s eyebrows rose and the old woman in wobbly high heels crunched through the gravel toward us. “I told you I’d handle this.”
“It’s my house, Gary.” She tromped up onto the porch. “I have a right to know what’s going on. Even if I don’t live here.”
Mr. Barrett took a step back, giving her space.
Hands on her hips, Mrs. Barrett, the Wilkeses’ very own daughter, looked Elena straight in the eyes. “Tell me everything.”
Aunt Elena repeated what she’d already told Mr. Barrett, then took a deep breath and I continued for her. “And we think he’s attacking me because I heard the terrified spirit of a woman in the basement. She was trapped and afraid,” I told the Wilkeses’ sweaty lump of a grandson, then turned to his sharp-eyed mother. “I think your father killed your mother and buried her body in the basement wall so no one would find her.”
Mr. Barrett’s face went pale. He opened his mouth. Closed it.
Mrs. Barrett’s lips drew into a grim line. “All these years . . . we thought he killed her.” She swallowed. “I knew he did it. But we never had proof.” Tears formed in her bright eyes. “I knew Mama wouldn’t up and leave. Not with Gary just being born.”
Her gaze floated to the basement window. “And if you do find her—find Mama—then what?”
Aunt Elena put a reassuring hand on Mrs. Barrett’s shoulder and squeezed. “Then Mr. Graves will bury her and we’ll help her cross over. She’ll find peace.”
“And my father?” Mrs. Barrett’s lips hardened.
Aunt Elena hesitated, then spoke slowly. “That will be more difficult . . . but between the four of us and my partner, I’m sure we can put him to rest.”
Mr. Barrett wiped his moist forehead with a crumpled handkerchief and shoved it back in his pocket. “I don’t know, Momma . . . They could make a big mess digging out the basement wall. It could cost—”
Mrs. Barrett raised her hand. “If it will make this house livable again. If it will bring peace to my mama—” She thought about it and nodded. “I will pay it. That would make me happy. To know my mama’s at peace. Your grandma deserves that. And more.” She nodded at me, then Aunt Elena. “If it’s possible, do it.”
“But—” Gary Barrett gaped.
“No buts.” She took her son firmly by the arm and they walked down the porch steps, stopping just short of their cars.
Mr. Barrett wiped a trail of dusty sweat from his forehead and called back to us. “Just try not to cause too much damage, okay?”
We returned to her office by eleven o’clock. Aunt Elena confirmed the meeting place and time with Frank, and Jason and I headed home to grab lunch with Dad.
“We’re going to hang out with Hannah and watch movies . . . I’m supposed to go back over there around two o’clock.” I shoved half of a grilled cheese sandwich in my mouth. With all of the excitement, I hadn’t had dinner last night or breakfast this morning, and I was starving.
Jason obviously was, too; he snarfed down his second sandwich before I’d finished my first.
Dad watched us suspiciously. “Slow down. Both of you.” He pushed his own sandwich toward me. “Have mine. I’ll make another.”
“Great.” I took another bite and tried to chew more slowly.
“Can I have another one, too?” Jason mumbled over a half-chewed mouthful.
Dad dropped a dab of butter on the hot pan with a hiss and prepared the bread and cheese. “I think you should tell Hannah thank you, but that you’ll catch a movie with her some other time.”
“What? No.” I swallowed a mouthful. “I mean why?”
“After all the excitement at school yesterday, I rescheduled my Saturday showings so we can spend some time together. What do you say, cham—” He stopped himself midword.
Jason squirmed and I cringed. “Ah, oh. Well, you didn’t have to do that, you know?”
“I know, but I need to spend more time with you.”
My eyes darted around the room, searching for a good excuse to get out of the unplanned father-son time. Mrs. Wilson appeared at the top of the ceiling and gave me a little wave. Where in Solomon’s name had she been? I’d talk to her later. Now was not the time. “Can’t we do it Sunday?”
Dad stopped cooking, spatula held in midair. “Why do you need to go and watch movies with Hannah so badly? Jason can stay and hang out with us if he wants.”
“I’m finally getting to know my family—your family. It’s what you wanted, right? I’m not isolating myself.” I looked sidelong at Jason. “No offense, J.”
Jason shrugged and shoveled another bite of sandwich into his mouth.
Dad flipped the grilled cheese from the pan to a plate and faced me, spatula in hand. “Yes, I’m glad you’ve become friends with your cousin. And I’m glad your grades are holding up. But that doesn’t mean you get to do whatever you want, whenever you want. And after yesterday, I’m going to spend some time with you. So, call her up and tell her thank you, but no. Or I will.”
Dad set his plate on the table and I stood up.
“Whatever—”
“Excuse me?”
Jason stopped chewing, eyes nearly popping out of his head.
“Mom would’ve let me go.”
“Well I’m not your mother. And if you continue to argue, you can go to your room.”
“Fine. I will.” I shoved the chair into the table and stalked up the stairs. Jason could deal with Dad. If I had to pretend to be locked in my room while I snuck off to finish this Wilkes business, then so be it.
I slammed my bedroom door closed, locked it, and plopped down onto my bed. I wish I didn’t have to go to the Wilkeses’. I wish I didn’t have to deal with a ghost. I wish I wasn’t psychic. Life as an Untouched had been so much simpler.
Just then Mrs. Wilson floated through my bedroom wall. “Where have you been, child? I’ve been worried about you.”
“You could’ve fooled me,” I snapped, and instantly regretted it. Ghost or not, she’d been the closest thing to a mother I’d had since Mom died. Still, she’d abandoned me when Mr. Wilkes had attacked. “You’re the one who’s been missing.”
Mrs. Wilson sat with a huff on my bed, making a large indentation, and put her head in her translucent hands. “Oh, Alex . . . I’m so sorry. But I didn’t leave you. I was hiding. That . . . that man is awful. Truly terrible.”
I swallowed back the wave of guilt that crashed over me about Mr. Thomas. “I know. I think he killed, er, hurt the school janitor or something.”
“He killed a man?” Her nostrils flared in alarm and her cheeks flushed pink.
“Well, sort of—he’s a ghost. At school. Mr. Thomas.” I was still confused about what could have happened to his spirit. There was still so much I didn’t know about the paranormal. True, all Untouched lived with ghosts, but it was the psychics who really knew about them. Even paranormal investigators had limited knowledge. And Frank thought I was a Class A Psychic. Great. Why was I so lucky to be part of the elite 1 percent? Ugh. “Can ghosts kill each other?”
Mrs. Wilson’s momentary relief was replaced by brows furrowed so deeply that beans could have been planted in them. “I don’t know, Alex.” She stood up and paced around my bedroom. “We’re already dead. But strong spirits—malevolent ghosts—they’re out to do harm. They can certainly hurt us. Perhaps send us to another plane of existence. But I don’t think we can be any more dead than we already are.”
“Mr. Thomas saved me . . .” I cleared what felt like cobwebs from my throat. “He saved me. And I was afraid of him because of the bullet holes.”
Mrs. Wilson chuckled. “Afraid of Wilbur Thomas?” She patted my arm, sending goose bumps coursing over my skin. “He’s one of the kindest men I ever knew.” She made a clicking, tutting sound with her tongue. “Some naughty kids put bullets in the radiator, way back. When he went into work and lit the radiator the next morning, the bullets went off. Shot and killed poor Wilbur Thomas. He loved that school. Loved the kids there, too.” She looked thoughtfully out the window. “I didn’t know he stayed behind. Not that I’m surprised. His job and that school were his life. Not a good way to go by the hands of Mr. Wilkes. You must do something, Alex. Avenge him.”
If only I’d been kinder to Mr. Thomas. He’d tried to protect me. He’d chased away Billy and David. He’d saved me from Mr. Wilkes. I didn’t want to be psychic and I didn’t want to deal with Mr. Wilkes, but I didn’t appear to have a choice. I wasn’t the ghostball champ anymore. I could see and hear ghosts. And now I had to deal with them. So, I let out a deep exhale and then told Mrs. Wilson exactly what we planned to do.
“You’re going to break open the basement wall, remove Mrs. Wilkes’s bones, bury them at the cemetery, and hope that Mr. Wilkes crosses over?” Mrs. Wilson paled, if it were possible for a translucent ghost to be more pale. “Have you all lost your marbles? Old Man Wilkes will be furious.”
“He’s already furious.” A sinking feeling hit my stomach; our plan really wasn’t much of a plan. “And we’ll have salt and holy water and incense.” And maybe my ghostball trap will come in handy if Jason and I have got the sigils right.
Wide eyed, Mrs. Wilson nibbled her pudgy, ghostly fingers. “I don’t know, Alex. Maybe you should just—”
“Should just what? The OPI has the house on a waiting list. The town psychics are too afraid to go back. So what should I do? Run away and let him keep attacking me?” I stood up, barely keeping my voice below a yell. “Should I tell my dad about Old Man Wilkes? And that we’re fixing to break open the tomb of his dead wife to send them both on their way?” I clenched my fists in tight knots. “Mr. Wilkes has caused enough harm. And we’re not going to let him keep terrorizing people. I’m not going to let him do it.”
Tears glistened in Mrs. Wilson’s eyes, and I felt guilty all over again. I reached out and tried to pat her pillowy shoulders, but all I got were some slimy chills. “I know you’re worried. I’m worried, too. But unless we do something he won’t stop.”
“Can’t you just—leave?”
“My dad won’t leave this place. Besides, who’s to say Mr. Wilkes wouldn’t follow me?” I picked up the bag of salt I’d hidden under the bed, and tilted my chin toward the ceiling. “I want you to go up to the attic until this is over. I’ll salt it behind you so Mr. Wilkes can’t get in. You’ll be safe.”
“How will I get out if something happens to you?”
“I’ll be back,” I said, pretending her words didn’t scare me. “And if not, salt lines don’t last forever. They never do.”
Trembling, she followed me to the door.
I cracked it open and peeked out. Jason sat on the hallway floor, a frown on his face. “Who were you talking to?”
I looked up and down the hallway. No sign of Dad. Good. I opened the door and stepped out. “That’d be Mrs. Wilson. The ghost I told you about. She lives here.”
Jason shot up onto his feet.
“She won’t hurt you,” I said, then looked toward the stairs. “Where’s my dad?”
Jason searched the air around me, obviously not catching on to the large figure of Mrs. Wilson hovering a few feet in front of him. “Downstairs, and he isn’t happy.”
“Oh, well.” I crept into the hall, glad he was downstairs. “I have to do something, then I’ll meet you at Hannah’s.” Mrs. Wilson floated behind me.
“What about your dad?”
“I don’t really care, but he can’t interfere with our plans.” I sighed, resigned that lying was the only way to deal with my dad if he wouldn’t listen to the truth. “Tell him I wouldn’t come out of my room. Then leave. I’ll meet you at Hannah’s in fifteen minutes.”
Jason nodded. I knew he wouldn’t want to lie to Dad, but there was no other option. He took a deep breath and headed back downstairs.
“See you soon.” I turned the opposite direction and led Mrs. Wilson up to the attic where I spread salt around its periphery.
Mrs. Wilson sat on an old box of photographs and twisted her hands in her lap. “I know you have to get rid of him, Alex. Just be careful.”
“I will.” I nodded and dumped the last of the bag at the top of the attic stairs. I checked the sigils on the windows and made sure there was no break in my salt line. With everything in order, I turned and tried to sound as reassuring as possible. “And try not to worry, Mrs. Wilson. It’ll all be over soon.” One way or the other it would be over. I only hoped we’d all make it through alive.