The Ghost That Got Away

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

SINCE MALCOLM’S CALL, I’ve drifted in and out of consciousness. I know I must move, crawl if I can’t walk, stay awake if I can’t do either.

But my eyelids are so heavy. The icy dread that fills the room makes it difficult to breathe. The ghost isn’t letting down its guard this time around. Forming complete thoughts is a challenge, never mind forming a plan to escape this thing. My head aches every time I try.

I know my grandmother faced such ghosts during her life. I remember a showdown in an old barn on the outskirts of Springside when I was barely eight. I remember that particular ghost lifting my grandmother as if her bones were hollow and tossing her into an empty stall.

We hadn’t even used coffee to defeat it, although we’d started there. We always started there. All ghosts want something. Sometimes that something is to simply feel human once again, which is why coffee works so well to catch them. The steam. The aroma. Maybe it’s simply nostalgia. I never questioned my grandmother on why it works.

But sometimes ghosts want more.

That particular ghost wanted forgiveness, something my grandmother figured out by lighting a bit of hay on fire and shutting the barn doors. The ghost whirled and swooped, pushing open the doors and urging nonexistent horses to escape. Then it charged my grandmother as if it could smother the flame with its ethereal form. I caught it with one of our extra-large Tupperware containers.

But what this ghost wants? I can’t begin to say.

Panicked voices fill my head long before I can make sense of any words. Footsteps pound, the vibration traveling through the floor, along my jaw, around my skull.

“Sadie!”

I squint. Behind me, Nigel crouches, touches Sadie’s forehead and brings his cheek to hers while his fingers travel her neck in search of a pulse.

“Thank God.” He scoops her up into his arms and stands. “I’m going to take her next door to Katy’s.”

“I’ve called 911,” someone else says, the voice familiar, but I’m certain it isn’t Malcolm.

I push against the floor. I should help. I should at least walk out of here under my own power. My arms tremble and I collapse against the hardwood. Then a hand is on my shoulder and that voice is in my ear, a tenor with just a hint of a southern drawl.

“Katy? Katy Lindstrom?”

I push against the floor again. This time, two strong hands hold me steady. Slowly, I inch upward until I sit. I blink and the man who’s holding me comes into view.

“You’re not Malcolm,” It’s the only thing I can think to say.

The man gives a soft laugh and shakes his head. “No, I’m not. Sorry to disappoint. I’m a friend of his, though. Carter Dupree.”

“Do I know you?” My head swims and Carter’s face distorts. He has four blue eyes, then two. He is so very blond and bright it makes me wince.

“I’d remember meeting you.” He grins at me, and even his teeth are bright, so much so that I want to shield myself from the glare. “Here. Can you stand?”

He offers his hand and I take it, my knees wobbly. For a moment, I sag against him, then stand on my own.

“Where’s Malcolm?” I ask, my words mostly air.

“Downstairs, holding off the ghost until we get out of here.”

“Is he okay? It’s …” I touch my head. My fingertips come away stained with red. “It’s bad.”

“I can see that. Let’s get you out of here and to the hospital.”

We pass Malcolm on the way out. On the threshold of the living room, a samovar sits, the aromatic steam filling the air, the scent exotic and distracting. The ghost rattles about, still angry, but the aroma diverts its attention.

Malcolm throws a worried glance over his shoulder. His gaze lands on me, his gaze stricken.

“Christ, Katy—”

“I’ve got her,” Carter says. “Follow as fast as you can.”

Behind us, something shatters. Carter urges me toward the entrance.

We step outside and into the crisp air of December. The midday sun makes me duck my head and hide my eyes. The wail of a siren grows closer. By the time I can crack my eyes open again, an ambulance has pulled to the curb in front of my house.

Carter holds me steady until the EMTs can load the stretcher with Sadie into the back of the ambulance. Then, they come for me.

“I—” My mind is too foggy to calculate the cost of an ambulance ride or remember if we even opted for this under our small business insurance.

“You need to go with them,” Nigel says. He eases me from Carter’s grip and toward the nearest EMT. “If not for yourself, then for Sadie. They won’t let me ride with her because we’re not related.”

I let the EMTs lead me to the ambulance. Carter peers in after me.

“I hope the next time we meet it’s under better circumstances, Katy Lindstrom.” He touches his brow as if tipping a hat.

The doors shut. The ambulance pulls forward, rocking me back and forth. I reach for Sadie’s hand and squeeze her fingers.

She doesn’t squeeze back.