“Oh, good heavens, I’m terrible with names. . . .” She frowned in concentration, the corners of her eyes and lips turning downward. “Sawamura. Walter and Joan, they were Japanese. Not very outgoing.”
“And then it was vacant until my family moved in?”
“Vacant, yes,” she repeated.
Holy cow. I leaned back in my chair.
“Are you sure I can’t get you some lemonade?” she asked.
Then I remembered that Megan was waiting for me.
“October 1996,” I said, jumping out of my seat.
“Oh, Alexis, I hope you won’t think about it too much. It was just so awful, we hate to talk about it.”
Well, obviously.
“Thanks, Mary,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”
She nodded vaguely. “Just try to relax and get some rest. I know you’re worried about your father—”
“I’ll come by soon for some lemonade,” I told her, my hand on the doorknob.
Mary stood and sighed, then nodded. She looked tired. “You do that, dear,” she said, and then I was gone.
“I KNEW IT,” MEGAN SAID, for like the tenth time. “I knew it. If it wasn’t natural causes, that means it was murder— no wonder the house is so . . .” We were walking across the public library’s parking lot, and she was all worked up. She’d been talking nonstop since I got back in the car.
“Let’s find out some more details,” I said. “She could be wrong.”
“That’s not the kind of thing you just forget,” Megan said. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it until now.”
“Most of our neighbors have moved,” I said.
“I don’t blame them.”
“But what about what happened to you? What about the story? And my dream?”
She stopped just short of the stairs outside. “Maybe those were just a manifestation. Like how if you have a stressful day it gives you weird dreams. The ghost’s anger could be coming out as this bizarre fairy tale.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
She shrugged. “I read a lot.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It felt so real.”
She held the door open for me. The smell washed over me—cold air, old books, floor wax—the scents of my childhood afternoons.
The head librarian, Miss Oliver, shot us a stern look over the top of her pearly pink reading glasses.
“Where do we start?” Megan asked in a low whisper. “The paranormal books are in special collections, behind the checkout desk.”
“I think we need to check the newspaper archives,” I whispered back.
“The online archives only go back to 1999,” Megan said. “We have to use the microfish.”
“The what . . . ? Oh,” I said. The microfiche. It’s pronounced “micro-feesh,” but I can see why she would say it that way.
She pointed. “They’re in the back corner.”
We found the ancient machines gathering dust behind the biographies. I switched one on, and its screen lit up with a lazy yawn. Next to the machines were row after row of shoe box–size metal drawers, which held the slides of information. Megan grabbed a three-ring binder labeled “MICROFICHE LOG” from the top of the cabinet and started flipping through it.
“Drawer 5E,” she announced.
I pulled open the drawer to see hundreds, maybe thousands, of sheets of celluloid film, each containing a six-by-ten grid of articles no bigger than a fingernail. Four dividers broke the drawer into sections. The second one said SURREY-DENNISON SENTINEL, OCT. 1996.
Megan flipped to the center of the October sheets and pulled one out.
“It doesn’t get any more specific than this,” she said. “I’ve been looking for articles that mention my mom’s accident for about two years.”
“And you haven’t found anything?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Grandma won’t talk about it, and Mom’s headstone only says the year. So I had to start in January and go from there.” She sighed. “I’m up to April, and I haven’t found a thing.”
I thought of my own mother and felt a nervous shudder run through me. I also couldn’t help but be impressed by how well adjusted Megan was about the whole thing. And then I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d have cut her a little more slack all this time if I’d known she’d had such a hard life.
Megan pointed at the screen. “Start looking.”
I set the slide in the little metal tray and slid the whole thing into the slot on the side of the machine. A newspaper article showed up on the screen in negative— yellow-white print on a black background. I tried to move to the next article, but the images spun by dizzyingly. Finally I found one with a date on it: October 4. “Wrong date,” I said. “We’re looking for the middle of the month.” Megan switched the slides. The date on the new one was October 18.
I began scrolling through the articles one at a time. Megan leaned in to look at the first few, but the screen was really only big enough for one person. She backed away and continued flipping through the drawer.
My eyes were already tired of searching the tiny print. I was approaching the last square on the page and starting to doubt that we’d ever find anything.
Then I saw the headline.
YOUNG MOTHER’S DEATH RULED SUICIDE.
Local residents were shocked by the October 15 death of Surrey resident Shara Wiley. Now they have even more reason to be dismayed as the coroner’s report categorizes the death as a suicide and possible murder attempt on Wiley’s two-year-old daughter, who, after presumably escaping out the back door of the house, was found wandering on Whitley Street by neighbors.
Shara Wiley.
Megan’s mom.
I leaned in again, my heart beating so hard I could barely sit still enough to read the tiny print.
Wiley was found deceased in her home at 989 Whitley Street after neighbors called police to report having found the two-year-old, but not being able to reach her mother. All doors and windows had been sealed off, and a gas pipe in the house had been disconnected. Wiley died of asphyxiation and exposure to toxic fumes.
Police initially considered the possibility of foul play, but after continuing investigations, the death has been ruled a suicide. Wiley, 27, bought the historic house in 1995 and lived there with her daughter. She worked part-time as a grocery clerk, but had recently begun pursuing professional photography following years of award-winning amateur work, including the grand prize in Western Enchantment magazine’s annual photography contest. A 1987 graduate of Surrey High, Wiley returned to her hometown following a seven-year residence in San Francisco.
The coroner declared Wiley dead at the scene. She was unmarried. Her daughter was turned over to the custody of relatives, who refuse to speak to reporters. As of press time, police investigations continue.
“Alexis.”
I jerked to attention and looked at Megan.
“What is it?” she asked, trying to edge around behind me. I blocked her path with my chair.
“Wait,” I said. “Maybe we should . . . We can print it out. Do you have a quarter? I don’t think I do.” My clammy hands groped in my pockets for change, but they were empty.
I could tell that Megan wanted to push me out of the way and read what was on the screen. But then our eyes met.
She nodded slowly and fished a quarter out of her bag, then stuck it in the coin slot. My fingers fumbled as I pressed the big green PRINT button.
The ancient gears inside whined and groaned and then a page shot out the side with the article printed on it in shiny black ink.
We both reached for it, but Megan was faster.
She started scanning the words.
I tried to think of something to say that might soften the blow.
But of course there was nothing.
“Huh,” she said, and kept reading. I couldn’t look away from her. It felt like my duty, my responsibility. Soon I heard her breath catch in her throat. She pulled the page into her chest, crinkling it aga
inst her heart.
She looked at me, eyes intense and searching, like a hurt, confused animal.
I took a step toward her, but she held her arm out to keep me away. She leaned up against the row of metal cabinets and finished reading the article. Then her fingers released it, and it floated to the floor.
“My mother . . . tried to kill me,” she whispered. Her eyes were unfocused, like she was seeing a progression of possibilities, answers.
“Megan . . .”
“All those psychics—they weren’t saying Sarah. They were saying Shara. I’m so stupid. All these years I’ve just been hearing it wrong,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes. “Grandma told me she died in a car accident. . . . Why didn’t she tell me the truth?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“We have to go back to your house.” Her whole face seemed to harden. “I want to talk to her. I want to ask her why.”
A second passed. My heart thumped so hard it hurt.
“It’s dangerous,” I said. “Megan, remember what you said in the car?”
It’s evil.
“If my sister is possessed,” I continued, “if there’s something in the house that wants you dead, and Kasey was home when we got there . . .”
Megan lifted her chin and leveled her gaze on me. My body seemed to vibrate with a striking new fear—that Megan would do something stupid and get herself killed.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I’m not afraid.”
“She could . . . she could really kill you.” Was that what all of this was about? Megan’s mother’s ghost trying to finish what she started?
She made a noise of protest, more of a whimper than an actual word, but I knew exactly what she couldn’t say. She had to at least try. Wouldn’t anyone feel that way? Wouldn’t I?
I would.
But still.
“You can’t go back until we know more,” I said, trying to steady my shaking voice.
“Maybe she’s changed,” Megan said. “Maybe she’s angry because she’s stuck in the house and she wants to talk to me.”
“No,” I said.
She shook her head like she hadn’t heard me right. “No?”
“No. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.”
“What,” she said, her voice edged with hurt, “like you’re going to stop me?”
“I will if I have to,” I said.
“Alexis,” she said. “I thought we were . . .”
“We are friends,” I said. “That’s why I can’t let you do this. Just give it one day. We’ll keep researching, keep looking for ways to—”
“Ways to do what, to destroy her? She needs help, not—” She shook her head, looking for a word.
I could imagine how much it would mean to her to know her mother. I felt her pain and loneliness as if they were my own, and my whole body ached with sadness for her.
That’s how I knew we were friends.
I shook my head.
“You can’t stop me.” Her voice was low.
“I’ll call your grandmother,” I said. “Or I’ll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”
She was silent.
“I’m not saying never,” I said. “Just not tonight, not until we know more.”
“We know plenty,” she said. I could feel her anger, as hot and raw as the tears streaming down from the corners of her eyes. “Don’t you dare call my grandmother.”
I didn’t even blink. “I will,” I said.
She knew it. Her shoulders slumped and her head dropped, her hair falling forward in front of her face. As she turned to leave, I heard a ragged sob escape from her mouth.
“Megan,” I said, but she had started weaving through the bookshelves toward the front door. As I followed her, a million thoughts raced through my mind. I shouldn’t have told her. I should have kept it hidden. She was in terrible danger.
She was already climbing into her car when I caught up to her. I grabbed the door before she could slam it.
“Go straight home. Or go to Pepper’s. Don’t go to my house.” I felt a desperate surge of fear. “Megan, please, you can’t.”
She was sobbing silently, her shoulders trembling, her face soaked with tears. “I know,” she said, leaning forward and resting on her steering wheel.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
She turned to look up at me. Her eyes shone in the fading sunlight, and a quivering breath shook her whole body.
“Why?” she cried. “Why does she have to be bad?”
I put my hand on her shoulder.
“I can’t help you anymore, Alexis. I have to go now,” she said, shrugging my hand away. I jumped back as she slammed the door.
The car screeched out of the parking space and sped out to the road.
Megan wouldn’t go to my house, I knew it.
She was safe.
But I was on my own.
I WALKED BACK INSIDE, feeling like I might shatter into a hundred pieces.
Miss Oliver looked up as I passed the checkout desk.
I felt myself swing over to her, almost as if I’d been drawn there by a magnet.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Is there any way I can get back to special collections?”
She glowered and beckoned me closer. “If you aren’t eighteen, you need to be accompanied by a parent or guardian.” She looked me up and down with an expression that said she knew I wasn’t eighteen.
I nodded and tried to hide my disappointment. I didn’t have the energy to persist.
“All right,” I said. “Thanks. Never mind.”
Back at the microfiche, I decided to check out articles from the days following the deaths. I pulled another few sheets from drawer 5-E. Sheet after sheet of slides turned up absolutely nothing.
I felt totally lost, aimless, without Megan. But I had no choice other than to keep going.
I was rereading the printout of the first article when Miss Oliver appeared. Her eyes widened at the sight of the mess I’d made, but she seemed grimly gratified that someone was actually doing research.
“Find what you were looking for?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
“I wouldn’t normally say this,” she said, peering down at me, “but you seem so committed to your project that I hate to deny you access to research materials.”
I stared up at her, not understanding.
“The library closes in thirty minutes,” she said, speaking a little more slowly. “If you need to look at any . . . special books, I’ll let you.”
“Oh . . .” Then I got it. “Oh! Thanks, I’ll be right there.”
I had one more stack of slides left to look at. I considered skimming them, but I wanted as much time with the special collections as possible. So instead I slipped the whole pile into my bag and made my way up to the front desk.
The library was deserted except for a few die-hard academics. The clock hands pointed to eight thirty.
Miss Oliver beckoned me around the back of her desk to a door I’d never even noticed before. She unlocked it, reached inside and flipped on a light switch.
“I’ll come get you”—she checked her watch—“in twenty-five minutes.”
I nodded and slipped past her through the doorway. The door closed with the sharp bark of wood against wood, and I was alone.
The only light was the dim green glow of a dying pair of fluorescent bulbs. It took my eyes a moment to adjust. And then I saw the shelves.
They took my breath away.
Seven feet tall, overflowing with books of every shape and size, all colors and ages and thicknesses. They completely encircled the L-shaped room, with a few lined up in the middle of the floor as well. On closer inspection, most of the special collections didn’t seem all that unusual—just a bunch of dusty old books. I crossed my fingers that I wouldn’t have any trouble finding the section I was looking for.
I didn’t have to worry.
The para
normal books filled an entire giant bookshelf of their own. And unlike the rest of the books in the room, they seemed almost to hum. They really were special.
Thinking I should be methodical, I started at the bottom. But pulling out each book, opening it, and then carefully returning it to the overcrowded shelf was too slow.
New strategy: I grabbed a book randomly from one of the middle shelves and looked at the cover. It was a paperback called Interpreting and Healing the Aura, and the cover was an eighties-style man with a feathered haircut looking serenely up at a rainbow. A halo of pale gold glowed from his head. Close, but not quite right.
I pulled more books out, one by one, and glanced at the titles. Most were completely irrelevant. I know what they say about judging books by their covers and all, but I was running out of time, so I decided to ignore the newer books and focus on the ones with dark leather covers—the old ones.
I pushed a white paperback out of the way to get to a black leather spine with gold writing on it. The Origins of Pagan Holidays. Forget it. I pushed another white paperback out of the way to get to a half-disintegrated blue cloth book—Supernatural Case Studies in Northern Ireland 1952–1966. Then I saw a black spine peeking out from behind a white paperback and reached up to push the white book out of the way.
What was with all the white paperbacks?
And then I realized.
There was only one white paperback on the shelf— and I couldn’t seem to stop picking it up.
When I touched it, a tiny lightning bolt of electricity jumped from the book to my fingers. I yanked my hand away and took a closer look at the cover.
Unlike the cheery rainbows and seagulls on the other paperbacks, this one had a rough charcoal illustration of a woman whose face was distorted in a scream, her eyes rolling back in pain, or fear, or something.
The title was Dealing With Hostile Spirits: A Definitive Guide. I flipped it over to inspect the back cover and saw a picture of the author—an Asian man in his fifties. “Walter Sawamura is an internationally renowned expert on the subject of . . .”
Sawamura . . . ?
The Sawamuras, Walter and Joan.
The people who lived in our house after Megan and her mom.