HAUNTING HELEN
~~~
by
Anne Seaworthy
Copyright 2015 Anne Seaworthy
Cover Design Copyright 2015
by https://coversbykaren.com/
Formatting by coversbykaren.com
Stay in the know about Anne Seaworthy’s latest work
at her website, https://aseaworthyfrigate.wordpress.com/
The characters and events in this book are fictitious, even those referring to actual or well-known entities. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Chapter One
"Ready to roll out, Captain?" Tony Spumoni asks me.
I grimace when I notice he's wearing that stupid eyepatch he bought at the Ecto-Store for two pints of Dream.
"I can't wait to bring home some more kids' nightmares," India says, grabbing my arm.
I let the arm go intangible so her rainbow fingernails pass right through it.
Harry's already at the helm, awaiting orders. He's such a good sailor I wonder why he ever wanted to be a nature photographer. I guess it's all for the best, though - if he hadn't had that dead-end job, he never would have been gored by a rhino and we never would have had this business partnership.
Art is also anxious to get going, and mimes a ship sailing over the clouds.
I adjust the rigging and get us moving. As we float through moist clouds over the beach, I climb up the mast to really feel the wind on my face, pretending I can touch the stars (which I could fly up and do, if I wasn't busy working.) This ship may not have been my first love, but right now she's my only love.
I'm the youngest ghost here, save India, who died of a freak accident involving a roller coaster and a giraffe. When people ask me how I died, sometimes I smile and say it was a broken heart. And that basically sums it up pretty well.
It was the Halloween of my sixth year of college. I'd been dropping hints to Raygin for weeks that it'd be super cool if she'd dress up like a pirate to match my planned costume. I was sure she'd do it - after all, we had been exclusive for several weeks.
I walked into Christopher's dorm room at six in the evening, ready to party with my pirate girl. I was decked out in a homemade costume with a blue waistcoat I'd picked up at the local thrift store, black skinny jeans, boots I'd jacked up with silver laces and skull pendants, and a black captain's hat my grandmother had sewn me when I was a pirate for some childhood Halloween. It still fit, so either it had been big on me before or my brain hadn't grown significantly since the age of ten.
I looked around for a blond head and a big chest - the hallmarks of my girl. Finally I spotted her next to the boombox, chatting with Christopher. He was wearing a ketchup bottle costume he'd clearly bought at the store - the price tag was still hanging off it. She was wearing a mustard costume probably manufactured by the same company. Disgusting. I didn't even like mustard.
I turned away, pretending not to care, but the sight of garish red and yellow swirled in my mind's eye. She'd said we were exclusive, said it out loud in the echoing dining hall. I guess her words didn't bind her as much as her taste for twig-like sophomores with dashing brown eyes.
All the rest of the night, I tried to show Raygin I didn't care about her. I danced with other girls when I could get them. When I couldn't, I hung out at the drinks table like a vulture presiding over a bloody carcass. And I drank. A lot.
Apparently everyone was drinking a lot, because no one noticed my head sinking in the punch bowl until it was too late.
A wave of grief washed over me when I discovered I was dead. I tried to seep back into my clammy body, but it wouldn't hold me. I was definitely a ghost.
I drifted aimlessly to the Santa Monica Beach as the sun was rising, wondering if the college dean would give a speech about me, and whether Raygin would cry. Probably neither of those things would happen. The college dean was sure to be glad to be rid of me at last, and Raygin would be comfortably nestled in Christopher's arms.
I dove into the water, slowly getting used to my ability to go without breathing. I swam far out into the open ocean, not even flinching when a great white shark charged right through me. Eventually, I saw something interesting on the ocean floor.
She was in good shape for a sunken schooner, and she even had a soul - I could tell by the white glow around the Lady Kate. So I hauled her ghost to the surface - she was quite light, really - and called her my own. The crew came later, but no one disputed my place as captain. After all, I had an ectoplasmic tricorne to prove my right.
"Apartment ho!" calls Harry, pulling me out of my thoughts. We have arrived at the Beachside Apartments, or the Backside Apartments as India has so cleverly nicknamed them. Art anchors the ship on a eucalyptus tree and we all float to our favorite Dream hotspots.
I feel like trying something new, so instead of entering Charlie Nicholson's bedroom (he's always dreaming about forgetting to do his laundry until the dirty clothes burst out of his closet) I materialize inside the apartment above. I've never been in this room before. It's one of the neatest I've ever seen. There's a tidy desk with mugs holding pencils, pens and markers, and a dresser laden with snow globes from zoos across the country. In the bed, under a thin white sheet, lies the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. True, she's sleeping with her mouth gaping open like a fish, but the muscular curvature of her body through the sheets, the milk chocolate color of her smooth skin, the straight brown hair bursting out of its ponytail, make me think of a wild horse on some distant island. I can't wait to see what she's Dreaming about.
I close my eyes as I slip in through her ear. If this lady has gross ear wax, I don't want to know.
Inside, a rainbow Dream is glowing within the ridges of the brain. I pull it out and stick my head inside. Instantly I want to jump in. What is she doing but my favorite activity - sailing!
So I step into the Dream and stand by her side. She's wearing a pair of leggings and a tattered shirt. Her hair spirals around her head, catching droplets of foamy water that spray up at us from the sailboat's wake. Dolphins play next to our ship, and she tosses them a chocolate chip cookie.
“Hi," I say to her. "I'm Jamie Starling. Captain Jamie Starling. What's your name?"
"I'm Helen Jones. You can call me Captain Helen Jones if you like." She giggles.
I smile, though the joke wasn't that funny. Before I can say anything more, a monstrous giant squid looms in front of us. Now's my chance to save her life (in the Dream.) It still counts for something, right?
I swing my blunt toy sword at the animal, but the blade dissolves into a rain of ectoplasm when it hits the creature.
Helen titters. "No, silly. Like this." She pulls a cookie out of nowhere and throws it far, far away.
The creature follows it into the deep.
"That was pretty clever," I say.
She's already climbing the mast, making her way to the top of the main gaff topsail faster than the most nimble of sailors I've ever seen.
I float up to join her.
She points across the sea at a faraway island. "You see that place?" she asks me. "That's New Hawaii. It’s where I want to go, someday."
"Why don't we sail there right now?"
"We can try, but we'll never get there." Her smile fades.
"How do you know without trying?"
She laughs lightly. "That sounds like something I might say to one of my sixth-graders. I know, Jamie, because I have tried. Every time I'm in this sailboat, I catch sight of the island and I try to reach it. I always fight off that giant squid. But somehow I always run out of fuel before
I get there."
"I think I know how to help you," I say. "I'll come back some other night and we'll try it again, okay?"
She nods gravely. I step backwards until I see the glowing circle of darkness. I step through it, and I'm back in the bedroom, hovering over Helen's bed.
She opens her eyes, and for a moment I'm terrified, but apparently she’s not a Ghost-Seer.
"Jamie?" she says, still half-asleep. "Where did you go?"
"I'll come back," I whisper, though I know she can't hear me now. "I promise."
I'm so caught up in Helen's Dream that I forget to bring back any for our booty.
Chapter Two
“Jamie, you didn’t harvest anything.” India crosses her arms over her black tank top. “Couldn’t you find anyone who was Dreaming?”
“Nope,” I lie. “Charlie Nicholson had insomnia, and the gal in the next apartment was studying for her master’s degree.”
“Well, you can still have your fair share of our booty,” Harry says generously. “After all, we’d want you to do that for us, if we were in your position.”
“Actually…” I grimace. “I’m going to need to take more than usual tonight. I need three gallons.”
“Three gallons?” India tosses her head back and laughs, making her purple Mohawk tremble in the gentle breeze. “What could you possibly do with all that Dream before tomorrow night?”
For a second, I consider telling the guys about my new project. But I realize they’ll only make fun of me, or worse, not believe me. So instead, I snap, “It’s none of your business, sailor. It’s not any of your guys’ business what I do with my Dream. I’m the captain, I give the orders, and I say I need three gallons. The rest of you will just have to go a little low for the day.”
Art begins filling my chest with Dream.
India rolls her eyes.
I put my hand on her shoulder, making her breath catch audibly. Smiling as innocently as possible, I say to her, “I’ll make it up to you later. Okay?”
~~~
I spend the day basically just brooding, waiting for nightfall. I wonder what time Ms. Jones gets to sleep. It appears she’s a teacher, so she probably has to wake up early.
At the usual hour of eleven in the evening, we anchor the Lady Kate on the eucalyptus tree and disperse to our respective fuel collection sites. Again, I skip Charlie Nicholson’s bedroom and head in through Helen’s window. She’s as beautiful as she was last night. I seep in her ear and locate the rainbow glowing ball hanging out on one of the ridges of her brain. Without hesitating for a second, I dive into the orb. Tonight will be different.
Tonight there is no open sea, no fair ship. Instead, I stand on a narrow pathway cut into a claustrophobic, dark forest full of trees with faces that look like they could be related to Helen.
“Congratulations, dear,” one ebony-black tree snickers.
“Have lots of babies,” another cackles.
I turn just in time to float out of the way of a silver pumpkin on wheels. I fly in through the barred window to see Helen, wearing a lacy white dress. Her arms are chained to the interior of the carriage. The chains are golden like a wedding ring.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Let me get you out of here.” I begin sawing at the chains with my sword.
She shakes her head. “Just let me do this. I’m ready – heaven knows I’ve waited long enough. Let me give him what he wants.”
“Who’s him?”
“Robert.” She slips her arm out of the chains long enough to brush a tear from her eye. “My fiancé.”
For a moment, I’m shocked. I had assumed the gal was single. Then anger rises to my temples as I realize this must be an abusive relationship. “Did Robert put these chains on you?”
“No, he would never do that,” she says. We begin riding up a steep mountain. “I tied myself up like this. I was afraid I would try to run away. My wedding day is next month, you see.”
“I see.” So we’re on a serious deadline – in real life as well as in the Dream. Assuming Robert isn’t a figment of her imagination. Most Dreamers, though, aren’t imaginative enough to create convincing nonexistent people out of nothing in their Dreams. Usually there’s at least some basis for any character in a Dream, like a television personality or a long-dead ancestor.
I’m still thinking about what to do, how to help Helen without hurting her, when the pumpkin jerks to a halt. The chain dissolves and Helen steps out, her high-heeled shoes landing in a pile of fallen leaves.
I step out too. A glimmering white palace looms in front of us. I follow Helen through the gate and take a seat in one of the many chairs assembled there while she walks down a red carpet littered with pink rose petals in the center of the room. There are bumpers on both sides of the carpet, like at a kids’ bowling party, preventing her from walking any path but the one straight ahead. Trumpeters in the wings begin to play the stereotypical wedding music.
It’s a struggle for me, but I sit still as Helen walks up to meet the tall bespectacled man at the top of a small staircase. I hold my tongue as she takes her vows, and I look at the diamond floor as she giggles and holds hands with her horrid boyfriend. But when the minister asks, “Does anyone have any objections?” I can’t resist. I jump to my feet and stride to the front of the room.
“I object!” I say. “Helen Jones can’t marry Robert today because she has a previous engagement! I’m taking her to New Hawaii.”
“New Hawaii?” Helen drops Robert’s hand and looks at me wistfully. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” Robert says, taking Helen’s hand again. “You’re going to live with me in Downtown LA.”
“But I don’t like Downtown LA,” Helen whines like a child, scratching at her calf under the puffy skirt of her white dress.
Meanwhile, I call the Lady Kate into this brain. She appears behind me in an instant. None of the wedding guests appear surprised to see a half-eaten shipwreck in their midst.
I clamber to the helm and sail on the air, right up to the pedestal where the spouses-to-be are standing. I pull Helen onto the deck and crash through the stained glass window directly ahead of us. The minister drunkenly waves goodbye as we plop down in the ocean and begin heading west at a good twenty knots.
Helen pulls a piece of orange glass out of her hair. “Why did you do that?”
“Because I love you.” I wish there was more I could do for her.
She looks cross, and for a second I expect her to slap me – not that it would hurt my ectoplasm. Instead, she throws her arms around my neck and kisses my lips, an insistent, needy kiss, like she’s trying to suck the living daylights out of me. Too bad all those daylights are dark now.
When the ship slows to a standstill in the middle of the open ocean, Helen looks ready to cry. “It’s happening again,” she breathes.
“Nope. Not this time.” I pull out the extra gallon of Dream I saved and pour it into the furnace. We begin to speed along again. Soon, an island appears straight ahead. When it emerges from the mist, we can see lush forest with tall waterslides towering over the treetops. A dragon screeches and passes over us in the sky, heading for a mountain cave on New Hawaii.
I let us beach in the white sand. We scamper out, and Helen pulls me to try out the nearest waterslide. It’s not really my kind of thrill, but she’s sitting in my lap and wearing an ice-blue bikini and throwing her hands in the air and I promise to accompany her on every waterslide on the island, and when we exhaust them all, to build new ones.
But when we finally do ride all the waterslides, a few Dream-Days later, Helen tells me, “Don’t waste your time building a waterslide. I’d rather you built us a proper house and paid off the mortgage.”
“There’s no mortgage on New Hawaii. Don’t be silly.”
She stares at me. “That’s what Robert used to say. He used to say that to me all the time.”
“I take it back.” I touch her arm gently. The muscles pul
se beneath my hand. “Be as silly as you want. Meanwhile, I’ll build that house for you.”
I stretch my supply of ecto-dust to its upper limit, constructing a three-story mansion with bay windows, two kitchens, and a ballroom. I put on some heavy metal music, one of my favorite living bands, and we dance across the ballroom.
“This music isn’t really the best for dancing.” Helen smiles. “It’s more suited to a swordfight.”
“Are you offering?” I haven’t exercised my fencing skills in weeks.
She shakes her head. “Robert always used to play Frank Sinatra music when we both got home from work. Sometimes we’d dance a little bit in the living room. It was sweet.”
“Do you miss Robert?”
She nods, blinking hard. I walk over to my phone and start searching for some Frank Sinatra songs. By the time I’ve downloaded one, Helen is gone.
I go into one of the kitchens and start to fry up some potatoes and onions. Helen creeps into the room, chops up a red pepper, and adds it to the pan. I turn to smile at her.
“Watch the stove, honey,” she says. Then she sighs, flounces to the bay window, and stares across the sea at the distant land on the opposite shore.
Chapter Three
I have to see this Robert in action. Maybe I can file a complaint against him to the Board of Dead and Undead People – but I need hard evidence he’s abusing Helen, and I’m too lazy to fake it.
So instead of taking my crew to the Ghoul Mall on Friday, I slip in through the window of Beachside Apartment number 338 early in the morning. I freeze when I see Helen already awake and dressed, typing at her desk. Then I remember she’s not a Ghost-Seer.
She spins around in the wheeled chair and stares right through me at the open door.
Robert walks through the door in a long white coat and gray slacks. I begin recording the scene on my phone, in case he hits her or says something horrible. But all he does is kiss her on the forehead. “Have a good day changing young lives,” he chuckles.
“And you have a good day saving elderly ones,” Helen teases.
He leads her into the kitchen and pours cereal into two bowls. It’s the boring, healthy kind of cereal that looks like ground-up worms.