Page 65 of Ghosts of Halloween

I shrug with my right shoulder to show them what I mean, and Jack grunts with understanding. “Go back? You mean, you experience it again?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck,” Silas mutters behind me, his hands tightening. “I set it off. I’m sorry. It was… the heat of the moment and all that. I apologize.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” I shrug, but gently, so as not to make him think I want him to let go. Taking a big breath, I continue, not even knowing why I want to tell them. But if I’m about to die… Might as well get it off my chest. I’ve never told anyone. Not even Noah. “It was my fault, you know. The accident.”

They are silent, Silas’s fingers twitching against me while Jack exhales in a rush, his breath warm on my skin. Caden shifts closer, squeezing my fingers, and I look at him. His face is calm as he studies me.

“How was it your fault, little bird? Noah said your mother was high. That’s why she drove into that van.”

I stare into his eyes as I answer, drawing strength from his calmness. “She was. And I didn’t want to go with her because of it. She got so furious, screaming and all, so I just got in the car to appease her, but…” I shrug, swallowing tightly when Silas squeezes my shoulders. “She was still angry. Kept going on and on about all the things I did wrong. She was just so angry with me, she couldn’t pay attention to the road.”

I sigh, looking away from Caden and pressing my face into Jack’s shoulder. “If I’d had a backbone and hadn’t got in the car with her, maybe she’d have been calmer. She drove a lot under the influence. She was used to it. But I didn’t stand up to her, and now she’s dead. So you see,” I say, forcing my voice to be light when I look at Caden again, trying to smile. “I have a history of fucking things up in a big way. I’m really sorry I did that to you, too.”

Jack exhales, and Silas snorts with derision. “That’s bullshit, angel. I knew your mother. She was a piece of shit and a junkie, and that wasn’t your fault.”

I shiver, conflicting emotions tightening my gut, because how can he speak aboutmy motherthat way? And yet, his words give me relief from the guilt I always carry, and I’m confused. I can’t afford to process this now, though. I told them, and it’s enough. It has to be.

“Do you think I’ll see them?” I ask, forcing a smile onto my face. “Noah and Mom? Once it’s over?”

Jack swallows with difficulty while Silas leans against me heavily, getting to his feet. Finally, it’s Caden who answers, his dark eyes serious.

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen. Not if we do it right.”

38

Silas

Two years ago

I wake up with an overwhelming sense ofwrongness. I’m disoriented, thinking maybe I’m drunk or high, but even through the confusion, I can tell that it’s even worse than that.

My eyes don’t work properly. Everything seems kinda gray, as if something bleached the colors out of the world. When I try to blink, my eyes stay open. I see where I am—still in this cursed house at 12 Sycamore Street—but I don’t seem to have control over my eyelids. I don’t feel them.

It’s light out, weak discolored sunlight falling in through the grimy windows, and for a moment, I wonder if the dirty glass is the reason why everything looks so odd. But then, I notice something else. Every object I see has a kind of vague, shaky afterimage. Like a darker, discolored outline. Something like smoke or a shade that moves gently, like the shadows of naked tree boughs in the wind.

I make to blink again, but I can’t, so I just stand up. Or—I think I do. I can’t feel my legs. But somehow, I’m upright and moving through the room.

Flashing lights stream in through the window, and I come closer, looking out. There are three police cars and an ambulance out there, and I mutter under my breath. “Shit.”

If the police are here, we have to go. I have to find Caden and Jack and make a run for it, or they’ll question us about Noah’s death, and what canwe tell them to assuage all suspicion? Nothing, and the truth won’t cut it. I’ve already done a stint in prison. And fuck, but I’m not going back. No way.

Jolted by that thought, I stop moving and just focus on my body. Something inside me lurches, tipping precariously in shock. Because I should feel my heart hammering in my chest right now. I should feel my blood pumping, adrenaline like a cool, electric shot in my veins, my gut tight with urgency, hands clammy with cold sweat.

I feel fear and uncertainty, but they are displaced. Disembodied, floating feelings, like a cloud of shadow around me, and not the physical reactions I’m used to.

There’s something wrong with me. Seriously wrong.

I make for the door to the hallway, moving fast in my haste. There’s an ambulance outside, and in the face of my illness, I don’t even care about the police. I’m seriously sick or injured, and fixing that is more important than worrying about potential jail time. Anyway, I’ll figure something out. It’s not like I have blood on my hands.

I just have to get out there and ask for help.

On my way, I notice stuff on the floor, discolored tape clinging to the floorboards and little placards with numbers among the trash, but I somehow manage not to knock anything aside even though I move unsteadily. I don’t feel my legs, but somehow, they carry my weight just fine.

Before I notice the police tape strung across the doorway, I’m through, not even realizing I ripped it off.

Then I freeze. I look back.

---