Page 2 of My Road Trip with a Vampire: Season One
I clasp my fingers around the black frame of the mirror and pull it back to the center.
A girl is standing there in a high-collar nightgown, her waist-length hair dripping wet. She's no longer a figure I think I'm hallucinating—she's right behind my car.
Her mouth drops open like she's about to say something or scream, but I don't wait to see what will happen. I hit the gas, and my tires spin on the gravel for a brief, terrifying moment before I take off.
Blood rushes to my head. "Phew. It's ok, Darling. It’s going to be ok."
Darling narrows her eyes at me. She knows I'm more terrified than she is. She'd call me out if she could talk.
"Ok, I know you're judging me. Almost there."
My car bumps over the little hill and through the rotted wood gate. I don't bother pulling in too far. No one comes here at night. It used to be the hot spot for spooky makeout sessions when I was in high school, but the parents in town made a big fuss about it being unsafe so everyone abandoned it.
Now it's the loneliest place—the cemetery is too old for anyone to know the bones buried inside.
I grab the can of salt and my bag of crystals. The pup's fluffy butt wiggles ahead of me as we move into the graveyard. The temperature drops as we pass crumbling headstones. Some of them are still in decent shape, even if the writing is worn.
I've done enough research over the past two weeks to know the stone I'm looking for.
Matilda Welles. Aged twelve, fell down a well.
But I know better.
A simple fall down a well doesn't usually cause a pre-teen girl to wander the Earth for nearly two hundred years. Nor does it warrant an uptick in unexplained drownings every year on the anniversary of her death. Who goes swimming in October in Pennsylvania anyways?
"Matilda," I whisper. “Are you here?”
Cold trickles down my scalp and between my shoulders. I feel wet despite the dry night and the thick coat I'm wearing.Oh no.I always hate this part.
I spin around slowly, fighting the urge to run out of the cemetery.
I move until I stand face to face with the ghost I saw on the road. White light blurs her outline, and her wet gown sticks to her translucent figure.
"Matilda, you can talk to me. Tell me what I need to do to help you rest," I say gently.
She opens her mouth and water trickles out.
"Didn't fall," she sputters.
"I gathered as much. Who hurt you? Tell me what happened, and I'll help you set your bones to rest."
She begins to speak, but she can't get much out. She clutches her throat. I shudder. I always feel bad for ghosts like this; when they meet particularly violent ends they tend to get stuck in a loop of fear and pain.
I point at the headstone a few paces from her own.Edgar Welles. "Him? Did your dad do it?”
She shakes her head.No.I drift my hand over to the next.Blanche Welles.
My heart feels heavy when she nods.
"She pushed you in the well where you fell and died."
Her eyes go white all the way through, and the edges of her form flicker in the night.
"No."
"She didn't push you?"
"Washtub." She coughs and croaks. "Held me under."
