Chapter 1
Callie
Over two years later.
I step out of my aunt’s black Mercedes-Benz and look at my new home.
Trees. An insane amount of trees surround the cottage made of bare cedar slats and stone. Looking back the way we came, there’s a winding dirt road that eventually makes its way to a paved highway.
Birds chirp and skitter among the maple, fir, and pine trees. A breeze shakes their leaves, and there’s a slight crunch of dirt under my aunt’s sensible pumps. They’re the only sounds for miles.
Isolated. Alone. No neighbors to hear me scream.
I shiver. “He’s gone,” I mutter under my breath. “The bastard is in prison two states away.”
Gritting my teeth so hard my jaw aches, I close my eyes and take deep calming breaths of clean Oregon air. Who needs an oxygen bar when you have a claustrophobic forest surrounding your house? After a few deep breaths, my rattled heart begins to slow down to human levels.
I jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I have to stop myself from immediately smacking it away. I look up into my aunt’s soft brown eyes that glisten with unshed tears. Mildred Volkov. I didn’t know this woman existed a week ago, and yet she’s standing here crying.
She pulls me into a hug and whispers into my hair, “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
In her heels, she’s about a half a foot taller than my 5’3”. She’s warm and soft and smells like roses.
I stand there stiff and unyielding, arms at my sides, unsure of what to do. I can’t remember getting a hug that wasn’t for show. Maybe my mother held me, but I was a toddler when she died, so if she did, it really doesn’t help me now.
I stomp down on the rage that’s found new fuel since I learned of this woman. A stranger that tells me she’s my mother’s sister. Where the fuck were you when my father was turning me into the human torch? Fun fact: my hair grows back along with everything else.
She didn’t know, logic tries to remind me. Your father is a psychopath. He kept you away from anyone that might help. It’s his fault, not hers.
She lets go before I can attempt to soften in her arms and turns toward the house.
“It’s not so bad,” she proclaims. “It came fully furnished, so no heavy lifting.”
There’s a subtle lilt of a British accent to her voice, a finishing touch to her overall well put together self. No wrinkles in her black slacks or chic white blouse. Not a blonde hair out of place from her french twist, despite the early flight from Phoenix, the six hour layover in LAX, followed by the long drive from the airport to our new home here in Twin Cedar Pass, Oregon. Her perfection is unnerving, and I resist the urge to kick dirt onto her shoes.
I walk around the car and grab my two duffels and backpack from the trunk, or the boot, as my aunt likes to call it. Carrying one in each hand, the duffels drag on the ground as I walk towards the deck that surrounds the house, my aunt already walking up the few steps to the front door.
Large windows bookend the door, allowing an easy view into the entry and living room. I peek inside since there’s a distinct lack of curtains or blinds. Wood floors. White walls. At least the chocolate brown L shaped couch looks overstuffed and inviting. A throw made up of autumn colors hangs over the back, encouraging people to curl up and stay awhile.
My aunt reaches under the welcome mat, pulls out two keys and hands one to me. I shove it into my jeans pocket.
“Trusting lot,” she says with a smile and raised brow.
When we enter, the first thing I notice is there are a lot of windows, but thankfully not a french door in sight.
The kitchen is left of the door. Cedar wood cabinets and a stone counter run along two walls, one side ending with a stainless steel fridge. There’s a well lacquered oak table that seats four sitting off to the side with a view out of yet another window.
“In case you forgot there were trees outside,” I mutter.
We both stand there awkwardly taking the place in. It’s smaller than my father’s house, but I’m pretty sure that’s in its favor. It smells like Pine Sol and fresh paint and has a kind of rustic, cabin feel to it-- minus any animal heads and/or pelts. Also in its favor.
“I have a few calls I need to make,” my aunt announces suddenly, heading back towards the front door. Her heels make a sharp click on the hardwood floors. “Why don’t you go find your room and start unpacking? I believe all the bedrooms are upstairs.”
I freeze, my knuckles turning white from my tightening grip on my duffels.
“Is there a basement?” I ask, my voice strained.
“No, darling,” she says softly, looking at me with knowing eyes, before walking out onto the deck, “there isn’t a basement.”
I frown at her retreating form as she makes her way back to the car, presumably to get her purse. She can’t know, I assure myself. No one knows. Must have imagined it.
Blood roars in my ears and tremors quake through me when I approach the bottom of the stairs on the other side of the living room. They’re narrow, with a wall to one side and a railing on the other. They look nothing like the posh carpeted ones in my father’s house, but panic continues to crawl up my throat.
“Really, Callie?” I growl, anger a comfortable replacement for fear. “All the shit you’ve lived through, and you’re going to lose it over stairs?”
I puff out two rapid breaths then charge the stairs like they’re the beach at Normandy, my boots pounding angry thuds against the hardwood steps. I’m breathless when I reach the top, and I speed walk down the hall, skipping looking at the bathroom, to get further away from the stairs.
There are three doors at the end of the hallway. I open the one on the left, flip the switch that turns on the overhead light, and find an average sized room with a queen bed, desk, stand up dresser, bedside table, and a glass door, framed in the same cedar wood as the house, that leads out onto a balcony. The walls are white, but I finally found carpet. It’s light beige and looks to be soft and plush.
I unload my duffels and backpack on top of the bed, then head out onto the balcony. There’s a small metal table to one side surrounded by chairs. It looks like it might be a nice place to read a book and drink a cup of coffee. To think these things makes me feel like I’ve walked into an alternate reality. This can’t be real. Any moment I’ll wake up still tied to that damn table.
I blame the shiver on the cold, wet air that cuts right through my hoodie and chills the skin underneath. It’s dusk, and the unending trees lose their vibrancy in the waning light, becoming grey ominous shapes in the purple-blue sky.
Looking down over the balcony railing, I notice a large patch of burnt grass that’s partially grown over. Apparently, the people that lived here before were geniuses. Nothing says good idea like making an unprotected fire in the middle of the forest. My teeth chatter, and I decide to head back inside. Everything is so freaking damp how they got anything to burn is beyond me.
The room may be furnished, but that’s it. No pictures on the walls. No knick-knacks on the dresser. There’s a lamp on the desk and another on the bedside table, but nothing else. It’s a blank slate, but I don’t have anything to fill it. I brought nothing from my old life outside of clothes, laptop, and school supplies. Even the fantasy novel in my backpack was purchased at the airport. I wanted nothing from that house. I would’ve burnt it to the ground if I thought I could get away with it. Instead, it sits empty and closed up, ready for the bastard’s return.
As I unpack my duffel into the chest of drawers, I wonder if I’m capable of living a normal life. Outside of healing powers that make me a candidate for the X-men, even the everyday stuff about me is a conversation non-starter. My life has consisted of so much pain and pretense for the past three and half years that I can’t help but wonder if a normal girl exists in me.
Do I want friends? It’d be nice not to be so alone, but what the hell do I tell them about me? Anything pop culture related for the past two years is completely lost on me. I don’t have hobbies or talents; at least nothing I’ve examined too closely since before high school. I like school, though that’s not a popular opinion among other teenagers, and I can’t really tell anyone why I like it. It’s my escape from the torture chamber that’s my house… or was my house.
There’s not a whole lot of my old life I can share. Do I tell people how my father is in prison for the next five years for stalking and the attempted abduction of a woman who holds a striking resemblance to my mother? Fucking bastard.
A red haze washes over me, and it takes all I have not to kick my heavy black boots through the very nice windows.
“He’s gone; that’s all that matters,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “Capone was caught on tax evasion. All that matters is the bastard is behind bars. He can’t hurt you. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
I concentrate on relaxing all my muscles, forcing my hands to unclench. After many deep breaths, I finish unpacking and throw my duffle bags onto the top shelf of the closet.
Kicking off my boots, I throw my backpack onto the floor and belly flop onto the dark blue comforter covering the bed. I twist my head to the side and look out the windows to the pitch black darkness outside.
“First purchase is definitely going to be curtains,” I groan, already anticipating the morning sun that will murder my eyes tomorrow.
Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids. I blink a few times trying to fight the pull, before deciding to rest my eyes for just a moment. Within minutes, I’m asleep.
∞∞∞
“Sweet, a hot girl moved into my room,” a male voice with a warm timbre exclaims, shocking me awake. “Now I know how the three bears felt. Don’t care how the story goes, though. There’s no way I’m baby bear.”
I sit bolt upright, blinking away my nightmare. Sweat clings to my skin despite the cold, and I take a few heavy breaths. It’s a moment before I see my new room instead of my father’s torturous basement. Damn stairs. I look for the origin of the voice and find a boy about my age standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed.
“Who the fuck are you?” I screech.
The boy winces. “I know I can’t feel real pain anymore, but holy crap, that was loud. I’m pretty sure dogs three counties over are howling in agony.” He wiggles his finger in his ear, then freezes, looking up at me sharply. “Wait, you can see me?”
“Yes, I can fucking see you. You’re standing in the middle of my room!”
I slide off the bed and slowly try to back away towards the door. The carpet is indeed plush under my feet. My first night and I have crazy people sneaking into my room. Just what I needed. There’s a voice in the back of my head calmly pointing out I should probably be frightened, but all I can seem to manage is annoyed, and relieved to be awake. The past few years with my father has really screwed with my fight or flight instincts.
“You don’t understand,” the boy says, bouncing on his toes with excitement. “No one outside of my friends should be able to see me.”
“Why? Have an invisibility cloak tucked away somewhere?” I snort. Yes, Callie. Antagonize the crazy person.
“No. I’m dead,” he replies with a grin then swipes his hand through the desk.
Crap. I take it back! I squeeze my eyes shut and pray under my breath, “Please, let this be a dream. Please, let this be a dream. Please, let this be a dream.” I crack open one eye, and the boy is now standing two feet away.
“Nope. Not a dream,” he states, his hazel eyes alight with mischief. “A ghost.”
I swear my brain shorts out, and I drop to the floor, my legs giving out from under me. “Great, I’m hallucinating. I think I preferred you as a crazy, stalker, pervert.” Weird barks of laughter escape me; the sound of a person losing their mind. “Honestly, I should be more shocked it took me this long to finally crack.”
The boy sits cross legged in front of me, hands loose in his lap, and a frown marring his cute, boy-next-door face. His body is toned and long limbed, his red Star Wars shirt molding his firm chest and biceps. Medium brown hair falls into his eyes, and he has a strange, golden glow to his skin.
At least my hallucinations are nice to look at.
“You’re not crazy,” he assures me, his warm gaze oddly comforting. “I know it’s hard to believe. I didn’t believe it at first, and I had Kaleb to explain it to me. I promise you, I’m real.”
“Says the hallucination,” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Who’s Kaleb? Is he also a ghost?” That’s right. I’m so lonely; I’m humoring figments of my imagination.
“No, he’s a neph-- I mean, he’s a real, flesh and blood person. He can touch things and everything.” He chuckles. “That sounded vaguely dirty.”
He swallows, then rubs the back of his neck. “I’m Felix, by the way,” he adds, looking up at me with his chin pointing towards his chest. He has those long lashes boys seem to always be gifted with.
“Callie,” I reply automatically. I drop my hand to my pant leg and trace my fingers along the rough denim, focusing on the texture against my skin.
“It’s nice to meet you, Callie. I’d shake your hand, but it would go right through.” The smirk returns to his face. It looks natural there, as if he’s always moments away from smiling.
“So, you’re a ghost,” I say carefully, stretching out the words. With my crazy, mutant healing, I’m practically a walking, talking X-23 without the claws; the world is a weird place, and a ghost is so much better than me losing my mind. “And you, what, haunt my house now? I’m pretty sure that wasn’t on the listing.”
He laughs, the sweet timbre rolling over me like a warm blanket. Felix is surprisingly upbeat for a dead guy.
“Yes and no.” He rocks his head side to side. “I can go where I have strong emotional attachments, which luckily means I get to haunt my friends. Kaleb says it has something to do with emotional attachments acting as anchors within the mortal plane.” He scrunches up his face. His straight brows, upturned nose, and pointed chin give him an elfish quality. “Kaleb explains it better.”
“Kaleb, the flesh and blood friend that I’ll meet and who is definitely real,” I tease. Tucking my legs to the side, I prop myself up on one hand and attempt a more comfortable position than short-circuited flop.
“Yeah, that one.” He grins. “I’ll introduce you to all the guys. They’re totally going to get a kick out of you. Can’t wait for Kaleb to explain this.”
He leans back on his hands, his shirt riding up and exposing the waistband of his jeans and a sliver of firm belly. Strange how everything moves on him as if he’s flesh and blood, yet he goes right through everything else.
I blink and look up, realizing I’m staring.
“So you can come here without your friends because this was your old home, which makes it one of these emotional anchors?” I guess.
He winces.
“It’s more because my whole family and I were brutally murdered here,” he says quickly, the words slamming together and pitching into a question at the end.
“You died here!” I exclaim then mutter, “No wonder this house was so cheap.”
“She jokes!” Felix chuckles.
His appreciation of my unique brand of humor is nice; then again, who would appreciate morbid humor better than a dead person?
“Yep. Well, I died around here, but I don’t actually remember how I died. Just waking up standing outside a bonfire that apparently was… uh, never mind.” He looks into my eyes and grimaces. “The grisly details aren’t important. Point is, here I am, and you can see me!”
His smile is infectious, and I can’t help returning it. I’ve never met anyone like Felix, which okay, isn’t really saying much, but there’s something about him that reaches into the cold, dark parts inside me and shines light. It makes me wish I knew him when he was alive. Whether ghost or hallucination, Felix is a gift; the potential for a friend. There’s relief that I might not have to be alone, even if the only friend I make is someone no one else can see. I’m already weird; what’s an invisible friend going to hurt?
“I’m totally calling you Casper!” I laugh. It’s a foreign sound since it isn’t dripping in cynicism and disdain.
Felix sighs dramatically. “It’s a small price to pay to talk to a pretty girl.”
I duck my head and blush, heat crawling up my neck and into my cheeks. Huh, I didn’t know I could blush anymore. Before I can come up with what to say next, there’s a knock on my door.
I give Felix a wide-eyed look, before answering, “Come in.”
Mildred pokes her head in around the door, then frowns when she sees me on the floor. Subtle crow’s feet tug at the corners of her eyes. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
Felix winks at me.
“No, just talking to myself.” I glare back at him playfully, thankful my back is to the door.
He stage whispers, “Told you no one can see me.”
I bite back a smile.
“Anyway,” my aunt continues after a moment, “the kitchen was mildly stocked, and I was able to cobble something together for dinner. You hungry?”
“Yes,” I answer, surprised by my own enthusiasm.
After the intentional food poisoning and later being starved for a week, I lost my interest in food a while ago. I learned I can’t starve to death, but it sure still hurts like hell.
“Fantastic. Meet you downstairs.” She gives me a quick, tight smile then walks away.
I get up and go down the hallway to the bathroom I skipped over earlier, Felix trailing behind me. It’s decent sized with a combination tub/shower that has sliding glass doors, a vanity counter with sink, and the toilet tucked behind a separate door. Huh. It continues the motif of wood, beige, and what looks like river stone for the floor.
I step in and wash my hands while Felix pretends to lean against the door jam, his arms folded over his chest. I’m pretty sure if he actually tried to lean against the wall, he’d fall through it, which makes me wonder how he doesn’t fall through the floor.
“How come you don’t have a British accent?” he asks without preamble.
“Why would I have a British accent?” Minus a hand towel in sight, I flick my hands a couple times at the sink then wipe them on my jeans.
“Because your mom…”
“She’s not my mom,” I cut him off harshly. “She’s my aunt.”
“Okay.” He elongates the word into several syllables.
“I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I just…”
“Say no more,” he interrupts with a swish of his hand. He points at himself. “Family killed by yet unknown crazy murderers. I get complicated family issues.”
“You seem strangely okay with the whole mass murder thing,” I say, leaning against the sink. My fingertips lightly brush along the smooth stone surface.
“You seem strangely okay with talking to a dead guy,” he challenges with a raised brow, then sighs, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair. “Obviously, I’m not okay, but everything that can be done about it, is. My friends and I are trying to solve what happened, and in the meantime, I’m going to enjoy as much of my undead existence before they shove me through the pearly gates.”
My heart squeezes at the thought of him moving on. But I just found you. I think of the patch of burnt grass and guilt eats away at me over my earlier unkind thoughts.
“How long have you been dead?” I whisper.
He looks away. “About four months.”
“Wow.” I release a pent up breath. “I think July is cursed.”
A wry smirk pulls at his lips. “You’ll get no argument out of me. Why is July cursed for you?”
I shove away the memories of previous year’s birthdays, each one more gruesome than the one before. My fingers press harder on the counter. “It’s one of those complicated family issues.”
“Ahhh,” he nods sagely then brightens like flipping a switch. “Well, I heard there was food downstairs and since I can’t eat anymore, I must live vicariously through you.” He turns and heads down the stairs, shouting over his shoulder, “Remember you’re eating for two now.”