Page 5 of The Spirit Key
The next thing I knew, he lashed out, striking me in the chest so hard, it sent me flying from my desk, only to stop when I slammed into the wall. Everyone in the class was laughing, thinking it was something I’d done for attention, until they saw the blood oozing from where he’d hit me, staining the dark sapphire-blue shirt Mom had bought because I’d begged her for it. All I could think of in that moment was how pissed she was going to be.
Tim jumped up from his desk and rushed over, knelt down beside me, and cradled my head in his lap. Mrs. Kavener stood over him, looking pretty much like a ghost herself, as her skin was pale and she was shaking.
Yeah, that was my first contact with a ghost. I had no idea they could actually hurt me, but when I see the jagged scars across my chest, which took thirty stitches to close, I’m reminded every day that they can.
Things went downhill from there. Yeah, you know that old saying about how it couldn’t get any worse? Don’t ever listen when someone tells you that bullshit, because the universe must get a shit-ton of laughs watching you squirm like a worm on a hook as it gets jollies showing you that things canalwaysget worse.
Chapter One
WHEN WEgot to high school, I went from being the strange kid to the town pariah. No one wanted to talk to me because I was a freak. People would see me muttering and thought I was talking to myself. Then the rumors about how dying had done something to my brain and I was, in their oh-so-educated vernacular, obviously retarded, began making the rounds.
Ghosts were coming out of the literal woodwork now, and I had no idea why. They always approached me, and ignoring them was getting harder and harder. After my death and resurrection, Mom had gotten tranquilizers to help her sleep. I started sneaking the leftovers from her medicine chest and taking two times the recommended dose, just to keep them at bay. It wasn’t a perfect solution, however. More than once I passed out at my desk, and a couple of times Mom had to come in for a meeting with the principal.
Dad was long gone. It seemed that he couldn’t handle the stress, so he up and bailed on us. He hadn’t tried to contact us in probably three years. He and Mom argued one night not long after the ghost sliced open my chest, and he told her that he was tired of the “freak show,” which I can only assume meant me. The solidthwackof flesh on flesh told me she’d slapped him, and immediately after, she told him to, and I quote, “get the fuck out.”
And he did.
But back to the tranquilizers, the sleeping in class, and the meetings with the school. The principal said she was understanding of the situation—which was a laugh—but that I couldn’t be taking drugs on school property, and that unless I got help, I was going to end up being expelled.
Dr. Trainer continually asked me what was going on, and I had no clue how to explain to her that there wasn’t anything wrong withme, but plenty of shit was fucked-up in the world. Ghosts became more and more aggressive, and I found self-medicating wasn’t doing the job it used to. So I upped the dose more.
Long story short, I ended up in a program for addicted teens.
We sat around, talking about the stresses we were under that caused us to indulge, imbibe, or just throw our lives away. I sat there silently, because my standing up and saying, “Hi, I’m Scott, and ghosts talk to me” would end with me being sent to a different kind of program and being fitted for a nice jacket with ties in the back.
Through it all, Tim stood beside me. Well, to be fair, both he and his mother did. She knew I was important to him, and by extension, I was important to her. She treated me like I was her second son, allowing me to spend the night when things got too hard at home. Unfortunately, the ghosts seemed to get my change of address, because they were there too.
Young, old, men, women, boys, girls, all times of the day or night. It had become a constant parade of spirits around me.
The drugs had long stopped helping. In fact, I think they made things worse, because they lowered my resistances to the voices. I couldn’t blot them out anymore, so I quit cold turkey. Mom thought I was turning over a new leaf, but the reality was, I needed something… else.
Now, I’m going to admit something to you that I would never tell anyone else: I contemplated suicide as a way to end the constant intrusion in my life. It got to the point where the dead outnumbered the living, each of them anxious to talk to me, to touch me. I was freaked the hell out.
But having Mom, Tim, and Mrs. Jennesee in my corner helped me stay strong and not give in. At least until I turned eighteen. I was a shell of myself by then. Voices assaulted me day and night, pleading, crying, whimpering, demanding, excoriating. I couldn’t sleep anymore. I couldn’t function at all. If I managed a few minutes a day, I considered myself lucky.
And my health was deteriorating. I’d gone from 165 to 125, my clothes hung off me, and my grades—something I’d always been proud of—dropped like the proverbial rock. Graduation was a no-go. The school had talked to me and let me know that I wouldn’t be marching across the stage to accept my diploma, and that I would have to repeat the year. I decided it was easier to just drop out. Why bother wasting the teachers’ time?
What made it even worse? Ryan, the brother who told me I’d ruined his summer by dying, was concerned, so it had to be bad. Tim was constantly trying to get me to eat. He plied me with pizza—I used to be able to eat a full sixteen-inch one from Classic Slice, but now I couldn’t keep down more than a few bites.
The doctors tried different medications, telling Mom that I was depressed, bipolar, or whatever. The truth was, none of those things were true. I just couldn’t handle my life anymore. Most kids worry about zits or whether or not they’ll get a date. I worried I was insane. I was in a downward spiral, and the bottom was coming up fast.
And it was having an effect on my friends and family. Mom took up drinking. From the time she woke up until she went to bed, she was drunk. I got it. She had to numb the pain of being my mother. Ryan left the house one day and went to his girlfriend’s place, then announced he was staying there. Tim…. Oh, Tim. He defended me to anyone and everyone. He was my rock, but unfortunately that stone was gathering moss, and my grip on him was slipping away.
Tim had no idea what he could do to help me. He gave it way more effort than I was worth, and he was paying the price for it. He decided he was going to take a year off college. Then two. He kept trying to find someone—something—that could help, but by now, even I knew nothing would ever take the ghosts away.
One night, after Mom had passed out on the couch, I slipped downstairs. In my hand was a battered suitcase that held all of the important things in my life. Pictures of me, Mom, and Ryan, more with me and Tim, some trinkets he’d given me. Clothes. Money. My laptop. God, it was hard to believe my life could be condensed to fit into a Samsonite carry-on.
I left a note telling Mom I was leaving. In it, I said how much I loved her. How very sorry I was for all the hurt I’d caused. I asked her to please say goodbye to Tim for me. I also said if she wanted to tell Ryan, that was okay too. And I slipped out the door and left, never intending on going back.
Of course, life always has other plans.
Chicago—2018
I STRETCHEDout on the ratty couch I’d gotten at the thrift store with my first paycheck. In a brilliant crushed blue velvet, it was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. Of course, when the owner told me I could have it for twenty bucks, I snatched it up. At least it was comfortable. Well, comfortable-ish.
I’m not sure if you could call sneaking out in the middle of the night “running away from home,” but it had benefits I never dreamed possible. The farther I got from Milwaukee, the sparser the ghosts became. When the bus pulled into Chicago, there wasn’t a single one to be seen. I walked the streets surrounded by the living, and it was fucking glorious.
Even though I wasn’t convinced this was anything more than a lull, I stopped at a Super 8 motel, paid for four days, and slept for eighteen hours before I got up, ate like a pig, then went back to sleep for another ten. My rest was undisturbed—if you didn’t count the guy and girl going at it like banshees at three in the morning—for the first time in years.
