I’d hoped that working with children would lessen my exposure to ghosts, and it had, but not completely. Stafford was a case in point. The towheaded, blue-eyed imp was as dead as the scary lady on Avenue B. He liked to whisper naughty suggestions into the ears of my students then laugh and laugh at the chaos he caused.
When I was four, I stopped talking about the people no one saw but me. However, I never stopped seeing them. Most children do—right around the time they start to speak—but not all of them. Some see and hear spirits for a little while longer. These were the ones Stafford haunted.
I’d tried to discover how long the child had been walking through the walls of my school, but, predictably, no adult had ever seen him but me. The previous kindergarten teacher only stared at me blankly when I asked if any of her students had spoken of an invisible friend. Which made me think Stafford was newly dead. Except there was no record of a child of that name dying in New Bergin or anywhere close enough to warrant his presence.
Regardless of how devious my queries or how long I cajoled, he never gave me any information on himself whatsoever. No matter what I said, Stafford would not cross over. He liked causing trouble too much.
Today was no different. The kids behaved as if someone had slipped them chocolate-covered circus peanuts for breakfast. I felt like I was taming lions. When the last bell rang, I ushered them out, hoping for better tomorrows; then I locked my classroom door and had a conversation with Stafford.
“I’m starting to think you want to get someone killed so you won’t be lonely.”
Confusion flickered across his deceptively sweet face. “I’m not lonely. I have you.”
“What about your mother?”
Wariness replaced the confusion. “What about her?”
“Is she still alive?”
It wasn’t very nice of me to sic Stafford on his mother, but seriously, why me?
“If she is,” I continued, “you could visit.”
I doubted this would work—Stafford seemed attached to the school and therefore he probably couldn’t leave to haunt—I mean “visit”—his mother. But I was desperate.
“If she isn’t, you could still visit.”
Once he was on the other side, I didn’t think he could come back. At least none of the other ghosts I’d convinced to go into the light ever had.
“Stafford?” His eyes met mine. “Your mother?”
He looked away and didn’t answer.
“How about your father?”
One of the fluorescent bulbs flickered.
“Stop that,” I said.
“You stop that,” he returned.
I had to bite my lip to keep myself from continuing the childish exchange. “I just want you to—”
The ghost child disappeared.
“Come back here!”
All the lights in the room went out. I didn’t bother to check the fuse or the switch. Been there, done that. The only way they would go back on was if Stafford wanted them to. Which was usually after I’d called Mr. Jorgenson, head of maintenance—i.e., the janitor. He would arrive to investigate thirty seconds after all the lights went back on. Then he would point out that every bulb was fully functioning and shake his head at the foolish female who’d probably neglected to flip the switch in the first place. As he was unable to hear Stafford’s laughter, I could hardly blame him.
I gathered my things and left. On the street, I glanced back. Every light in my room blazed, throwing Stafford’s shape into stark relief beyond the window. Another one of his tricks. I could count on a note in my mailbox tomorrow from the principal admonishing me about wasting energy.
Stafford waved. I gave up and waved back.
I could have avoided the crime scene on the way home. New Bergin was small but not so small there wasn’t an alternate route. However, I felt drawn there. Though I didn’t want to see the dead woman again, I probably would. Ghosts revealed themselves to me for a reason, and until I knew that reason, she might turn up anywhere. There was no avoiding it, or her.
Yellow tape cordoned off the alleyway where she had died. The body was gone, but the asphalt still sported bloodstains and burn marks. I wasn’t sure how they’d make those disappear beyond repaving the street. Until the murder was solved that was probably off the table.
I was surprised there weren’t a few stragglers ogling the crime scene. Horrific as the murder was, it was the most excitement we’d seen in New Bergin since a deer had jumped through the front window of the Norseman Café during rut. He’d trashed the place pretty good before he’d rammed his rack into the drywall.
The sun was falling fast; the Indian summer warmth would disappear as quickly as Stafford had. The idea of standing on a dinnertime deserted street in the approaching twilight and coming face-to-face again with that ink-eyed specter had me hurrying in the direction of my apartment at the same pace I’d left it that morning.
Inside I slipped into my favorite yoga pants and a ratty tank top then studied the finger-shaped bruises on my arm. I was rarely without a bruise of some kind—shin, hip, thigh, chin—kids were rough.