Once she’s gone, my shoulders sink, and I give up on the nacho plate, grabbing a glass and shoving it under the hot water.
A figure enters my periphery, reaching for the radio. My mom making another attempt to commandeer the music.
“Hey, leave my station—” I start.
It is not my mom. I drop the glass.
A dark-haired boy stands at the other end of the counter, staring intently at the radio. His fingers curl around the dial, and he flips the station. Back to rock.
The boy looks up, meeting my eyes. He looks about my age, maybe a year or so older. Something about him is familiar.
I curse, only looking away from him when pain sparks up through my feet. On the ground, the glass sits in chunks, a few of them striped in blood.
“Joanna? Are you all right?” My mom rushes back into the room.
I open my mouth to tell her to call the cops, to warn her to stay away from the boy who marched into the kitchen like he lives here, but when my eyes dart to the spot where he was standing, he’s gone.
Like he was never there at all.
But he was there, and real. As real as the glass broken at my feet.
“I’m—I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up. I thought I saw—” I stop. Her face has already taken on that mother-hen expression, and tellingher someone essentially appeared out of thin air won’t help the situation. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Mom meets me at the sink, stepping around the glass, lifting my hands to inspect them. Once she’s come to the same conclusion I did, that we won’t be climbing into the car for an ER visit, she gently lowers my hands.
“No, no, leave it,” she says, gesturing to the glass. “You go upstairs and clean up. You know where the first aid kit is?”
I nod, but I can’t bring my feet to move. My eyes keep flicking to the spot the boy was standing in, like I’ll blink and he’ll be there. Like my mom will see him, and we’ll panic together.
It doesn’t happen. Instead, my mom says my name again, a little hesitant.
I nod again and force myself to turn, making my way to the stairs.
“Hey,” a whisper calls after me. Masculine, far too deep to belong to anyone who lives here.
I don’t look back.
I’ve heard of grief hallucinations—I know they’re rare but real, but the stories are always of loved ones hearing or seeing their dearly departed. Not some random teenage boy.
Maybe it isn’t grief. Maybe I’m finally losing it.
I hear the voice again and cover my ears.“STOP!”
I run up the stairs, heart thundering.
The voice sounds once more, but I’m basically racing down the hall. I shove into the bathroom and slam the door shut behind me. I punch the lock button.
I’m almost hesitant to flick the lights on. But when I do, the only face in the mirror is mine. I look like a weary survivor in a horror movie. Feel like one, too.
I take another breath. Reach for the cabinet under the sink. Drag out the first aid kit and lose myself in the monotony of tending to my little wounds. Clean, disinfect, apply the nasty-smelling ointment, bandage the cuts.
I shouldn’t be surprised I’m seeing things. Nightmares wake me up a few times a week, so it’s not like I’m operating at full power. And being surrounded by a bunch of die-hard paranormal believers must have infected my subconscious. My grief and my family’s superstitions coming together to mess with me.
By the time I exit the bathroom, I’ve convinced myself I saw nothing at all. Despite that, I’m relieved to find an empty room. I cross to my bed, dropping onto the mattress and flopping onto my back. I squeeze my eyes shut.
It wasn’t real.
Eight
