Love is Hell

“I was talking to my folks about your house,” Craig continues. “Talk about townies .nbsp;.nbsp; my parents have both lived here since birth. But the whole murder story .nbsp;.nbsp; it’s actually a lot sadder than I thought.”

“Sadder than a bloody bathtub?” Raina asks.

Craig nods. “Turns out Travis was actually trying to spare his mother a serious beating that day. Apparently, he came home and saw his mom’s boyfriend going at her with his fist. Travis tried to distract the guy by using himself as beating bait. When his mother went to call 911, she couldn’t get the words out. She was too scared of what the boyfriend would do to her, I guess. She ended up hiding away in the downstairs closet because she couldn’t stand hearing the crap getting kicked out of her son.”

“Sounds like a nice lady,” Raina says.

Craig shrugs. “I guess she pretty much lost it after that. She blamed herself. At least that’s what people say.”

“Where is she now?” I ask.

“She’s a townie, too,” he says. “She lives in one of the condos behind the lake. At least that’s what my parents tell me.”

“Better watch out.” Raina smirks. “You’re starting to sound like a townie yourself.”

“Better to sound like one than to look like one,” he says, gesturing to her sweatshirt. There’s a giant shark, the school’s mascot, swimming above the words “Addison High Bites.”

“I dream about him,” I blurt out, putting an end to their banter.

“You dream about who?” Raina asks.

“Travis Slather.”

“Um, what are you talking about?” Craig asks.

I take a giant breath and tell them everything: how it started with just his voice; how I’d wake up with unexplained bruises; and then how he appeared to me recently, asking for my help.

“I told you that place was crazy-haunted,” Raina says.

“But maybe you’re dreaming about him because of everything you’ve heard,” Craig says. “I mean, I’d probably be having nightmares, too.”

“No way,” I say. “I started dreaming about him before I even knew about the murder, before I knew the house was supposedly haunted.”

“So, how are you supposed to help him?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” I shake my head.

“Well, is he hot at least?” Raina sighs. “Because I heard the boy was hot.”

“Here we go.” Craig rolls his eyes.

But I can’t help smiling at her remark. I try my best to stop it, but the grin inches up my face and warms my cheeks.

Because the boy is hot.

Because a part of me can’t wait to see him again.

Nine (#ulink_7aba7063-edf0-5648-a43b-758ba99a1e38)

IN MY ROOM, I change into my pajamas—an oversized Bruins T-shirt coupled with a pair of flannel shorts—and guzzle down a full glass of sleep-inducing warm milk. Before I get into bed, I open my window, allowing the cool, fresh breeze to filter into the room.

The sky looks amazing tonight with its swollen moon and sprinkling of stars. I edge the curtains open wider, trying my best to relax my mind by thinking about simple things, like tomorrow’s hockey game and cinnamon toast for breakfast, but my pulse races and my head feels all dizzy.

Because all I can think about is Travis.

I take a deep breath and then exhale for five full seconds, trying to thwack myself out of it, but when I turn around, he’s sitting there on the corner of my bed.

“Hello, Brenda,” Travis says. “You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?”

I nod. My face flashes hot.

“Good, because I’ve been waiting for you, too.” He stands and extends his hand to me.

I take it and we both just sort of stand there, staring at each other. “I want to help you,” I say, noting the warmth of his palm.

“Are you sure?”

I nod again and glance up at his forehead where the gash used to be.

“It’s still there,” he says, rubbing the spot. “But it isn’t exactly pretty, so I’ve sort of hidden it away—one of the perks of being a ghost.” He smiles, trying to make light of it.

“Does it still hurt?”

He nods, sandwiching my hands between his palms and turning my insides to absolute mush. “It won’t heal until I do.”

“Hold that thought,” I say, eager to show him the necklace. I move over to the closet and swing the door wide.

My roller skates are in full view.

I take a step back, my hands trembling. My mouth turns dry. Normally, I keep the skates in a brown paper bag, tucked behind a suitcase in the very back.

“How did these get here?” I whisper.

“Brenda?” Travis asks. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head, wondering how this could possibly happen. Did my mother rearrange my closet when I wasn’t home? Was my dad snooping around in here?

Travis comes and wraps his arms around my shoulders from behind. “They’re just skates,” he says.

“No,” I say, feeling my eyes well up. “You don’t understand.”

“I do,” he whispers. “I understand a whole lot more than you think. And they’re just skates. They’re not her. They shouldn’t represent her.”

“Did you do this?” I ask, turning toward him.

“Don’t be upset.” He wipes my tears with the corner of his sleeve. “I just want you to be happy. Your sister would want that, too. And you can’t be happy when you’re trying to hide the past in a paper bag. Think about the good times you had with your sister when you want to remember her. Don’t think about these skates.”

“How do you know what my sister wants?”