Listen to yourself, Kayla. Stop and really listen.
You’re the storm.
What is all your thunder and lightning telling you?
Dante
32
I say crossly to the letter in my hand, “If I knew what all my thunder and lightning were telling me, I wouldn’t have asked you for advice!”
Maybe Dante was sent to prison for being criminally irritating.
With a sigh of frustration, I slap the letter down on my desktop and stare glumly out the window into the rainy afternoon.
More damn rain. It’s like the weather is in on some evil plot to drive me even nuttier than I already am.
It’s been two weeks since I’ve had contact with Aidan. Every day that passes is drearier and more depressing than the last. I’ve developed a severe case of insomnia to go along with all my other problems, and I still haven’t found a therapist.
The other day when I visited the building where Eddie said Dr. Letterman has his office, there was no Dr. Letterman listed on the directory.
I don’t know why I went to that pothead Eddie for help, anyway. He probably only has a single functioning brain cell left.
Not that I’m in any position to judge. I’ve been drinking so much wine, I should buy stock in the grape industry.
When I hear the sound of laughter, I lift my head and look toward the window. The laughter comes again, bright and bubbly, though I can’t see anyone out in the yard. Curious, I go to the window and peek out.
The little blond boy in the red rain slicker runs across the lawn in front of me.
I gasp and fling myself against the wall, flattening my back against it. My heart pounds. Adrenaline floods my veins, leaving me shaking.
If anyone had told me before this moment that the sight of a cheerful toddler would strike such terror in my soul, I’d have laughed in their face. The guy in the trench coat doesn’t even scare me this much.
It’s not a ghost. He’s too happy to be a ghost. Didn’t Fiona say something about spirits trapped in this dimension being sad?
Panicked, I argue with myself that I’m being ridiculous, but it doesn’t help.
Then I have such a horrifying thought, it stops my pounding heart cold.
Is that the child I miscarried?
Am I being haunted by the spirit of my dead son?
I know it doesn’t make sense. My child hadn’t even been born yet, much less grown to a toddler. But what do I know about ghosts? Maybe they continue to develop into the person they would have been if they’d lived?
But where would they get clothing? Did this kid visit some otherworldly kiddie store to pick out his little rain jacket and yellow boots?
I slap a hand over my eyes and groan. “Stop it, Kayla! That is not a ghost! Now go outside and find his mother!”
The sound of my voice cuts through some of my panic, enough to galvanize me into action. I straighten my shoulders, take a deep breath, and turn back to the window.
The little blond boy stands a few feet away, looking right at me.
We stare at each other through the glass. My heart feels as if it’s about to break my ribcage. It races so fast, I can’t catch my breath.
Why is he so scary?
The boy points at me. He lets out a high, bloodcurdling shriek, his mouth stretched open and his blue eyes wide in terror.
Then he turns and bolts, disappearing from sight.
I stand rooted to the spot, hyperventilating, until anger overtakes me. I shout at the window, “Fuck you, too, kid!”
Immediately, I slap a hand over my mouth. I can’t be that lady who hollers at children on her lawn. We had one of those on our block when I was growing up, and everyone hated her.
I run through the house to the back door. Barging through that, I launch myself off the porch and look around the yard. There’s no sign of the boy. I run left and look around the side of the house, but he’s not there either. So I head in the other direction, my breath steaming out in a white cloud in the cold air.
There’s no sign of him on the other side of the house. He’s not in the front yard when I search it. He’s not hiding in the bushes or running down the street.
He vanished into thin air.
Standing wet and shaking in the driveway, I sense a presence behind me. When I whirl around, I’m alone.
Then I happen to glance up at the second floor.
In the window of my master bedroom, the little blond boy stands staring down at me.
There are no such thing as ghosts. There are no such thing as ghosts. There are no such thing as ghosts.
Rain pelting my upturned face, I shout, “Stay there!”
He backs away from the window and disappears from view.