The Ghost Host: Episode 1 (The Ghost Host Series) Page 22

“Will I ever remember it?” My eyes dart between Agent Morton and Kyran, afraid to hear the answer.

  “More than likely,” Agent Morton says slowly, “you will remember it eventually, but it may not be pleasant if it happens unexpectedly.”

  “How would it happen not unexpectedly?” Kyran asks.

  Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, Agent Morton regards me carefully. “Hypnosis.” He pauses to take in my reaction. I’m still too shocked to really react, so I’m sure he’s disappointed.

  Putting one hand to his chin, he continues. “Dr. Rosemond is experienced in hypnotherapy and she thinks you’d be a good candidate. It’s not a guarantee, of course, but she feels confident she could help you. I don’t want you to give me an answer right now, but I want you to think about it. Perhaps when you come back on Monday for the rest of the tests we talked about you can discuss it with her once you’ve had time to process all of this.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I mumble. I just want to get out of here. I must make that pretty obvious, because Agent Morton nods and stands. I think he says something to Kyran, but I’m not really listening anymore. Kyran nudges me to stand and I take my keys out of my pocket on impulse, but he grabs them immediately. Probably a smart move since I barely even remember how we end up in the lobby again a few minutes later.

  I’m little better than a zombie on the drive back to my apartment. Some vague part of me wonders where everyone is when Kyran unlocks the door and drags me inside, but it doesn’t last. I don’t even care about how pushy he’s being when he leads me over to the couch and makes me sit down. When he takes the spot next to me, I lean my head against his shoulder—needing something real to keep me from losing what’s left of my mind—and don’t complain when his arm falls around my shoulders. Self-preservation forces my eyes closed, shutting out everything.

  26: Pieces

  (Malachi)

  “I can’t believe how heavy these things are,” Holden grumbles as we lug the first of two queen sized mattresses up the stairs. It’s not as bad as the pullout couch, but it’s ten times more awkward to carry and hold.

  “At least we finally got them,” I say. My voice comes out muffled as my face is half squashed by the mattress. The first set they brought out weren’t the right size. The second set had a tear in one of the mattresses, so we had to wait for them to pull another one. Getting them both to fit into the bed of my daddy’s truck was no picnic either. I’m really hoping this is the last piece of furniture Echo needs picked up and hauled. My shoulders are killing me.

  Unable to even attempt opening the screen or apartment door, I bang my foot on the screen and hope someone’s inside to hear us. A few seconds later, Zara swings the door open and laughs at our awkward attempts to get the mattress through the door. All I can see is mattress and wall as I guide Holden through the apartment to Zara’s room. It’s closest. Seeing that she did indeed set up her new bed frame while we were gone, Holden and I flip the mattress onto it unceremoniously.

  “And now we do it all over again,” Holden complains.

  Rolling my shoulders, I say, “I think Kyran and Zara should have to get the other one.”

  “Zara carry something?” Holden shakes his head.

  I’m at least dragging Kyran down to help. I step out of Zara’s room and notice Echo’s bedroom door is open. The pieces of the bed she picked up at my mama’s favorite antique shop are still leaning against the wall, not put together and ready for a mattress. Perplexed, and a bit annoyed, I head for the living room. “I draw the line at hauling mattresses and putting beds together,” I say as I round the corner.

  Oddly, I only see the back of Kyran’s head poking up above the couch. What? He couldn’t be bothered to get up and help us? Walking up behind him, I smack the back of his head, and I’m about to comment on his laziness until I see Echo sprawled out on his lap. My entire train of thought derails.

  “What the hell?” I demand.

  “Before you go blowin’ a gasket,” Kyran drawls, “how about you ask why your girlfriend’s pretty much comatose? Might be that she had a pretty rough morning, genius.”

  Holden is suddenly right in front of us, sitting down on the coffee table as he stares at his friend worriedly. Zara stands off to the side, fingers tapping nervously at her mouth. Clearly, she already knows something. Still slightly distracted by the fact the Echo’s head in is my best friend’s lap, I’m becoming more freaked out by the second.

  “What happened? Her text said she was heading down to talk to Agent Morton, but then we never heard anything else.”

  Kyran motions for me to sit down somewhere and stop hovering. When I do, he starts talking. I feel sick to my stomach as he tells us about the camping trip, Echo having no memory of it, and what happened to Peter Archer. The first thought that comes to mind is Holden’s comment a while back about how the ghosts are very protective of Echo. Did this Archer guy try to hurt her? It seems possible, but I toss it away a moment later. Archer is in love with Echo, not out to hurt her.

  I’m trying to come up with another answer when I notice Kyran’s hand moving back and forth across her arm slowly. I very nearly snap at him to stop touching her when I notice the red marks running down her upper arm. “Did one of the ghosts do that?” I demand. “Did Archer?”

  Kyran rolls his eyes, which renews my desire to punch him. “Curling iron, dude.” He shakes his head. “She dropped it this morning and it burned her. I took care of it.”

  It kills me that I wasn’t here this morning, that she had to face all of this alone. Kyran’s free hand pulls a strand of hair back from her face, reminding me that she wasn’t alone, but not making me feel any better. Does everyone has some weird fixation on my girlfriend? Maybe I’m just reading more into things than I should, but Kyran makes no move to get up.

  “How long has she been out?” I ask.

  “About an hour,” Kyran says. “Morton suggested hypnosis, but maybe there’s another way to find out more, something that won’t traumatize Echo any more than she already has been.”

  “And that would be?” Holden asks warily. He knows about Kyran’s interesting family background.

  Kyran glares at him, looking more than a little offended. “Call her parents.” His eyes snap over to mine. “They should know something about the trip and this Peter kid, right?”

  Grunting that he’s probably right, I excuse myself to clear my head and make the call. It takes serious effort to put Kyran out of my mind. Or, I try to anyway. He’s the one who was ridiculing me about how quickly I fell for her. Aside from those flashes of jealousy I thought were related to his hero worship, he’s never shown any interest in her past video games and ghosts.

  It’s the ghosts part that worries me. I believe Echo. I have to, right? I’ve seen enough to believe, but really wrapping my head around the concept, really believing in ghosts and all the stuff Kyran’s been talking about since I contacted Echo…it’s not that easy to just take it all in and accept it. Part of me keeps hoping there’s some logical explanation for everything.

  It doesn’t matter right now. I step out onto the girls’ tiny apartment balcony and pull out my phone. The only number I have for her parents is their home phone, so I dial and hope someone is there to pick up. As the rings begin to add up, I realize it’s still early in the morning there. I’m about to hang up when a groggy voice says, “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Simmons? Sorry for calling so early. I forgot about the time difference until just a second ago.”

  “No, it’s fine,” she mumbles. “Is everything okay? Is Echo all right?” She seems to wake up as those words slip out of her mouth. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’s starting to panic.

  “She’s fine,” I half-lie. “We’re all fine. I just needed to ask you about something.”

  She’s quite for a moment. “Are you sure Echo is doing okay?”

  Hopefully those “Mom senses” every mother seems to have are still half-asleep. “Yeah, she’s good. It’s just that t
he nightmares are still happening. She’s mentioned the name Archer…from her nightmares,” I say, hoping I didn’t just make it sound like Echo and are I sleeping together and I’m hearing her while she’s asleep.

  “Archer?” Mrs. Simmons squeaks. “Oh no.” She starts crying and I have no earthly clue what to say then. Luckily, she pulls herself together and continues. “How much does she remember?”

  Knowing that Echo doesn’t want her parents to know she’s involved with the FBI in any way, I decide to give myself some leeway with the explanation. “She remembers a camping trip, meeting Archer, then having some kind of fall and not knowing what happened to him. In her nightmares, she feels like she has to find him and save him.”

  Mrs. Simmons sounds like she’s crying again, but she keeps talking. “That’s all she could say when she finally woke up. She was inconsolable, had to find Archer. I don’t even know why she always called him Archer when everyone else called him Pete.” She pauses for a moment to rein in her tremulous emotions. “They hit it off the first day we made it to the campground. It was so rare that Echo connected with another kid. We didn’t even care that he was two years older than her. They got along so wonderfully, and Echo was doing well during that time…we just couldn’t bear to keep them apart.”

  Choking back a sob, it takes her a moment to gather herself. “They even had this silly thing they’d do,” she says. “Peter thought Echo’s name was so funny in comparison to his. He called her Repeat, like the old nursery rhyme. You know the one that goes, Pete and Repeat were in a boat. Pete fell out. Who was left? And then you just had to keep repeating it. They were Pete and Repeat. It was so cute at the time.”

  She breaks down again, crying the kinds of sobs that wrack your whole body. She must have gone somewhere by herself to not be disturbed by anyone else in the house wanting to know what was wrong. I wait patiently, aching for Echo more than anyone else. I guess I get why they hid this from her, didn’t make her deal with it, but they had to know it would bubble back to the surface at some point and it likely wouldn’t be good.

  When she’s finally calm enough to address, I ask, “What happened to Archer?”

  “Nobody knows,” she says. “That day, they weren’t even very far from camp, just hiking around the campground to get away from the twins for a while. We heard Echo start screaming, and we all rushed over to her. No one was nearby when we saw her. I still don’t understand what happened.”

  “To Echo? Or to Archer?”

  Mrs. Simmons sniffs a few times. “To Echo. Archer was just gone. Not even a clue about where he went. Echo, though, when we got to where we could see her, she looked like she was fighting with something, swinging her arms around and such, but no one was there. She kept screaming and fighting as she inched closer to the ravine. She went right over like she never even saw it.”

  “And didn’t remember anything when she woke up at the hospital…except wanting to save Archer?” I ask.

  Her voice is small as she says, “Yes. We chose not to press her about it because we were scared. Peter’s parents were desperate for answers. Search and rescue scoured every inch of that area, but they found nothing.”

  “Why were you scared of getting Echo to remember what happened?” I ask. I could see not wanting to traumatize her further, but that’s not what this was about.

  “We…we just didn’t know what she would say,” Mrs. Simmons cries. “What if…what if Echo did something? Without meaning to. She would have these times where she would be completely unmanageable, screaming and fighting and trying to get away from us. If something did happen, I know she didn’t mean for it, but I just…we couldn’t bear to face that. To make her face that. Whatever happened, it wasn’t her fault.”

  A strange numb feeling begins to creep into my body. I end the conversation with Mrs. Simmons soon after. She doesn’t beg me to keep her updated, even though Echo is her daughter and her wellbeing could quite possibly be at stake. She just says she’s sorry and hangs up after a while. I end up standing there for a long time. Eventually, Holden steps out onto the balcony and looks at me expectantly.

  “They think she did something to Archer,” I say. “That’s why they didn’t try to make her remember. He was missing, and they just took Echo and left as fast as they could because they were afraid she’d remember and admit to doing something.”

  Holden leans against the wall and sighs. “That sounds like her parents all right.”

  I don’t believe Echo did anything to cause Archer’s death aside from being who she is. Her mother is right that what happened to Archer wasn’t Echo’s fault, but she obviously feels responsible. Her fear of facing what happened is blocking it all out.

  “She’s going to have to call Agent Morton back about the hypnosis if she wants this to end,” I say. My tone is hard and full of fear, but this can’t keep going on forever. Archer needs to cross over or whatever it is ghosts do. No matter how he feels about her, staying here is hurting them both.

  “If that doesn’t work,” Holden says, “she’s got to go straight to the source.”

  “Meaning?”

  Holden crosses his arms as if he’s gearing up for a battle. “Ask Archer. Let him show her what happened. It’s going to hurt…a lot. It could do some serious harm, possibly, but if the hypnosis doesn’t work, it may be the only option left.”

  Dropping my head into my hands, I wonder for the millionth time what I’ve gotten myself into. A deranged ghost is haunting my girlfriend. Facing him might break her. Will I be able to the pick up the pieces and put her back together if it does?

  27: Tether

  (Echo)

  Rolling over in bed, I swat at my phone. If the buzzing doesn’t stop I’m going to chuck it at the wall. Why can’t they all just leave me alone? I made it very clear that I needed some space and a little time to process everything. Learning you’re the reason someone’s dead isn’t something you just get over. I should know.

  Holden and Zara should at least understand, right? I was a basket case for months after what happened with Martin Coulter. This guy, Peter Archer, he was my friend. He actually liked me and wanted to hang out with me. Sure, I don’t remember a thing about him, but the fact that I talk to him in my sleep and he’s been near me since he died, that means something. It means we actually had real friendship, and it cost him his life.

  I shove my phone under my mattress—which is still sitting on the floor with the pieces of my bed leaning against the wall. Malachi offered to put it together for me after he dropped off the mattress, but by that time I just wanted to be alone. I’ve barely left my room in two days.

  My phone buzzes again. Another text message, I’m sure. The hum of TV noise from the living room tells me Holden and Zara are awake already and either watching a show or playing a game. The faint laughter I hear filtering under the door says it’s probably cartoons, despite their age. That makes me smile, just little. It fades as soon as I feel the temperature drop.

  Bolting upright in bed, my head snaps around as I look for the source. All I see are the usual suspects hanging around the edges of my room. They’ve been here for the last two days, though. Fear turns me into a statue as I see my incorporeal friends begin to fade away, but the frost and misty breath I’m expecting doesn’t show up. It’s cold, too cold for the start of summer in Georgia, but not cold enough to mean an attack is coming.

  Praying I’m right, I whisper, “Archer…Peter? Is that you?”

  I almost hope it is him. It still terrifies me to think of facing him like my friends suggested, but I’d rather it was the crazy I know than something entirely new. It takes a few seconds before he materializes in front of me. Even though I’m expecting it, I still gasp and scramble back on my mattress. The sheets are twisted all around my legs by now, but I can’t do anything about that at the moment. I’m too terrified to move.

  “Archer?”

  His sharp nod makes me shiver. Is he really trying to communicate with me politely? Please
, please, please, keep it civil. Don’t attack me. Don’t touch me. Don’t try to make me see anything again. Tears well in my eyes as the memory of him forcing those images into my mind stabs at me. I try to shove them away, but a traitor rolls down my cheek anyway.

  I swear my heart stops when a blurry hand reaches forward, almost like he wants to wipe the tear away. The horrified expression on my face stops him, or maybe something else. I don’t know. All I know is that he pulls his hand back before it touches my skin and settles in his lap.

  A relieved breath bursts out of me and I gasp in another one. It takes me a few more seconds to get control of myself, but Archer seems moderately okay with waiting. His form is twitchy, the edges flickering in and out like he’s trying really hard to restrain himself. I know what I have to do, but my courage is weak.

  “Are you in pain being kept here?” I ask, putting off the inevitable, but more concerned about him than I can admit to out loud.

  Ghosts don’t talk, but they can answer simple questions well enough. Archer is as desperate to get this over with as I am, and he nods.

  “Can I make things better for you until I find a way to let you go?”

  He’s nearly featureless in his tormented state unless he really focuses, but his form droops in sadness. The slow shake of his head makes my heart squeeze.

  “Is this my fault? Are you dead because of me?”

  There’s no hesitation when his head starts shaking back and forth. Maybe there should be some relief that I wasn’t the one who killed him, but there isn’t.

  “No,” I say slowly, “I didn’t ask if I was the cause of your death. I asked if meeting me is what lead to you dying.”

  Archer hesitates. His blurry dark face turns away from me. I think he’s not going to answer for a moment, but eventually he looks back, head down, and nods.

  Tears spill down my cheeks. Just a few before I take control of my emotions again, but Archer sees them and reaches forward. Flinching, I jerk away from his touch. Unfazed by my fear, his icy fingers brush along my cheek. The tears freeze instantly and fall to the blankets like discarded diamonds.