Phantom Summer Page 4

  At an intersection, I hop over the culvert and crunch my way through piles of fallen leaves. The crunching starts to repeat itself behind me. My heart stops. Shit, it's a murderer. I spoke too soon.

  I spin around, fists clenched ready to fight. "What do you want?"

  He stops casually as if he expected me to say that. His hands slide into his pockets, rendering him defenseless. "You again."

  "Me again?" I say. "It looks like you're the one stalking me." He's still wearing that stupid leather jacket that is starting to make him look like less of a dark handsome stranger and more of a freaky nerd with no friends.

  "Stalking?" He walks past me, hops back onto the sidewalk and keeps walking. I hurry and catch up with him.

  "Yeah, stalking. What are you doing here?"

  He takes quicker, longer strides now and I have to walk so fast I'm almost jogging to keep up with him. "I'm just working. But lately you seem to show up everywhere I am." He looks at me for a moment, slowing his pace. "Stop trying to steal my job."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" I throw my arms in the air. "I'm just taking a walk. I'm not stealing anything." I let out a loud sigh. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. We walk under a long row of overgrown oak trees that block out most of the dim light from the street lights on each block. I can barely see the sidewalk now. If he wants to murder me, now is a great time to get away with it.

  "I don't believe you," he says. He sounds like a disapproving old science teacher.

  "I don't care." I don't have to prove anything to him. We're at the end of another block and the tree branches break apart letting in the street light from the corner. I glance at him. He's smiling. "Don't smile," I demand, walking a little faster.

  That only makes him smile wider. I hop over the culvert again. "Watch it," he says. I take another step and my foot sinks deeper than I expect into a hole I hadn't seen. I fly forward, my elbows and knees breaking my fall on the broken asphalt. Rainwater in the pothole splashes up on me, soaking my shoe and giving me the chills.

  "Mother-f!" I scream, roll over and grab my knees which are throbbing in pain and bleeding. My elbows have a sharp searing pain jolting through them. Tiny little gravel bits are stuck to my skin but I'm in too much pain to brush them away.

  My stalker drops to his knees and holds his hands out for me. Forcing back tears, I take his hand and let him pull me up. "Can you walk?" he asks. I really don't want to walk, but I nod anyway. I sure as hell don't want him helping me walk. I'm not a baby. We take a few steps and get back on the next sidewalk. The pain gets worse with every step. "Can we just sit down for a minute?" I ask through clenched teeth. God, I want to cry so bad. "No," he says. "Not here."

  I groan, but keep walking. He walks with purpose, his eyes focused forward and I'm almost afraid to ask why he won't let me stop. "Why not here?" I ask. He gives me a sideways look. "Because I said so."

  I groan again, really loud and child-like so he'll take pity on me. He offers me his arm. I'm in too much pain to be judgmental about accepting help from a strange guy in a stupid leather jacket, so I latch on and let him support some of my weight as we walk.

  "What's your name?" he asks.

  "Taylor," I say, after contemplating giving him a fake name. I don't know what the point in that would be.

  "Like a boy?"

  "It's a girl's name too."

  "I guess." He smiles to himself. We walk another block in silence, except for the dragging of my flip flop across the sidewalk as I hobble next to him. Tired of waiting for him to do the polite thing and tell me on his own, I ask, "What's your name?"

  "Raine."

  "Like the weather event?" He nods.

  "What kind of name is that?"

  "What kind of name is Taylor?" We're in the shadows again so I can't see his face. I think he's just messing with me, but his voice is all monotone so I can't really tell. We've stopped walking, and now I find it awkward that I'm still holding onto him. I drop his arm and back away to gain back my personal space. "Here we are," he says, nodding in front of us. My mouth falls open. We're at the Railroad Station.

  Chapter 11

  "What the hell?" I whisper, ducking back into the shadows of the museum. People stand around outside of the shop. Some are pointing, some are still screaming. Someone snaps a picture and the flash blinds me. I stumble back and crash into the wall, out of their sight.

  All of the shops on the Strand are raised about six feet from the road, so now the people are urging someone to walk up the steps and look inside.

  "Go!" a woman screams.

  "No, don't! You will scare it away!" says someone else.

  "Shit, I'll go, I ain't scared," a man says.

  "Sir, wait a moment." I recognize the voice. He walks up the stairs, cups his hands to the glass and looks in. I crouch behind a column so he can't see me.

  "What are you doing? Are you crazy?" a woman says. Someone else says very loudly that they are so done with this crap.

  Slowly, I walk out of the shadows, holding my arms halfway up in surrender. I don't need the cops called on me at my first night of work. He smiles as soon as he sees me. "Friends, I'm afraid we've made a mistake." He smirks at me through the glass door. I twist the door lock and open the door a few inches, enough to poke my head outside. A teenager girl screams into her hands.

  "Can I help you?" I ask, looking at the crowd below me. Most of them have cameras. One of them holds a small remote thing in his hand. Red and green lights blink across its screen. I suppress a laugh. "I'm not a freaking ghost."

  Nervous laughter floats through the crowd. There are about thirty people, some old and some young, standing around the guy I met last night. "I'm sorry we startled you," he says. "I was just telling them about the mayor's wife, Mrs. Kline. She's been known to haunt the museum."

  "Right." I glance back over my shoulder. "She's not here tonight." More nervous laughter. Some people actually do laugh, without the twinge of nervousness in their voice.

  "Were you looking for her?" he asks me, quiet enough so only I can hear.

  "You aren't being serious right now," I say. From this close, I have a much better look at him. He's still wearing all black—and that stupid leather jacket. He raises an eyebrow. "I am serious. You're in the museum alone, and you were at the Face alone. Are you trying to steal my job?"

  "Not unless your job is to clean up the museum after hours."

  "You work here?"

  "As of today, yes."

  "Hmm," he goes, turning back to the crowd. "There's nothing to see here. Next stop of the tour is two blocks down. The Moody Bank." He takes one last look at me before stepping down to the street below. "Or, Suicide Bank as it's known to the locals."

  Chapter 12

  "How did you know I was going here?" I cross my arms and stare up at him. His hair is razor straight across his forehead, swooping just over his left eyebrow. Humidity must not affect his hair follicles like it does to mine. He crosses his arms too, and stares back at me. "I didn't. But this is where I was going, so I figured since you're a copycat you'd come here too."

  He's staring at me like a disappointed school teacher again and I feel the sudden need to defend myself. "I've never been. I was curious."

  "You know it's open to the public during the day. Why do you want to come at night?" He stares me down, daring me to lie to him.

  "I couldn't sleep." I say, bringing my chin up. It's not a lie, and I don't care what he thinks.

  "Or," he says, pointing a finger at me. "You're trying to steal my job."

  "Why the hell do you keep saying that?" I slap his hand away from my face. "I don't even know what your job is, I mean, besides wearing that stupid jacket and wandering around late at night."

  He slides his hands down the front of his jacket. "You think my jacket is stupid?"

  I roll my eyes. "Uh, yeah." His face falls. He looks down at his feet and says quietly, "I like my jacket."

  "And your stupid black jeans.
What are you, some kind of secret agent skulking around at night?" He gasps and grabs the collar of his jacket, shielding it from my insults. His outfit could be kind of sexy on the right person, but he doesn't need to know that.

  "How long have you been in town?" he asks.

  "A few days."

  "Well that explains why you don't recognize me." He takes a step back, puts one foot slightly in front of the other and stands really straight. He crosses his arms in this I'm an accomplished person way with his fingers outstretched on his arms. Then he narrows his eyes at me and gives me the most smolderingly hot smile—better than Wesley’s on The Princess Bride.

  My stomach rolls into a knot. My face gets hot and I'm so freaking grateful for the darkness. "What are you doing?" My voice is as weak as my knees.

  He loosens his stance and stands normal again. "It's how I look on my billboards."

  "Like an idiot?"

  "Shut it," he says, poking me in the arm. "I happen to think I look pretty badass." Without warning, except for a quick smirk in my direction, Raine jumps off the sidewalk and runs up to the front of the railroad station, sprinting up the stairs so quickly I lose sight of him. I run to catch up, making sure I don't fall into anymore potholes. The concrete stairs at the station are steep and narrow. I take one step at a time, trying not to put too much weight on my left foot.

  "It's really dark in here and I didn't bring a flashlight," Raine says from somewhere in front of me. "Do you want to come with me?"

  "I've come this far," I say, reaching the top of the stairs. I literally can't see a thing, even when I put my hand right in front of my face. A cold hand touches my elbow, then slides down to my wrist and grips it hard. "Shuffle behind me, don't take big steps," he says, pulling me along. "I don't need you falling again."

  I do as he says, taking small steps behind him as I let him lead the way through the dark station. The air is wet and cold but there isn't a breeze or any sign of life. I let myself get lost in the adventure, losing all doubts that maybe Raine is actually a serial murderer, and imagine that I'm in a dream world where anything can happen. If only the hand holding onto me were Brendan's.

  I listen to the sound of our breathing, steady and smooth, and stare down since I have nothing else to look at as we walk across the room. Our footsteps echo so we must be somewhere huge. Raine's hand lets go of my arm and I slam into his back, unaware that he had just stopped. "Sorry," I mumble.

  "Shh," he says. "Listen for her."

  "Listen for who?"

  "Shh."

  We stand for so long that I start to get bored. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness and I still can't see anything. I take a deep breath in and slowly exhale, my passive-aggressive form of protesting. Raine's fingers wrap around my wrist again. I wonder how he found the exact perfect spot on my wrist on the first try. I wonder a lot of things all at once. He pulls me closer to him, his cold leather jacket pressing against my chest. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is weird. But it's the most human contact I've had in a while, so I don't object. His lips find my ear. He whispers, "Do you hear anything?" I shake my head. "No."

  Several minutes pass. There is literally not a single sound around us. My eyes close because there's no reason to keep them open. I imagine the sound of the trains that used to stop here. I try to hear something, anything, that Raine wants us to hear.

  I hear nothing. Then I hear a sigh. "Come on," he says, pulling me back the way we came. Once we reach the stairs outside, my eyes start working again and I yank my arm free. My knees feel a lot better now that the blood has dried. Raine follows me down the stairs and back on the sidewalk. There are no cars on the road. All the houses across the street are completely black.

  "Well that was boring," I say. Raine's holding a small notebook angled toward the only light post around us. He scribbles something on the page, flips to a new page and keeps writing. "What are you doing?" I try peeking over his shoulder but he pulls back and slips the notebook inside his jacket. "That's classified."

  "Whatever," I say. "I'm going home."

  "So it's boring? That's it?" Raine walks with me away from the train station.

  "It's in the top five most boring things I've ever done."

  "Most girls would have been terrified."

  "Of you, maybe."

  "Of the Weeping Woman, maybe."

  "I didn't hear any weeping woman in there."

  He kicks a rock on the sidewalk and we watch it skip along ahead of us. "I know. It's hard to get her to come out."

  I feel stupid even asking it, but I have to make sure we're on the same level here. "Are you talking about a ghost?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because that's what I do."

  "Ah," I say all sarcastic like.

  "You really weren't scared in there." He takes out his notebook again, writes something and stashes it back in his jacket. "Incredible."

  "How is that incredible? There was nothing to be scared of, except maybe being alone with some guy I don't know."

  "What's scary about that?" he asks, raising his eyebrow at me. I can't help but smile like a star struck stupid tween at a pop concert. "I don't know you and your luring me into dark places."

  "I think I want your autograph. I've never seen anyone so damn brave."

  "If I'm so brave, are you going to let me walk home by myself?"

  He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Nope."

  Chapter 13

  "Wake up, sunshine!" I smell her perfume before I open my eyes. And when I do open them, she's smiling right in front of me. I flinch, sinking further into the couch cushions. "God, Mom." She moves back and sits on the coffee table. "Sorry, I'm just excited. And it's ten in the morning. I don't know how you're still asleep."

  Normally I don't sleep this late. But normally, I don't spend nights checking out rumored haunted train stations with mysterious guys. I sit up. "Sorry," I say, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

  "I have something to show you," Mom says, rocking back and forth. There's an envelope in her hand. She takes out the contents and throws them in the air. Money flutters down from the sky, falling all around us. My first thought is holy crap; this is gross and covered germs. My second thought is, "Oh my god!" I scoop up handfuls of cash. "What is this?"

  "This," Mom says, scooping up the money and sliding it back into the envelope, "Is my tips after the best night of work I've ever had."

  "Sweet." A paper plate with two bagels sits on the coffee table next to her. I grab one. "You haven't been home in forever."

  "I've been home all night, thank you. I don't know where you were, leaving your truck here at midnight." It's rare when my mom gives me a classic Mother Look, but she's giving me one now.

  "I'm sorry, I went for a walk." I take a bite of my bagel. "So what's with all the money?"

  The Look leaves her face. "It's a sign." She grabs me by the shoulders again, almost making me choke on my breakfast. "It's a sign that you should be here with me, finally. I was so worried about how I would support the both of us, since I was barely getting by myself. And then last night, I made three times what I usually make."

  "Oh, Mom," I say, hugging her because she looks like she needs a hug, not because she thinks she's been sent some magical sign. She smells like cheap shampoo. "I have good news too," I say. "I got the night shift job at the Railroad Museum."

  Mom's face goes serious. "What does it pay?"

  "Twenty dollars an hour and it's about six hours a week." Mom's eyes light up. "That's good. Let's see how much we can afford now." She walks into the kitchen which is only five feet away and starts writing on the dry erase board stuck to the side of the fridge. "If I keep making two hundred a night, six nights a week, that's twelve-hundred." She scribbles some math on the board. "And you'll be making just under five hundred…"

  Again, I wonder if I should tell her about the money I've been hoarding. It's not like I'm trying to keep secrets from her, but if I've learned anythin
g from our past, it's that Mom is absolutely no good with money. We'll need it soon, and I'll have it. But why can't I shake this horrible feeling of guilt?

  Mom pops back into the living room. "I say we save up two more paychecks and then get ourselves a new apartment."

  "Mom, I don't know if that's a good idea."

  "Nonsense. You're seventeen years old. You need your own bedroom. When I was your age I was already sneaking in boys after my parents went to sleep."

  "I don't sneak in boys, Mom."

  "I know you don't, sweetie. And I love you for that. You're so pure and good." She looks from one end of the apartment to the other. "But you need more than this."

  "I would prefer to have a couch as a bedroom with money in the bank instead of my own room but nothing to eat and no lights and cold—" Mom's hands cover her ears. "Okay, okay I get it."

  I smile. "Thanks."

  She walks past me into the kitchen, takes a marker and circles a date a few weeks from now on the calendar. "We'll wait three paychecks!"

  I groan, fall back on the couch and finish my bagel.

  "So where is your family from?" Margret asks, after an hour of small talk behind the reference desk. No one has visited the museum all day. I fan out the brochures in front of me and then scoop them back into a neat stack. "We're from a small town outside of Dallas. And Mom, well I think Mom's from here." Please don't ask me anything else, I think. I don't want to think about Brendon.

  "So why did you move down here?" she asks, right on cue. My stomach tightens, threatening to splat what's left of my breakfast right here on the counter. I really wish a visitor would pop in the door right now, giving me an excuse to test out my new museum employee skills. "Um, I just felt like it." For one half of a second, I think I'm in the clear with my lie. But then Margret's mouth opens slightly and she's about to ask something. So the only feasible thing for me to do is dramatic.