Adelaide Upset

  Adelaide Upset

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Adelaide Upset

  Penny Greenhorn

  Adelaide Upset

  By Penny Greenhorn

  Smashwords Edition

  ADELAIDE UPSET. Copyright © 2013 by Penny Greenhorn

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  It may be a bit redundant, but... this is for Steve.

  Chapter 1

  The bugs no longer frightened me. They churned beneath me, the loose, damp soil their home, and soon it would be mine. I no longer thought ‘I am dying.’ I knew it. I knew it in my bones, my fifteen year old bones.

  The fall had been quick, like a slap. I’d heard the crack, my body shifting ever so slightly as I’d glanced down, seeing the dirt fizzle away, disappearing down into the cracks, revealing the planks of rotten wood. I’d jerked to move, but the snap came first, then the drop. My head hit the rim of the well on my way down. My foot broke the fall, another snap.

  I hurt, for minutes, for hours, for days. I screamed and cried until my voice was cracked and broken, my tears all dried up. They came, searching our vast properties for me. I heard their voices shouting my name from above. “Adelaide,” they called. My uncle first, then even my father and brothers, all taunting. Taunting, “Adelaide.”

  Minutes.

  Hours.

  Days.

  The nights were cold. My stomach convulsed, angry and twisting with pain. I grew weak, my life leaking out.

  When it rained I could barely curl my fingers to dig a pit, but my poor efforts were enough. It filled with water and I dragged my mouth over and slurped it down, the grit and dirt clotting in my cracked lips, sticking to my dry teeth. I vomited, crawling away from my only source of water, using the same place I had eliminated that first day, when I still had something to eliminate. But my body had dried up since then, a prune, a raisin. And it didn’t rain after that. No water, nothing to prolong the inevitable. I wasn’t going to die. I was dying. I was sure of it, as I was sure of the tantalizing circle of light above my head. It bled down on me, the key to my freedom fifteen feet away. I had tried to climb, gripping roots and moist clay, scrambling to reach the surface. I’d scratched and clawed, but it had been a wasted effort.

  I was dying.

  The voices came back. “Adelaide,” they called. But no, that wasn’t my family. “Adelaide,” the voice hissed, its sibilant whisper a threat. “Adelaide, I’ll find you,” it promised.

  Crack!

  I jerked awake, the sound having startled me from my hellish nightmare. Fumbling for the light on my nightstand I knocked a few romance novels off, hearing them flap to the floor as I flipped on the switch.

  Smith was standing over my bed, flickering in and out, his hologram-like image weak and thready. I assume most people would go into hysterics at seeing a ghost loom over them upon first wake, but truthfully, I found it kind of reassuring.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, crawling from bed. The 5000 piece puzzle box he’d dropped to pull me from my nightmare had spilled open, the colorful cardboard pieces scattered all over. I stepped around them, pulling on the first pair of shoes I could find before heading down the stairs. “I’m going to Luke’s,” I called over my shoulder, letting the light on, leaving a bright wake behind me.

  Lucas Finch, my neighbor and maybe boyfriend wasn’t home. He owned a body shop in Brunswick, but it was his hobby restoring classic cars that kept him busy, traveling on little jaunts across the country (and sometimes out of it) to collect parts. It didn’t matter if he was gone though, I had a spare key.

  Trudging through the kitchen and out the back door I crossed my weedy yard to the fence that separated our properties. Bushes clung to it; they had been growing unchecked until a few weeks ago when I’d stepped outside to find a narrow path clipped open. Lucas did things like that, sweet things, and he always shrugged off my thanks. But I was grateful, grateful for any sign that he was interested in me, because the truth was, there weren’t many.

  After letting myself in I scrounged through his fridge, nudging aside the beer and brown mustard, then grunting when I realized that was all he had. I wandered down the hall and flopped facedown on his couch, grabbing the remote. I liked to turn the TV on so I could turn myself off. The nightmares were back, only now they had a certain demonic edge to them, and I suspected I knew why. But I wasn’t prepared to give up Demidov’s diary yet, his secret still tucked away beside my washer and dryer where it would stay.

  I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew I was being lifted, Lucas carrying me up the stairs to his loft. He smelled like metal and grease, just subtle enough to be masculine and sexy.

  “You’re back,” I said sounding drowsy. “Did you miss me?”

  He paused, the length of time long enough to make me nervous. “I wanted to come back,” he finally admitted.

  I meant to say more, but I must have fallen back asleep because it was morning when next I woke. Lucas had already slipped out of bed and gone to work, leaving me alone in his house. I was a little disappointed by our continually awkward relationship, we seemed destined to move in fits and starts, but I wasn’t ready to give up, not even close. The next time I saw Lucas it was going to be a start, I’d make sure of it.

  * * *

  “Whatever those are, they’re disgusting,” I said upon stepping inside the Sterling’s Motel front office. “Cease and desist at once,” I told Stephen.

  He was teetered on top of a stepladder, arms stretched overhead as he pinned up a sticky ribbon of curling yellow. “They catch flies,” he explained, glancing down at me.

  Ben came out from around the front desk, grizzled and frowning. As Ben Sterling, the owner of Sterling’s Motel, you would think he’d be a bit more personable, but watching his sharp shoulders hunch forward as he marched toward me, I knew he was cantankerous as ever. “It’s supposed to hit the nineties today and in case you hadn’t noticed, Adelaide, it’s the dead of summer, the bugs are swarming.”

  “But those are...” I gestured up at Ben’s solution, floundering for the right word.

  “Tacky?” Stephen s
upplied.

  “No, that’s too nice a term, trashy more like.” I glanced at Ben, his desire to argue was palpable, and not just because I was an empath. “Take them down, Stephen,” I ordered, knowing it would set Ben off.

  “Take them down!” he echoed in a booming voice. “Take them down! So you give orders now? The last time I looked it said ‘Sterling’s’ on the sign!”

  “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” I replied, setting my purse down behind the counter as I calmly ignored his outburst.

  “Piss off, Adelaide!” Ben hollered, throwing open the office door. “They stay!” he said as he swept out, calling to Stephen over his shoulder “Hang them all!”

  “Don’t,” I warned Stephen after Ben had gone, cutting off his protests. “I know what he said, but trust me, he won’t care, not really.”

  Stephen looked at me like I was crazy, sometimes Missy did too. They were both wary of Ben’s moods, but being an empath gave me insight to the truth, and the truth was that Ben liked being grumpy. Yelling filled him with satisfaction, as if he were venting the dismal reality that bogged him down, relieving the upsetting pressure that was the loss of his wife. People were contradictory like that, Ben case in point. For him surliness was gratifying. So I challenged him, insulted him, found ways to make him argue and shout, and he liked me for it, though he would never, ever, say so out loud. I knew Missy and Stephen, being intimidated by him, thought I was cracked, often waiting for me to get fired, but I never would. I was Ben’s balm.

  Stephen climbed down, folding up the stepladder as he collected the remaining fly traps. He was on summer break, working at the motel as not only our cleaning lady, but covering our shifts more freely to bring in extra cash. Responsibility suited him. I sat down, making myself comfortable behind the front desk, my eyes tracing over his lanky shape, comparing him to Smith, the ghost, his father.

  “You’re doing it again,” he said, glancing at me sideways. “You’re staring.” I didn’t deny it. For a teen, he was insightful and mature, not much got by him.

  Ask, I thought. It had been weeks since I’d learned that the ghost who’d been so helpful to me was his father, the father that both Stephen and his mother assumed had run off. There was a story there, a mystery that I’d promised to uncover, and I knew that Stephen’s mother—the weeping woman—could help. The thing was, I didn’t want to ask her. She was protective of Stephen, and for some reason, had latched onto the idea that I was a bad influence. We’d never met face to face, and I sort of wanted to keep it that way. I didn’t harbor much patience for people, and dealing with them was the bane of my existence.

  But I could ask Stephen. I’d been meaning to since the end of spring, hence the constant, odd staring. I just wasn’t sure how to broach the subject subtly; trying to be tactful gave me a headache. So I ended up blurting, “Tell me about your father.”

  His face twisted. “Why?”

  “Just humor me,” I said, growing impatient already.

  He set the stepladder aside, leaning it carefully against the wall before giving me his full attention. “He left when I was little, I don’t know much about him. But you know that already, in fact, you’ve been acting a little off since I told you.”

  “I’m just curious is all,” I lied. “Your mom must have told you things about him, like what he did for a living.”

  I was stirring up Stephen’s upset, making him sad, full of grief. I felt everything he felt, and in addition: guilty, because I was causing his minor misery. But you know what they say, the greater good and all that...

  “He worked at that big sawmill company in Brunswick, did the logging, brought in the timber.”

  “So he’s actually a lumberjack?” I said, nearly smiling. A strong ghost could project its image, but only as it remembered itself. Smith was often in flannel, mussed hair and clunky boots—he looked like a lumberjack.

  “Was,” Stephen corrected softly. “Who knows what he’s doing now.”

  Smith was currently hovering inside the door, a milky haze that churned with emotion, floating at eye-level. I couldn’t tell Stephen that, but I wished I could tell him that his father hadn’t abandoned them. Whatever had happened, I knew Smith would not have run off.

  “I’m sure he’s missing you,” I said, feeling like Oprah. I shook off the remaining sentimentality. “Better start cleaning rooms. Here,” I said, leaning across the desk to hand him the clipboard. “Get cracking.”

  Smith took shape the minute Stephen was gone. The vaporous form pressing tight, stretching out, until the shape of him was visible. His color, the texture of his clothing, it all became more vivid, from transparent to translucent. Sometimes, when he was in my periphery, the very edge of my eye, he looked real, like a living man and not the ghost of his former self. This didn’t happen often, which was good as I preferred the less threatening version of him, finding the fluffy cloud of white a lot easier to take in.

  He knew this, but wouldn’t be pandering to my wishes just now. His face, oddly glassy in appearance, was hard, the look of disapproval unmistakable. But just in case, he seemed to throw his feelings at me, making sure I got the message.

  “Yes. Yes. I was mean to Stephen. I’m always mean to Stephen and you disapprove. I shouldn’t be short with him... I get it.”

  He stalked forward, his heavy tread making not a sound, and snatched up one of the pens from off the counter.

  “No!” I said, snatching it back. “No more notes, they’re creepy.”

  The thing about normal ghosts is that they tend to float around in a misty splash of white, harmless and unseen. But Smith wasn’t a normal ghost, and that was my doing. The ring (which I had been given, talk about a gift horse) gave me the power to see ghosts, but since I was an empath, I could feel them too. And that was all it took—acknowledgement on my part. Suddenly Smith wasn’t weak and wispy, but able to touch and feel. Nancy Bristow would say I was giving him back a piece of his soul, giving him power on our side of the veil. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was doing, not really, but it was something, that was undeniable.

  By influencing things around him, Smith got stronger. So we’d talk, like now, the conversations very one-sided, and it sort of fed him in a way, giving him energy, making him more substantial. He would then take that ‘energy’ and start charging his own batteries, ergo the notes. Smith loved leaving me creepy notes. The act of using a pencil took fine motor skill, it must have been draining, because his letters were always large and childish, though scrawled and unsettling would be more accurate, since he was a ghost and all. I found them everywhere, post-its stuck all around the house, warning me the milk was low and other nonsense.

  Simply touching things wasn’t enough, that would only drain him and give nothing back. He had to make a mark, make his presence known. So I found my radio blaring more often than not. It was good I didn’t own a TV or computer because he would have turned them on too, and often. I could put up with the haunted bit, but it got annoying when Lucas started noticing. A week or so ago he’d asked why I stayed up all night, moving around the house, turning on and off every light switch. I had mumbled something about bugs and changed the subject... ghosts were so inconvenient.

  Unable to write out his frustration, Smith dissolved into a murky mist, swirling to the corner where he sulked, hovering behind the potted plant.

  “Ungrateful ghoul,” I muttered in his direction. “Stephen told me about the sawmill. You should be happy, now I have a lead.”

  But he wasn’t happy. The news only agitated him further, and for the life of me I didn’t know why. He wanted me to help him, but he could never explain how. I turned in the swivel chair, using the office computer to browse the internet as I searched for local logging and sawmill companies. I would get to the bottom of things, with or without the help of my enigmatic ghost.

  Chapter 2

  It was almost nine and Missy, as usual, showed up early to relieve me. Since I was pretty sure she considered he
rself a ‘creature of the night’ it was convenient that she worked the late shift. Though I’m sure it was something of a let down, sitting behind the front desk for hours, bored into the wee hours of the morning.

  She smiled at me, though as usual, she was faking. Despite appearances, and by that I mean the purple hair, she was a friendly, outgoing person, except she secretly hated me. Behind the smile was a well of irritation. I rubbed her the wrong way, which was fine. I could care less.

  I’d left the web browser open, and seeing it Missy tsked. “You really shouldn’t be playing on the internet at work. Ben wouldn’t like it,” she chastened.

  I opened the desk drawer, extracting my purse. “Keep that in mind the next time you’re looking at coffinmate.com. You forgot to delete your history last night.” I walked out, wanting to put distance between myself and her swamping negativity.

  It was always the same. You’d think she would either loosen up or scratch my eyes out, but every day it was the fake smile and perpetual remarks, little digs she tried to pass off as ‘advice,’ though only an idiot would be fooled by her sickly sweet voice.

  Even as I got into my car I couldn’t shake her negativity, it clung along. Missy would soon forget, busy surfing through the goth personal ads, but it would linger with me, the empathy confirming what I’d learned years ago—that people in general were a huge disappointment.

  * * *

  Divot Drive seemed to greet me as I turned onto the out-of-the-way back road. Massive oaks hemmed in close, their Spanish moss hanging down like a soft curtain. Lush shrubbery encroached from every side, overgrown, it housed the crickets and cicadas, their combined shrills filling the night. Turning into the driveway, my headlights illuminated the tiny house where I lived, a cube of whitewashed wood with red brick chimney and tin roof.