Walking With a Ghost

I've heard a lot about this house. All of Los Angeles has heard about this house. Because of the deaths of many of the residents, it's one of the most infamous stops on the Eternal Darkness Tour; a tour bus full of inquiring minds and a pompous tub of goo as the tour guide to explain all the gruesome details of famous Hollywood murders. Have I been on the tour? No. But the commercials are hard to miss. Eerie music scores the commercials with a garbled voice persuading you to waste precious time and dollar bills to get on a bus and listen to horror stories in the blazing sunshine of LA for two hours. Yeah, no thank you.

But this house, had a history of multiple gruesome deaths just piled onto one another that catches my attention. To my surprise, no one's tried to excavate the yard or foundation for dead bodies that have been rumored to be buried beneath the house. Everyone just keeps it under wraps and sells the house to any sucker with a low enough budget. All of those poor souls. Both dead and alive.

Now I am doomed to shack up in the infamous Murder House because my foster parent's were dumb enough to put their fears aside and raise troubled kids in a spectacle.

"Mr. and Mrs. Manson, this is Lolita Finch." Amy, my social worker, introduced me to the most sterilized-looking nuclear family in all of California.

Mrs. Manson had shoulder-length, blonde hair, pasty, cream colored skin, golden-brown eyes, rosy red cheeks, and an enormous smile that consumed the bottom half of her face. Mr. Manson had an olive toned complexion, short, brown hair, a closed-mouth smile, round, green eyes, and a prominent square jaw. They were both wearing matching beige cardigans, starched khaki pants, and white button-up shirts.

Great. Amy set me up with the Brady Bunch of Elm Street. I'm going to have to abstain from rolling my eyes at their cookie cutter lifestyle. Maybe I'll be too fucked up for them and they'll give me back to the state.

"Ah, Lolita," Mr. Manson says.

"Please, call me Lita," I say as politely as I can.

"Of course," Mrs. Manson replies before her husband can open his mouth. "Please, both of you, come in. Bo and Dakota will be pleased to see you both. Dakota! Bo! Come meet your new sister and say hello to Amy!"

As I carefully set my suitcase on the floor, I marveled at the interior of Murder House. Tiffany glass fixtures, spacious parlor, high ceilings, and hardwood floors.

"Amyyyyyy!" Called a little voice belonging to a toddler of about 4-years-old as she ran as fast as her little legs could take her down the flight of stairs.

"Careful on the stairs, baby," Mr. Manson said.

Behind the little girl was a tall, very thin, pale-skinned boy with roughly tousled, brown hair, intense blue eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and this, moist, pink lips. He wore an over-sized, black shirt with a blown-up picture of Notorious B.I.G. on the front and a pair of baggy jeans a little loose around his hips. His eyes never left mine as he descended the stairs in slow motion.

"Dakota, this is Lita, your new sister." Mr. Manson said, picking up the toddler and holding her in his arms. Her little, curly pigtails were light brown and her thin bangs hung over her eyelids. Dakota gazed at me with forest green eyes. She lifted her tiny, milky white hand and waved hello to me.

I wiggled my fingers back at her and smiled.

"This is our first son, Bo. We've had him since he was 2-years-old." Mrs. Manson said, motioning a hand to the teenage boy standing at the base of the stairs.

I looked up at him and waved shyly. He waved back and smiled bearing all teeth.

"How has everything been?" Amy asked Dakota, taking her little hand between her fingers.

Dakota leaned haphazardly toward Amy and stage-whispered, "Bo says there's ghosts."

"Bo, why do you insist on feeding Dakota ghost stories? You're scaring her!" the mother exclaimed.

"Sorry, Mom. Won't happen again, I promise." Bo apologized, staring at his bare feet.

Ghosts? Just. Freaking. Great.

☠

Get this: Once Amy left, Mr. and Mrs. Manson—I mean, Peter and Alice—dropped the Carol and Mike Brady act and became the Mr. and Mrs. Smith of Elm Street, minus the weapons. They peeled off their matching cardigans and stopped talking with a sugary sweet tone of voice.

"Look, we don't have much rules here," Alice said to me. "We're pretty chill parent's. Just behave yourself and try not to get into too much trouble."

"Bo, show Lita to her room, please." Peter said.

I followed Bo up the stairs and down the hallway. My room was bare with only a queen sized bed awaiting me. I tossed my single suitcase on the bed and turned to Bo.

"My room's right across the hall if you need anything, Lita." Bo said expressionless. He turned to leave, but I subconsciously grabbed for him and quickly wishing I hadn't.

"Um- uh..." I stuttered. "Uhhh-"

"Use your words," Bo chuckled, adjusting his glasses. Holy crap, his smile was glorious!

"Are- are there really ghosts?" I asked.

Bo's smile was wiped away and his Adam's apple bobbed nervously in his throat. Bo simply nodded.

"The people who...who died here? Their ghosts are here?"

"Look, Lita, don't tell Mom and Dad I told you about the ghosts. We've been living here for only two months and I've been the only one who sees them. I don't know if that means I'm psychic or paranoid. I really wish you were sent to a different house." Bo explained, his eyes boring into mine and his voice giving me mountain sized goosebumps.

"Why? What do they do?"

Bo shook his head and looked away from me.

"They're listening." he whispered, his eyes scanning the walls of the room behind me. I turned to see people—big and small, man and woman, young and old—lined up against the walls. Just staring at me. Some were stares of pity, some were stares of hatred, and some, but very few, were thoughtful, inquisitive stares.