Status: on hiatus while i do some rewrites. bear with me.
The Twelve Percent
Paper
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The house was starting to come together. By the looks of things, and how optimistic my parents were, we’d be out of here in another month or two. When I’d graduated my homeschooling program at barely seventeen, my parents had asked me if I was interested in college in any way. I assured them I wasn’t. They asked if I was interested in getting a regular job instead of working with them to fix up houses. Again, I said I wasn’t. They asked if I wanted us all to settle down in one place together. Again, I wasn’t.
So we still moved from place to place. Except now, at twenty-two, I was an integral part of the renovations. I took a few online classes while we traveled and became the middle man for buying and selling our homes. My parents had raised me into the renovating and do-it-yourself-ing, so I was as pro as they were now. In each new city, we put up fliers for handy work and design work, and that’s how we made our side money. We all had a fair amount in our savings accounts; my parents more than I, of course. Regardless, we liked making money, and we liked working. It also gave me a chance to try and use what I had once regarded as a curse – to help people.
Granted, a percentage of people don’t want to hear that their great-aunt Julie wanted to say goodbye. A percentage of ghosts also really didn’t have anything good to say. On more than one occasion, a ghost has approached me to ask me to tell their kids or grandkids they don’t approve of something or that they always hated their significant other. Sometimes they would tell me to tell their spouse that they cheated on them or had wanted a divorce for years. Once, an elderly man who had passed, well, pretty much of old age, asked me to tell his wife that she hadn’t misplaced her wedding ring twenty years ago. He had sold it to pay for prostitutes.
Needless to say, there were many, many occasions that I did not do what the ghosts wanted of me. I’d already been institutionalized nine times, and landed in a regular hospital twelve times. I didn’t want to add to either of those numbers.
So I was picky and choosy about the sorts of ghosts I helped. And ghosts weren’t too happy with those terms.
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I’d been home for two weeks when I finally saw the ghost. I’d gotten up to pee in the middle of the night, and she was standing in the middle of my bathroom. “This bathroom is only big enough for the one of us, partner.” She turned slowly, opening her mouth, then closing it again. She did this a few times, then her entire face furrowed in frustration before she evaporated into a thin white mist.
The next morning, with a mug of coffee in my hand, I sat on the window seat in the breakfast nook, thinking about this ghost. She’d been in jeans and a plain shirt. That tied together with the thin nearly transparent-ness of her mist; meant she was a relatively new ghost. I had my ghost book propped up on my knees, and I scribbled these things down. Monday, August 17, 2015 – ghost in bathroom at home in Teratone, Oklahoma. Thin mist evap. DOD guess: around August 1, 2015. I took a sip of my coffee and looked over as Mom walked in, wiping her paint covered hands on her apron.
“Hi honey.” She leaned her head towards me, looking to see what was in my lap. “Do we have a guest with us?”
“Yeah. Except I think she only died right before I came home.” I scratched my head with my pen. “She looked only a few years younger than me. And she couldn’t speak yet.”
Mom made a sound that spoke volumes. Mom was a woman of very few words; so you get used to interpreting her sounds. This ‘hmm’ meant she was listening and thinking about what I’d said, to try and see if she could add any insight or if she should just leave me be.
“If you’re going to look into it, you could go find a store that sells papers and look in the obituaries. I think they still run them sometimes. Or turn on the news. Dad hooked up the cable box while you were gone. Maybe they’re still running something about her.”
I smiled at her and set my book on the seat. Standing, I wrapped her in a hug. I got paint on my pajamas, but I didn’t care too much about that. Mom was being supportive. Over the past ten years, it had taken Mom a lot to get to this point. She was the one who put me in the institutions the first three times. Dad believed me pretty quickly about the ghosts; but Mom had a hard time with it. This show of support meant a lot. To both myself, and Mom.
I kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Mom. I think I’ll do both of those.”
She gave me another one of her small smiles, then clapped her hands together. “I should get back to the hall bath. Need to get it primed for the wallpaper. Do you want me to go with you into town?”
“No, it’s okay.” I smiled. “Can I take the car though?”
“Of course.” She smiled back, before reaching out to squeeze my hand, and heading back to the hall bathroom.
I downed the rest of my coffee and headed upstairs to change. Because we moved around so much, we had all agreed that my getting a car didn’t make sense. Three cars meant a lot of gas and meant everyone driving by themselves to the new homes. So dad had his pick-up, so he could get construction materials easier, and mom and I shared a newer model mid-sized SUV.
Decked out in my usual – jeans shorts, solid tank top, feather earring, and brown boots – I headed into town. I pulled in at a small grocer that I knew had those old fashioned paper boxes outside. I popped two quarters in, and yanked on the door handle. It didn’t open. I pushed the coin button again and tried the door. Still didn’t move. I gave it a small kick and cursed at it. “Stupid box.” I headed inside to see if they had any that weren’t in the box.
Sure enough, there was a stack of papers at the end of each register in the bagging areas. I went up to an unopened lane and dug to the bottom of the stack. I found one from two weeks ago and pulled it out. An employee walked by and I grabbed their attention. I asked if I could just give him the quarters and he said I could just take the paper. I thanked him, and got back in the car.
Opening the paper onto the steering wheel, I flipped through the pages until I found the obits. I followed my finger down the page until I found a small grayscale yearbook photo of the girl from my bathroom.
Natalie Brightwell was found yesterday, Monday, August 3, 2015. She was about to start her senior year at Teratone High School, and had plans to go to nursing school next fall. She is survived by her parents, Richard and Tanya Brightwell, and her younger brother, fifteen-year old Kevin Brightwell. The police have reported Miss Brightwell’s death as a homicide. The Teratone Gazette will continue to follow this story after the family has had their private time to grieve.
I closed the paper, and let out a deep sigh. One murder usually meant more to come. And murdered people did not make the friendliest ghosts. And this one had taken up residence in my house for some reason.
Throwing the car into reverse, I tried to make a plan to talk to her. Still; she was not going to be a very happy ghosty.
“Shit.”
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The house was starting to come together. By the looks of things, and how optimistic my parents were, we’d be out of here in another month or two. When I’d graduated my homeschooling program at barely seventeen, my parents had asked me if I was interested in college in any way. I assured them I wasn’t. They asked if I was interested in getting a regular job instead of working with them to fix up houses. Again, I said I wasn’t. They asked if I wanted us all to settle down in one place together. Again, I wasn’t.
So we still moved from place to place. Except now, at twenty-two, I was an integral part of the renovations. I took a few online classes while we traveled and became the middle man for buying and selling our homes. My parents had raised me into the renovating and do-it-yourself-ing, so I was as pro as they were now. In each new city, we put up fliers for handy work and design work, and that’s how we made our side money. We all had a fair amount in our savings accounts; my parents more than I, of course. Regardless, we liked making money, and we liked working. It also gave me a chance to try and use what I had once regarded as a curse – to help people.
Granted, a percentage of people don’t want to hear that their great-aunt Julie wanted to say goodbye. A percentage of ghosts also really didn’t have anything good to say. On more than one occasion, a ghost has approached me to ask me to tell their kids or grandkids they don’t approve of something or that they always hated their significant other. Sometimes they would tell me to tell their spouse that they cheated on them or had wanted a divorce for years. Once, an elderly man who had passed, well, pretty much of old age, asked me to tell his wife that she hadn’t misplaced her wedding ring twenty years ago. He had sold it to pay for prostitutes.
Needless to say, there were many, many occasions that I did not do what the ghosts wanted of me. I’d already been institutionalized nine times, and landed in a regular hospital twelve times. I didn’t want to add to either of those numbers.
So I was picky and choosy about the sorts of ghosts I helped. And ghosts weren’t too happy with those terms.
|||
I’d been home for two weeks when I finally saw the ghost. I’d gotten up to pee in the middle of the night, and she was standing in the middle of my bathroom. “This bathroom is only big enough for the one of us, partner.” She turned slowly, opening her mouth, then closing it again. She did this a few times, then her entire face furrowed in frustration before she evaporated into a thin white mist.
The next morning, with a mug of coffee in my hand, I sat on the window seat in the breakfast nook, thinking about this ghost. She’d been in jeans and a plain shirt. That tied together with the thin nearly transparent-ness of her mist; meant she was a relatively new ghost. I had my ghost book propped up on my knees, and I scribbled these things down. Monday, August 17, 2015 – ghost in bathroom at home in Teratone, Oklahoma. Thin mist evap. DOD guess: around August 1, 2015. I took a sip of my coffee and looked over as Mom walked in, wiping her paint covered hands on her apron.
“Hi honey.” She leaned her head towards me, looking to see what was in my lap. “Do we have a guest with us?”
“Yeah. Except I think she only died right before I came home.” I scratched my head with my pen. “She looked only a few years younger than me. And she couldn’t speak yet.”
Mom made a sound that spoke volumes. Mom was a woman of very few words; so you get used to interpreting her sounds. This ‘hmm’ meant she was listening and thinking about what I’d said, to try and see if she could add any insight or if she should just leave me be.
“If you’re going to look into it, you could go find a store that sells papers and look in the obituaries. I think they still run them sometimes. Or turn on the news. Dad hooked up the cable box while you were gone. Maybe they’re still running something about her.”
I smiled at her and set my book on the seat. Standing, I wrapped her in a hug. I got paint on my pajamas, but I didn’t care too much about that. Mom was being supportive. Over the past ten years, it had taken Mom a lot to get to this point. She was the one who put me in the institutions the first three times. Dad believed me pretty quickly about the ghosts; but Mom had a hard time with it. This show of support meant a lot. To both myself, and Mom.
I kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Mom. I think I’ll do both of those.”
She gave me another one of her small smiles, then clapped her hands together. “I should get back to the hall bath. Need to get it primed for the wallpaper. Do you want me to go with you into town?”
“No, it’s okay.” I smiled. “Can I take the car though?”
“Of course.” She smiled back, before reaching out to squeeze my hand, and heading back to the hall bathroom.
I downed the rest of my coffee and headed upstairs to change. Because we moved around so much, we had all agreed that my getting a car didn’t make sense. Three cars meant a lot of gas and meant everyone driving by themselves to the new homes. So dad had his pick-up, so he could get construction materials easier, and mom and I shared a newer model mid-sized SUV.
Decked out in my usual – jeans shorts, solid tank top, feather earring, and brown boots – I headed into town. I pulled in at a small grocer that I knew had those old fashioned paper boxes outside. I popped two quarters in, and yanked on the door handle. It didn’t open. I pushed the coin button again and tried the door. Still didn’t move. I gave it a small kick and cursed at it. “Stupid box.” I headed inside to see if they had any that weren’t in the box.
Sure enough, there was a stack of papers at the end of each register in the bagging areas. I went up to an unopened lane and dug to the bottom of the stack. I found one from two weeks ago and pulled it out. An employee walked by and I grabbed their attention. I asked if I could just give him the quarters and he said I could just take the paper. I thanked him, and got back in the car.
Opening the paper onto the steering wheel, I flipped through the pages until I found the obits. I followed my finger down the page until I found a small grayscale yearbook photo of the girl from my bathroom.
Natalie Brightwell was found yesterday, Monday, August 3, 2015. She was about to start her senior year at Teratone High School, and had plans to go to nursing school next fall. She is survived by her parents, Richard and Tanya Brightwell, and her younger brother, fifteen-year old Kevin Brightwell. The police have reported Miss Brightwell’s death as a homicide. The Teratone Gazette will continue to follow this story after the family has had their private time to grieve.
I closed the paper, and let out a deep sigh. One murder usually meant more to come. And murdered people did not make the friendliest ghosts. And this one had taken up residence in my house for some reason.
Throwing the car into reverse, I tried to make a plan to talk to her. Still; she was not going to be a very happy ghosty.
“Shit.”
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♠ ♠ ♠
churnin this story out like little house on the prairie churned out butterwhat
xx