Phantom [h.s]

Seventeen

Give me the hammer, Jane."

I sigh and reach for the tool, handing it to my father who stands dangerously on a stepladder facing the hallway wall. Normally, I wouldn't say standing on a three foot step ladder is dangerous, but with my dad, you never know.

I watch him squint one eye shut and carefully begin to hammer the iron nail into the wall with upmost precision. I sit on the floor, my chin resting in my palms.

I'm still grounded. It's been a week.

I have only driven my car to and from school. Literally, the only two places I've been the entire week is school and home, with the occasional stop at the only McDonald's in town for fries and a shake.

I know I sound like a whiny teenager, but that's what I am, and I don't care. I just want my car back so I can get out of this musty old house and away from my borderline annoying parents.

I'm such a ray of sunshine, aren't I?

"Alright, hand me the photo of us in front of the Empire State."

I wrinkle my nose. "I hate that picture."

"You hate all the pictures. Hand it to me, please."

I sigh dramatically and hand him the framed photo, where he carefully sets it on the nail. He leans back slightly, squinting and straightening the frame out.

"Perfect," he says, grinning. He beams down at me. "You're lucky you have a father that is so good with home décor."

"So lucky," I say in a monotone.

He ignores my sarcasm, taking another nail from his pocket and stepping off the ladder to move it to the side.

"Can I just have my car keys?" I groan. "It's been a week. And I didn't even do anything wrong."

He snorts. "How about ditching school early and not coming home until midnight? We still don't know where you went, even."

"I told you, I went for a drive. I needed to...clear my head."

"You could have done that after school, and come home before dinner."

"I said I was sorry, alright? Can I please just-"

I'm cut off by the sound of my father hammering the nail, but an odd noise echoes around us-a sharp bang.

We both stare at the wall.

"What the heck was that?" My father furrows his brow.

"Maybe you hit a beam," I say.

"No, it would have sounded differently." He puts down the hammer and presses his ear to the wall, knocking lightly. He then knocks louder, and the same noise is repeated, except a bit softer than the first time.

"It's hollow," he declares.

"Hollow?"

"Yep. Guess we'll have to hang the rest of these downstairs. Well, at least we got a few up here-"

"Why is it hollow, though?"

"I don't know, hon. Maybe it's just dead space. Houses sometimes have that, for structural purposes."

I stare at the wall. "Hmm."

My dad climbs off the stepladder and collects his toolbox, folding up the ladder. "Don't worry, there's plenty of other wall space to hang these on. Meet me downstairs and we'll finish these off."

What I don't tell him is that I could care less about the wall space, and that something doesn't seem right about a random hollow wall in the middle of the upstairs hallway when two rooms are on either side of it, leaving an open area in the middle.

My father walks down the stairs, beginning to whistle the theme to Star Wars.

I stand up, walking to the wall and pressing my ear to it, knocking on it as my father did. Sure enough, it sounds empty and echoing.

I knew the house was old and weird, but this is odd even for this place.

I stand back and look at the wall, examining the space between the spare bathroom door and the guest room door. There seems to be just enough space for a third door to fit between the two.

I look for any signs of bumpy wallpaper to indicate a possible sealed third door, but there is none.

I decide there's only one person I can ask about this.

-

"Jane, this is dangerous. Your parents could be back any minute, you said so yourself."

"Since when are you worried about being seen? You climb through my window most days and hide in the back of my car."

Harry scratches the back of his neck as we ascend the stairs. "Yeah, but I don't roam around your house out in the open."

I give him a look.

He rolls his eyes. "Fine, but not when anyone's home."

I lead him down the hallway once we reach the top of the stairs, stopping in between the two doors.

"Okay, so the other day my dad was hanging pictures and-"

"Aww, is that you?" Harry points to a photo of me when I was three years old.

I blush, rolling my eyes and swatting his hand away from the picture. "Focus. As I was saying-"

"Look at your chubby cheeks, you're so cute," he coos, looking between the picture and me. "I see the resemblance. You've got less baby fat now, though. Well, you've got no baby fat, because you're seventeen now instead of three, but-"

"Shut up, Harry."

"Come on, look at you-" He looks back to the photo, holding in a laugh.

"For the love of God, Harry, will you just listen to me?"

He straightens up, fighting back his smile. "Sorry. Go on."

I let out a dramatic sigh, turning back to the wall.

"My dad tried to hang a picture on this wall, but it sounds hollow. He thinks it's just dead space, but..." I shrug.

Harry does the same my father and I did, putting his ear to the wall and knocking. He nods. "Definitely hollow."

I cross my arms over my chest. "So...?"

He looks at me blankly. "So what?"

"Do you remember anything being behind here when you lived here?"

He turns back to the wall, examining it. He reaches out and runs his fingertips over the wallpaper, although I don't know why-he can't feel it. I watch him curiously as he looks up to the top and then down at the bottom and then at all the space in between.

"I don't know," he finally says.

I stare at him. "What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean, I can't remember anything about this wall," he states plainly. "It does feel...familiar, though."

"Familiar how?"

"Like I'm connected to it somehow. I don't know. Why does it matter?"

I shrug. "I thought it was odd, that's all."

He smiles at me, leaning against the wall. "So, did you get your car back yet?"

I groan. "No," I say. "It's eating me alive. I'm going stir crazy."

He laughs, lifting a shoulder. "Well, I know a shortcut to the cemetery, if you want to get some fresh air and party with the dead."

I widen my eyes. "Yes, please God yes." I just need to get out of this house, I don't care where we're going.

Harry laughs, standing up straight. "What are we waiting for, then?"

-

When Harry told me we would "party with the dead," he was only half kidding.

He leads me through the rows of gravestones, explaining that when the cemetery completely empties out, some of the dead that are stuck in the in between gather here.

Now, at three o'clock in the afternoon on a Sunday, is apparently one of those times.

I walk closely behind Harry, looking around at all the different ghostly beings congregating here. They talk quietly amongst themselves, leaning against stones, all having the same hint of sorrow behind their eyes that Harry has behind his.

"Do you know all of them?" I ask Harry quietly.

He nods as we continue toward his grave. "Pretty much."

"Don't they notice that I'm not...you know."

"No, you're pale enough to pass for a ghost, I guess."

I stare at him. "I'm not that pale!"

He bites his lip to suppress a laugh and I smack him on the arm before remembering that smacking him doesn't do shit.

We stop in front of his gravestone.

Rest in peace.

Every time I read it, my heart breaks for Harry a little more.

"Afternoon, Harry."

I look up at a soft voice. A petite girl, no older than the age of twelve, stands beside Harry's grave. Her hair is a pale blonde and her eyes are a warm caramel color.

"Hi, Em," Harry greets her. "How are you doing?"

She shrugs. "I'm alright, I suppose." Her eyes fall to me. "How do you cross?" She quips.

"Pardon?" I ask.

"She's asking you how you died," Harry says, smirking.

"Oh, I'm not..." I shift.

"She's alive," Harry finishes for me.

Em's eyebrows shoot up. "Alive?"

"She's a friend," Harry says. "She's helping me out."

Realization leaks into Em's honey eyes. "Oh, so you must be Jane, then." Her cheekbones lift in a dainty smile.

I raise an eyebrow, looking to Harry.

He looks uncomfortable.

"Harry talks about you a lot, you know," Em continues, tucking a piece of straight hair behind her ear. "Saying that you're going to help him with his murder so he can finally cross. Not to mention that you're a sight for sore eyes." She beams.

"Enough, Em," Harry says. "Get out of here."

"As you wish," Em singsongs, turning and skipping away from us.

She is so young, but she speaks with such eloquence and wisdom. It makes me wonder how she died, and why she is stuck in the in between.

I ask Harry.

"Car wreck," he answers. "Her father was driving. He blames himself for her death and hasn't forgiven himself. She can cross to the afterlife when he has."

"But what if he never does?"

"Then she has to wait for him to die." Harry sticks his hands in his pockets. "A lot of the dead are stuck here because of forgiveness, or lack of. Most of them can't do anything about it but wait, either. They're unable to be seen by the people in their past lives that need forgiveness, so they have to just wait."

"So you're lucky, then."

"Yes. In terms of how long and for what reason I could be stuck in the in between, I've got one of the simpler ways out. With your help, anyway."

I watch Em sit on one of the taller gravestones, her feet dangling off the side.

"How long has she been stuck?" I ask.

"Ten years," Harry answers. "Ten years, and her father still hasn't forgiven himself."

My heart sinks for the young girl, and her father.

"We all want the same thing," Harry says. "We all want the afterlife. We've tried to help each other before, but it doesn't work. You need to finish your business yourself in order to cross." He stares off into the distance, hostility flashing briefly through his eyes.

"Or with the help of a living person." I raise an eyebrow.

He looks down at me, his lips twitching slightly as if trying not to smile. "Of course. I wouldn't want to discredit you."

Harry lowers himself to the grass, gesturing for me to sit beside him.

"What is the point of the in between?" I ask him, pulling a blade of grass through my fingers once I sit.

"It's for fulfillment," he answers. "It seems petty, but everyone must be fulfilled to move to the afterlife. It's just a requirement, I guess."

"No one can be truly fulfilled, though, can they?"

"It's more of the big fulfillments. For instance, finding your killer." He smirks. "But you're right. Smaller fulfillments are overlooked, but some are worth finishing. So we're sent here to finish them." He gestures to the rest of the dead in the in between that meander through the graveyard.

"So once you find who killed you, you'll just...disappear?"

"I don't know, exactly. I don't know where I'll go, but I know it'll be better than living dead here."

"Living dead," I repeat. "Quite the oxymoron you've got going there."

"It's true, though. I mean, I'm not completely dead, because I still walk the earth. I'm not alive, though, because I'm just a numb body with a working mind and no breath." He shrugs. "Living dead."

I look at him. The light from the afternoon sun shines on him, casting a glow onto his pale skin. He leans back on his palms, his white sweater rolled up to his elbows. His long legs are crossed, and his face is turned toward the sky, his lips the same pale pink. The light breeze ruffles his dark curly hair, and I see the beginnings of his dimples begin to indent in his cheeks. I've never seen a boy with the pure loveliness of his looks before.

"Normally I would make some sarcastic comment about how staring is rude," he says suddenly, snapping me out of my daze. "But I don't mind being stared at by you at all." He looks over at me, half smiling.

I look away quickly. "I wasn't staring," I mutter.

"Oh, you were definitely staring," he says, his dimples appearing in his cheeks as he smiles at me teasingly. "But as I said, I don't mind."

---

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