That night he dreamed he, Dewey, and Short Round were young boys. Short Round’s grandfather had been a monk before he decided to leave the monastery and start a family. Mike remembered him—a small, wizened man with bright black eyes, his face a mask of wrinkles. He and his family had fled the Viet Cong and were given permission to immigrate to America, but Grandfather Van seemed to carry Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam within him.
He was fond of the boys and would feed them sticky rice sweets and small oranges. He would take up his prayer beads and kneel before the altar that contained the large brass Buddha and the offerings he put in front of it. His room smelled of a combination of incense and liniment. It was not unpleasant to be in that room, especially when he would have the boys kneel behind him and listen as he chanted a prayer that only Short Round could understand. But the prayers somehow always made the boys feel good, even as they fled the old man’s room and escaped outside to their bikes.
This dream was all crazy, like the dream of the girl. Short Round’s grandfather knelt in front of his altar in the robes of a monk, chanting the same prayer over and over. Short Round was kneeling behind him, next to Mike, in the same saffron robes, his hair shaved instead of in its usual mohawk. When Mike asked him what was going on, Short Round looked at him intently, saying, “He’s saying a prayer for you to bless you. He’s asking the gods to protect you.” Then he disappeared and Grandfather turned to him and said, “You know what you have to do boy, now it’s time to do it.”
Mike woke up in a sweat, breathing heavily, his heart pounding so hard it was about to jump out of his chest. “Oh god,” he thought as he sat up and swung his legs down onto the floor. He ran down the stairs and took a glass out the cupboard and filled it with milk. He went outside and sat on the back porch, looking at the yard. It was that peculiar time of the night when the sky started turning from black to dark blue which lightened gradually to a cerulean blue just before the pinks of dawn surrounded the rising sun. There was just enough night left for him to feel safe and hidden.
“I have to talk to Short Round’s grandfather,” he thought, then to his dismay remembered that the old man had been dead for two years. Though the flags and the altar remained in the house, and the spirit boards stood sentinel outside; no one in the house had the links to the spirit world that Grandfather had had. There were two uncles in a Buddhist monastery in California, along with an aunt who had become a nun, but no one to talk to about this. He wasn’t so sure that Short Round could do anything but see the ghost. When it came to finding advice he would have to look elsewhere. He didn’t think his friend had the answers that he needed.
He went back inside, back up to his room. Suddenly he was no longer feeling like a fifteen year old boy. There was a burden resting on his shoulders that should not be his; but it had been laid on him, none the less. He wanted to do this right; he didn’t want to be careless. He was feeling an unfamiliar sense of anxiety. There was more to this than just meeting a pretty girl who happened to be a ghost. He did not know how the girl died; but there was a small voice inside him that spoke a truth he did not want to acknowledge. He didn’t want to say the word out loud, but in his heart he knew that her death was not a natural one. “Murder” was a hard word to voice, even worse to think.
It was sickening to think it had even happened. He didn’t even want to guess how she had died. Here was a very pretty girl, maybe the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Those midnight blue eyes, the thick sheaf of brown hair, the fine bones of her face; all her delicate prettiness had been destroyed in an instant. At fifteen, death was a concept too distant to grasp. Murder was an unthinkable thing, even though it could be read about in the papers, or heard about on radio or TV. The murder of a pretty fifteen year old girl was the most unthinkable thing of all.
Even though it was cold outside, he had to get out of his room. He went and sat on the back porch, watching dusk change to dawn to daylight. He felt mortally tired, but it was Saturday and he never touched his books until Sunday evening. Somehow it felt safe to sit on the porch and stare at the yard and watch the world slowly come to life.
“Michael”. He turned around and saw his mother standing there. “You must be freezing, how long have you been there?”
Michael loved his mother deeply. Even after having two children she was slender and had a body that was better than some of the girls at his school. She’d always looked like Rebecca DeMornay, and like her, kept her hair colored a light golden blond. She didn’t dress much like a mother, and looked good in tight jeans and sweaters. Some guys he knew were embarrassed when their moms looked good. To him, she had never been anything less than beautiful.
But she was all mother as she pulled his hair back from his forehead and kissed him. “You feeling all right?” she asked. She put her cool fingers on his forehead. “Nope, no fever. What’s up?”
“I couldn’t sleep, Mom, I was having these really weird dreams.” He hoped she wouldn’t press. It was all related to the house and he’d made the decision to not say anything that might distress her, or make it seem like he was complaining.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked. “No?” she queried again as he shook his head. “Well, come in and put a sweatshirt on, and I’ll make mochas for us before the others get up. And I’m fixing waffles and I’m going to start worrying about you if you don’t eat at least four.”
“Better make it five,” he warned, and they both laughed. She took a hank of his long hair and pulled it.
“You aren’t going to go and cut this on me?” she asked him. His mother loved his long hair. He shook his head and started up the stairs. “Oh Mike,” she said, and he paused and looked at her, “Dreams are the mirrors of our subconscious. Sometimes weird dreams are ways we work out our problems in our heads, so don’t worry about yours.”
He smiled, but inside he was thinking, “I wish it were that simple.”
He went upstairs and took a long shower—a luxury since there were usually three other people competing to use it. He toweled his hair as dry as he could and tied it back with an elastic band. He went back into his room and put on his boxers, jeans, t-shirt, socks, and a “hoodie”. An idea was slowly forming in his mind that he didn’t know whether to act on or not. Setting it aside, he went downstairs to the kitchen where his mother was setting out stacks of golden waffles and thick-sliced bacon.
The rest of the family was now awake and had gathered at the table. He piled waffles and bacon on his plate and began to eat, or rather devour, his breakfast. It wasn’t until he paused for a moment and looked up, that he noticed his father looking at him. “Something wrong dad?” he asked, “Outside of the usual teenage behavior?” That drew a laugh from his father and a snicker from his sister.
“I forgot to give this to you yesterday,” his father said, “It came in the mail when you were over at Dewey’s. I’ll confess that I’m curious; would you mind opening it?”
Mike took the envelope from him. He opened it and read the contents. “It’s no big deal”, he said, and stuffed the paper back in the envelope.
“May I?” asked his father. Mike reluctantly handed him the envelope and watched as he pulled out the sheet of paper. His father’s face grew animated, “Mike, this is great. I knew your grades were good but I never expected you to be nominated for a National Merit Scholarship.”
“Dad, don’t get excited. I’m not sure I’m even going to go right to college after graduation. I want to do a Tony Hawk and design my own line of boards and stuff. I’ve been winning prize money at competitions. The more I compete, the more my name will be known and people will want to buy my boards. I can go to a community college when I’m not competing and learn the business part of it.”
Now began an argument that would last over a period of years. “Son, I’m proud of how well you do at competitions, the sponsors you’ve gotten, but you need to plan your life around more than skateboarding. You have your future to think of.”
“Dad, I’m not suited to the nine-to-five. And haven’t we learned the hard way that college is no security blanket? You went to one of the best business schools and…”
“Okay Mike, let’s not concentrate on that now. You’re not even sixteen yet and you have a lot of time ahead of you, I know. But time flies quickly and one day you’re going to find yourself having to make decisions. Let me just leave it at I’m really proud of you. The rest can wait. Truce?”
“There never was an argument, Dad”, he said. He thought again how he was blessed with his parents. He just wished he could tell them what was really bothering him.
It was about an hour or so later that he left. Kit was watching cartoons, and his parents discussing something—probably him—in the kitchen. When it came to school he wasn’t a slacker, and neither was Short Round nor Dewey. Every so often they would attend Honor Society dinners and Short Round would dig him in the ribs, saying, “I bet they wonder what we’re doing here.” It would be all he could do to keep from laughing.
He got on the bus and headed for a part of town he usually didn’t frequent. There were galleries and coffee shops, but also a little shop partially hidden that he had never been to. He was nervous about going in, to tell the truth, and he’d feel better when he left and got to the skate park. He’d found this place on the Web and he hoped it would be a good place to start.
The shop had blue neon stars and a silvery white moon in its windows, and the plate glass window in the door was shielded by a lace curtain. The sign in the window read, “The Star Child”, and advertised books, incense, candles—and ‘Tarot and Psychic Readings’.
He stood in front of the door, his heart pounding like it would before a competition. He took several deep breaths, then turned the door knob and pulled it open, bells ringing as he entered the shop, and closed the door behind him.
The shop owner looked about Molly’s age. She was on the heavy side and had hair that was dyed black. The polish on her nails matched the color of her hair, and she wore gigantic silver hoop earrings. He was almost ready to walk out when she spoke to him.
“Can I help you with something? I don’t carry skateboard supplies.” She looked pointedly at his board, but then he saw a gentle smile on her face. Her expression was bemused and her green eyes had a soft friendliness that he did not expect.
He started to open his mouth. He wanted to say, “I was wondering if you could help me” when suddenly her face became serious.
He watched as she crossed to the door and locked it, flipping over the open sign. She took him by the hand and they went into a room that was been hidden by a curtain. She sat him in a chair and went about the room, swiftly lighting candles and sticks of incense.
At last she sat down across from him. “I know why you’re here,” she said, “Someone followed you here. She’s standing in front of the curtain. She wants you to turn around and look at her.”
He shook his head. “I want her to leave me alone,” he said fiercely, “I want my life to go back to normal. She wants something from me and I don’t even know if I should help her. It could be dangerous, for all I know. I’m only fifteen; I’m too young to deal with a murderer.”
“How do you know that she was murdered?”
The question gave him a start, but he knew the answer. “I don’t know how I know, I just know.”
“Hmmm.” The medium looked at him intently. “Do you think anyone else in your family has seen her?”
“No, just one of my friends. He’s Hmong, and there are shamans and priests in his family. They sort of live half in the spirit world, that’s what he told me anyway. And he said that she’s here for me, but I want her to go away.”
“I’m sure that’s what you want,” she said, “But I think the path ahead of you may take a different direction. Now sit and be patient for a moment while I try to talk to her.”
The medium closed her eyes and hummed softly to herself. After what seemed like an eternity she opened her eyes and looked straight into Michael’s.
“She told me her name is Mariah. She was fifteen, just like you, when she was killed. I won’t give you the details, but she let me see and it was a horrible death. It wasn’t kind, and she suffered.”
“The house you’re living in? That was her house. Your room was her room. Her parents were so heartbroken when she disappeared that they moved across the country. They never found her body; she never had a decent burial. The man who killed her dumped her in a hole like a piece of garbage and then shoveled earth on top of her.”
“She died a death no girl should have to die. He hurt her and he humiliated her, and he tormented her for a long time before he finally killed her. She cried, she begged for mercy, but he only laughed.”
“That was ten years ago. Her parents still don’t know where she is. By some cruel twist of fate her murderer is still alive. And you’re right when you say she’d like you to do something dangerous. She wants him found—she wants him dead. She wants her parents to have her bones so she can have a decent burial.”
“I could try and convince her to pass into the light, but she’s not interested. She thinks she wants justice, but what she wants is revenge. You’re young and attractive, and she’s drawn to the good qualities in you. And like I said, you’re the same age that she was, and you live in her room.”
“This is what happens to people who die sudden, violent deaths, especially young people. Since she barely had a chance to live, she thinks like a…,” she shrugged her shoulders, “teenager. She thinks she knows what she wants, but she’s not thinking clearly about the consequences of her actions. She might not want anything to happen to you, but it doesn’t mean she wouldn’t use you to help her. And besides, she’s quite infatuated with you.”
“What do I do?” he asked. He was starting to feel helpless because part of him felt sorry for her. He was torn between wanting to do anything that he could for this pretty, tragic girl, and the other part of him heard alarm bells going off and wanted no part of her.
“You think about what you’re doing before you do it,” the medium said sharply, “You don’t put yourself in harm’s way. She won’t hurt you, but she may not help you. You’re going to have to decide if helping her is worth the price.”
She got up, and he followed her out of the room. She looked in her cases and drew a necklace out of a pouch. “This is a Saint Michael medal. It’s usually used by exorcists or people who are being haunted by demons; but it’s good protection for anyone who may face danger.” She went to a display where there were a number of tall, thick candles. She picked up a small clay bowl and a black candle. “Burn this candle for protection. It’ll take a couple of days or so to burn down.” Lastly, she picked up a bundle of sage and give to him, “Use this to cleanse your room. Sage is used to purify and bless. Make sure the smoke gets into each corner of your room. If you could do your whole house that would be even better.”
“I don’t have money to pay for any of this,” he told her, but she shook her head.
“It’s all right, consider it my gift,” she fastened the medallion around his neck. “I’m a great believer in karma. You help someone out, one day it will be your turn and someone will help you. She went back to your house, by the way. When she watches you on your skateboard she’s afraid you’ll hurt yourself.”
He put the bundle she made in his pack. “Is there any chance that she’ll just go away?” he asked.
The medium shook her head. “The sage may keep her away for a few days; then again, it might not. I think you’re tied together somehow. Maybe by where you live, maybe your age, maybe you have psychic powers that you don’t know about, and that drew her to you.”
She took his hands in both of hers and he felt a jolt of energy go through him. Then she kissed his forehead and wished him peace. Then she whispered, “be careful” in his ear, and let him go.
He couldn’t get out of there quickly enough. He got on the bus that would take him to the skate park and when he sat down he found that he was shaking violently. Emotions were running through him that were so strong that he almost felt like throwing up, or crying, or both. It wasn’t like him to cry, not even when his family lost their home. It was just too much, that was all. This should belong to someone else, not him.
When he got to the skate park, his friends could sense that something was wrong. He wasn’t laughing and joking the way he usually did. He skated strongly and steadily, but didn’t seem to have the heart to do the types of jumps and spins he usually. Michael usually skated as if someone might be scouting him, or just to show off. Today he seemed unusually subdued.
When they asked him what was wrong he shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong. I just didn’t sleep much last night and I’m kind of tired. I don’t have much energy today, so I’m taking it easy.”
Dewey and Short Round looked at each other. Mike wouldn’t take anything easy, unless he was bribed into doing it. They left it alone; something seemed wrong and pressing him wouldn’t give them answers. He’d only withdraw further and maybe not talk to them at all.
When Michael got home from the skate park his parents were preparing to take the family out for pizza. It was nothing fancy but they felt like they all deserved a treat. To their surprise Michael declined, saying he wasn’t in the mood; which in truth, he wasn’t. His mother put on a face of mock surprise and his father expressed plain disbelief, but they didn’t argue and left him alone.
“Lots of food in the fridge, I’ll be okay. I just don’t feel like going out.” His mom kissed him goodbye and he watched as they pulled out of the driveway and headed up the street.
He raced up to his room and grabbed the bundle of sage that the medium pressed upon him. He went down to the basement and following her instructions fumigated every corner of the room saying, “Nothing negative or evil is allowed here, only good and positive influences are allowed in this house.” He went upstairs and room by room waved the bundle of sage in all the corners, chanted the words she taught him. When at last he finished, he quenched the smoldering bundle in some water, then wrapped it up and put it in his closet.
He knew he was going to have to explain the smell in the house, but already he felt better. The medium had warned him that this might only be a temporary fix. If there was a task relating to the ghost girl that was his to take care of, he was going to have to face it sooner or later.
He went downstairs and pulled some food out of the refrigerator, sat in front of the TV and watched a basketball game while he ate. Soon he would hear his parents’ car pulling into the driveway (the old garage had fallen down a long time ago and they were putting all their money into the house), and he would have to start talking. This wasn’t going to be easy, but he was going to face it straight on and tell them the truth. He could see no other way.
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