(Inspired by an actual, ghostly 1980’s photo taken in the cellar of the Bartlett House in Parkersburg, where Dr. Charles Bartlett’s daughter died in 1879.)
“I feel hot, Mama. I hurt.”
“I know.”
“I don’t like it here.”
“Here is your bed, your washbasin…”
“Let me come back up with you.”
“Shh, now, this is for the best.”
“Mama…”
“Bessie, don’t cry, my love! You’ll upset your father.”
“Please, Mama!”
Mrs. Bartlett shook her head and pried the small, fevered fingers away from her arm. “You are to be quiet, now. Rest. I will return anon.”
“Mama, I hurt!”
“Sleep, daughter.”
“Mama!”
The woman gathered her skirts and stepped away from the cot. She dared not kiss her child for fear she would catch the typhoid, too. Without another word, she climbed the wooden stairs out of the cellar.
“Mama!”
Carol knelt on the scratchy grass and peeked through the cellar window of the empty house on Ann Street. A dusty spider tumbled out of her way as she placed her hands carefully on the sash and pushed. It didn’t budge.
“Well?” said Rachel, who stood behind Carol with her arms crossed. “Can you do it or not?”
Carol scratched her ear. “Hold on.”
Rachel humphed, as did her best friend Philly. Carol pushed again, harder, with the heels of her hands. The window remained shut.
“You said you could get in,” said Rachel.
“You did say that,” said Philly. “Liar.”
Carol glanced back over her shoulder at the two frowning girls. Both were eleven, older than Carol by a year. Both were the most popular kids in school. Both had promised to be Carol’s friend if she played Truth or Dare with them.
“I can do it,” said Carol. “Just hold on. Jeez.”
“We don’t think so,” said Rachel. “So we’re back to truth. Tell us, Carol. Why you a foster kid? What happened to your parents?”
Philly snorted laughter. “Yeah, what happened? You kill ‘em or something?”
“I’ll get it open,” said Carol. She turned back to the window. She had to complete the dare. There was no way she would talk about her family.
With another grunt, some pounding with the heel of Carol’s hand, and several shoves, the window squealed open nearly a foot. Carol’s thumbnail bent backward with the effort. She sucked air against the pain.
“Told you,” she muttered under her breath.
“Don’t get snotty with us, orphan,” said Rachel. Carol opened her mouth to beg them not to be mean but snapped it shut again. The last thing she wanted to do was make them angry. She wanted friends more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life.
They squeezed through, Rachel first, followed by Philly and then Carol. Philly whined about the cobwebs and the smell. “It’s like somebody died down here,” she said as she brushed off the knees of her jeans.
The basement floor was littered with old papers, stained towels, and shattered jars. There were several rooms, each with low ceilings, brick walls, and damp, uneven flooring that made Carol feel she was walking on the moon.
“Okay, you got us in,” said Rachel. “Now, we got to mark this place so people’ll know we’ve been here.”
Carol stood back while Rachel and Philly took turns scrawling on the walls with the black Sharpie markers they’d brought along:
Rachel is bitchin’!
School suks!
Gag me with a spoon!
Phillicia Monroe is totaly awsome!
Rachel turned and glared at Carol. “Aren’t you going to write something, orphan?”
Carol reached out for the marker but Rachel shook her head. “Didn’t you bring your own?”
Carol shook her head.
“Well, you aren’t touching mine. You might have some creepy disease you caught at your foster home.”
Philly said, “Hey, don’t boys pee to mark their territory?”
Rachel made a face. “We aren’t boys, now, are we?”
“Duh,” said Philly.
“You a boy, Carol?”
“No.”
“You’re standing there all stupid like a boy,” said Rachel. “You’re ugly and dumb like a boy. And we said we’d be your friends? I don’t think so.”
Carol’s mouth fell open. “But you…”
“But you! But you!” said Philly. “But you better butter your butt!”
“We’re going upstairs,” said Rachel. “Don’t you follow us or we’ll kick you down the steps.”
“Don’t go away!”
With a shriek of laughter, Rachel and Philly bolted up the wooden stairs and slammed through the door at the top.
“Mama?”
“What, darling?”
“I’m burning hot.”
“You’re sick, honey.”
“Where’s Papa?”
“Working.”
“Can’t he make me better?”
“Shh, now.”
Bessie turned over on the cot, and her stomach cramped violently. Her mother held the bowl up but there was nothing to catch. Bessie had not eaten in days. “Here’s a cool, wet rag.”
“Mama?”
“What, dearest?”
“Will Papa come see me soon?”
“Perhaps. Sleep now.”
“I hurt, Mama.”
“I know. Shh.”
“Don’t go away!”
The wooden steps creaked.
“Mama, I’m so lonely!”
The voice from the top of the steps, “Shh…”
Carol sat on the cold, lumpy floor, her head down. She could hear Rachel and Philly running around upstairs, marking walls, slamming doors.
The old house had been for sale for a while now, with someone hired to mow the lawn and clip the bushes, though most shrubs around the sides and back had been allowed to grow tall and wild. Carol walked by the house on her way to school, always stopping to stare at the windows, the stone porch, the sloped yard and shadowed front door. There was something in there, pulling at her, wanting her. But she then moved on, afraid of being arrested and thrown in prison like her grandmother, or being locked up in a mental hospital like her mother.
Carol didn’t ride the school bus. Since moving to Parkersburg three months earlier to live in an apartment on Franklin Alley with Mrs. Jones, her new foster mother, Carol had become the target of every joke imaginable to the middle school mind. Of course, it was no surprise. No matter where she’d lived, she’d been the brunt of ridicule. She was homely to most people and hesitant in her speech. She had no sense of fashion. She was painfully shy. No, she was never surprised others taunted her, but was always disappointed. So to avoid some of the pain, she told Mrs. Jones she would rather walk to school than ride. Mrs. Jones didn’t care. She had three other foster kids to tend to.
Then two days ago, Rachel and Philly pulled Carol aside at lunch and told her they’d be her friend if she played Truth or Dare with them.
In the corner of the cafeteria, Rachel said, “So, what is it? Truth or dare?”
Carol hesitated. “Truth.”
Rachel grinned. “Okay. Why’re you in foster care?”
Carol’s eyes went wide. “No, wait. I meant dare.”
“You can’t change your mind like that.”
“Really, I meant dare. I…I just said it wrong.”
Rachel looked at Philly. Philly looked at Rachel.
“Well, okay,” Rachel grumbled. “Here’s the dare. We want you to break into a house for us.”
Carol frowned. She’d never done anything really bad before. Her grandmother and mother would be horrified. They always told her she was special, that people would not understand her, and so she would have to be very, very careful throughout her life.