Chapter 3

I've been applying to all kinds of jobs in the Clay County School district. Hopefully something will pan out. I want to live in Clay again, preferably OP, Fleming, or Middleburg, so finding at job at a school in Clay would be perfect. But all that job applying and resume writing has made me tired. I'm supposed to be working on my other book with my editor, but my brain hurts. I'm tired and I don't wanna work hard. I want someone to give me $50,000 and publish my book without even reading it.

I did have a great time yesterday discussing the plot to the entire series with my favorite cousin, Emily, who has read everything. It was wonderful to have her insights and opinion and it feels good to have someone else know how it will all end. If I die, Emily will have to finish the series for me. My friend Nat also got me excited about the rewrites. She's my muse and gives me wonderful advice and cheers me on and on and one. I will be starting work on The South Star again, but for today, I'm doing more rewrites of the necromancer book. Please pardon the mistakes. Wheeeeeeee!!!!!!

Here's a picture of a pathway somewhere in the Ravines neighborhood in Middleburg. It's where this book is set.

Chapter 3 

            “Brittany isn’t dead,” Mr. Moore says. “I told you that she texted me last night.”

            “But have you talked to her today?”

“You need to leave,” he says, placing his hands on my shoulders and guiding me toward the door. “This isn’t funny.”

            I dig my heels in. “Do you think this is fun for me? I’m telling the truth,” I say. “I saw your daughter’s ghost in the woods. I dreamed about her. She was bleeding to death and chained up somewhere. I saw the Reaper take her. She’s dead. You need to call the police.”

“That’s a good idea,” he responds. “Emmy, get the phone. I think Sheriff Michaels would like to know that Judy Charon’s daughter is harassing us.”

“Stop,” I say, placing my hand on the front door, keeping him from opening it. “I’m not lying. You know what I am.”

“Yes. Crazy,” Mr. Moore says.

I clench my teeth so I don’t say something rude back. I ignore the way he and Mrs. Moore glare at me. They aren’t the first nor will they be the last people to think I’m a nut job.

“I can help you,” I say.

“You can’t even help yourself,” he says. He wrestles the door open and shoves me out onto the front porch.

I am such an idiot. This is why I don’t get involved in the ghost crap. Nothing good ever comes from it. If there is some way to rip the necromancer out of me—no matter what it costs—I would do it. Seeing death everywhere is no way to live.

I stop at home, planning to change into my exercise clothes and tennis shoes to go running, but instead I sit at the kitchen table and eat all the leftover donuts. As I chow down, I notice a gray leather book next to Mom’s Grimoire of the Dead. When I see that this one is blank, I realize I’ve I found my birthday present. I flip to the back of my empty Grimoire, running my fingers over the pages, and as I do, glowing blue words start to form.

            I read along. “With the Reaper’s Mark, she will gather the dead. For in Purgatory the army will be bred. The Reaper she will love. The Reaper she will hate. The world’s balance hangs on love’s fate.”

I slam the Book shut and throw it back onto the table. I feel like barfing, but I’m not sure if it’s because I ate too many donuts or because of what I read about the Marked girl loving a Reaper. I saw the Reaper in my dream this morning. Well, I didn’t really see him. I close my eyes and try to imagine what he looks like. All I can think of is the drawings of the black-skinned and horned demons who torture the unlucky residents of the Purgatory.

I close my eyes, and it’s almost like I smell the burnt skin of the damned. For a moment, I think Mom must have left some bayberry tea burning on the stove, but the room goes hot, too, like I’m standing in a lake of fire and brimstone. Then I get a whiff of tobacco, but not from my Mom’s secret stash. It’s more like the musty, hand-rolled cigarettes I once found in my Granddaddy’s desk drawer.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up when I hear the buzzing sound the dead give off when they are near. It’s like white noise, undetectable to anyone but deafening to a necromancer. I stand up fast and spinning around, knocking my chair to the floor in the process.

The guy who was with Brittany in the woods stands in the middle of the lavender colored linoleum floor.

“You again,” I say.

His lips curl up into a smile. “They are coming, Cassandra. We warned. Be wary for the fight will kill you.”

Ghosts have threatened me with death my entire life. I’ve never believed them before, but there was something so finite about his tone that frightens me. My throat is dry, so I swallow before I speak. “Who’s coming?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

“The dead.”

I know what he means, but I ignore the truth. It has to do with what I just read about the Marked girl and the end of the world. “You’re not allowed in my house,” I say. “I banish you.”

He chuckles, a low grated noise that sounds a little like the gnashing of teeth heard in Purgatory. “You are the strongest Necromancer of your time, but you are not strong enough to challenge me.”

“I’m not afraid of you. Whatever it is that you are, I will figure out a way to kill you.”

“You cannot kill me. No living thing can.” He grins to himself. “But you will be dead so, so maybe you will have a chance then.”

“What are you?” I ask. I’ve asked him the same question before, and I don’t expect an answer, but my curiosity wins out over reason.

He steps up to me, only inches away. I want to draw away from him, but I can’t move. It’s like he’s used some sort of power to paralyses me. “Soon you will know more.” He doesn’t raise his hand, but it feels like his fingers brush down my cheekbone. “You and I will be quite . . . intimate.”

“Gross,” I respond. My nose wrinkles up. Sure, if you can overlook all his scars, his Nazi ties, pale skin, and the fact that he’s dead, the guy is pretty hot. I don’t even like talking to ghosts, so I want nothing romantic to ever go on between us.

He sneers down at me, like he knows I’m wrong. “You will not think that for long.”

Then he vanishes and I’m alone in our purple, eggplant-decorated kitchen. I let out an unsteady breath. The dead guy’s unexpected appearance shook me up more than I expected. I sink back into the kitchen chair and lay my head on the cool wooden surface of the table.

I glance at the grey book on the table, the one where I read the invisible inscription. I’m so screwed. My Marking ceremony is tonight. This all has to be connected

The donuts I ate lump together into a big, solid mass of fat and sugar churning in my belly. I rush to the sink and throw up everything I’ve eaten today. I run hot water and turn on the garbage disposal until it’s all washed away.

Before I can think about the Marking ceremony and my possible role in the end of the world, I go in search for Mom, and find her waiting for me on the front porch that is covered with overgrown pots of irises and violets. She doesn’t turn around, but I still see it as she flicks her cigarette into the purple azalea bushes.

Mom sprays some perfume, pops a stick of gum into her mouth, and asks, “Ready to go?”

“Yep.” I follow her to her purple Cadillac. “How was it to see Blake again? Did he kiss you?” She raises her penciled eyebrows at me.

“Are you going to take me to school or what?”

Mom rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t be such a teenager.” We both get into the car, or as I like to call it, the Purple Pimpmoblie, and she cranks the engine. Mom won the car five years ago for reaching fifty thousand makeup items sold. The whole back window of the car is a giant advertisement for Purple Lady Cosmetic Company, with Mom’s full name and phone number.

I slide on my big sunglasses and slouch down in the front seat, hoping no one will ever put together that I’m Judy’s daughter. It’s pointless, though. Everyone knows who my mother is, and everyone knows about our side business that has nothing to do with blush.

“Do you have your ghost beads?” Mom asks.

“Why does it matter?” I ask. “We’re going to Ravines High, not a haunted house.”

Mom glances back at our house. “You can never be too careful she says. Ghost are everywhere and not all of them are nice.”

For a split second I wonder if she knows about the ghost who got in. I should tell her about everything, the hot Nazi, the dreams about Brittany, seeing her in the woods, and what I saw in my new Grimoire of the Dead, but I don’t. I’m horrible at being normal, but perfect at denial. If I don’t talk about it, it’s not happening.

“I never take it off my ghost beads,” I say, snapping at her. I hold up my wrist, showing her the brown beaded bracelet that is supposed to protect against the bad spirits, but doesn’t do much good since I seem to be being haunting by something evil.

“You’re even moodier than usual. I’ll take that as evidence that Blake didn’t kiss you after all.”

“I don’t want to talk about Blake.”

“You don’t want to talk about anything anymore,” Mom says. She has her eyes on the road now, and refuses to look at me during the ten minute drive to the school. She’s right, I used to tell her everything, but there came a point when I started blaming Mom for my abilities, and I started to take my hatred of Necromancy out on her.

I want give her a snide comment back, but instead look out the windshield and ignore her. Mom drops me off at school, promising to be back within an hour. I slam the car door shut and follow the welcome new student signs to the small gym and take a seat in the empty back row.  A few students mill around the refreshment table.  I should introduce myself, but can’t find the energy for small talk. And it doesn’t matter if I make new friends. Once they find out what I am, they’ll never talk to me again.

When the heat outside becomes too much to bear, I return to the gym lobby. A trophy case sits against one wall. I lean closer to read the inscription of one of the trophies. “Brittany Moore, Cheerleader of the year.”

I press my hand to the glass and close my eyes, and I’m transported somewhere else. I’m the girl from the dream again.

 

He sits next to me, darkness over his face, concealing his identity. Whoever he is, I know he’s not the dead guy I just saw in my kitchen. He’s someone else. Still someone familiar, but someone I can’t name.

We are in the car, stopped at a lone traffic light. I reach for the door handle, but his hand clasps over mine, pulling me close. Everything started out so much different. We had planned on taking a quick little vacation together before school started. He said he had rented a room at a little bed and breakfast in St. Augustine, but something changed. He changed.

            “I can’t do this. This is wrong,” I hear myself say. The radio plays in the background as the engine struggles to gain speed. The interior of the car is lit only by the dashboard.

            “No. This is what I’ve had planned since the beginning,” he says. 

I struggle not to yank away from his grip. Bile rises in the throat.

“You love me, don’t you?” he asks.

“You know I do.” The words are backed by the sweetest smile I can manage, but all I want to do is smack him.

“Then we’re getting married. I’d rather die than lose you. I know you wouldn’t want to live without me either. Would you?”

             I shake my head, knowing it’s what he wants. For some reason his talk of death seems like an omen, and I have the overwhelming urge to jump out of the moving car.

             “I think we should stop for the night,” I say. “It’s late.”

 

            The headlights flash on the freeway sign, I-95 South. We pass the exit for Green Cove Springs, and I realize, somewhere along the way he turned around. We’re not headed to Daytona like he promised, but back Ravines, just five miles away.

            “Where are we going?” I ask in a shaky voice.

            “To a little place I had in case you changed your mind.”

            “I didn’t change my mind. I told you I’d marry you.”

            “You’re lying to me.”

            The false happiness leaves me. I can’t even pretend anymore. “Take me home.

Now!” I shout.  His chuckle sends a chill through me.

            “But I am,” he say. “To your new home.”

Chapter 2

I have so much going on right now. I'm getting prepared to teach summer school, I'm stressing about what I should do next year (teaching at a private school or continuing subbing at different schools), working on rewrites with my editor, being the Buffy Summers of single moms, finding a place to live, and trying to run enough to burn off all my stress-cake eating. The only thing I do for fun is watch Netflix and work on my old ghost/reaper/apocalypse book. Yay for a hot Reaper, a tough Necromancer girl, and a gorgeous regular guy to take my mind off my troubles.

And can we talk about how exhausting it is to be a single mother? I thought being a stay at home mom was hard. Have mercy! I'm grateful I have custody of my boys, but I am their sole caretaker now. Not that I had much help before, but doing everything on my own is so intense that sometimes I don't know how I make it to the end of the day. I know in time, once I'm more used to everything and our lives are a little more balanced, things will get better, but holy crap. Jesus Take the Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel!

But I digress, here's the rough, rough version of chapter two of the newish book I'm working on. Sorry for the typos and mistakes. This is why I have an agent and an editor.

 

Chapter 2

            The ghost’s skin isn’t ashen and opaque like usual, but pink—the color of the living. Sections of her blond hair are matted to her head. Her pretty face and her perfect nose are smudged with dirt and grim. Where ever she was before she died didn't have indoor plumbing. Perhaps her death is so fresh that she isn’t showing the signs of it yet. Her dark brown eyes are puffy, like she's been crying for days. The front of her shirt is wet with blood, glistening like spilled rubies in the sunlight. The dead are supposed to bleed black, like in a faded crime scene photo.

“I dreamed about you,” I said, realizing she is the girl I saw this morning. “You’re dead.”

She shakes her head and points to me. Spirits love to deny their passing. She reaches out, and I go for my iron knife, but before I can use the blade, she holds up her hands, palms forward in a sign of peace. Ghosts aren’t always friendly. It’s rare, but a spirit can kill you if it’s powerful enough.  

            “You must not know how this works. Like it or not, I’m a necromancer. You tell me how you died, who killed you, or whatever you have to say to move on with your life. . . I mean afterlife. Get on with it.” I motion for her to continue. When she doesn’t answer, I add, “I saw you before you died. You were chained up in some old, dank place. The Reaper took you.” I say.

She shakes her head again, causing her dirty blond hair to fall over her shoulders. "Not dead,” she whispers.

“Sorry, honey, if I’m seeing you, you are the dearly departed.”

She shakes her head. I’m about to tell her to stop wasting my time and leave me alone, but then someone else appears beside her. The dead guy is tall and trim, his cheekbones high and prominent, his skin so thin that blue veins show through in at his temples and along the sides of his neck. He’s dressed in black pants that are tucked into black knee-high boots. He has on a snug army green button up shirt. There are faded sections of fabric on it, where what look like patches used to be stitched on but have now been ripped off. His white blond hair brushes over his forehead, and when he moves it aside, he stares at me with piercing grey eyes that are so pale they are almost colorless.

“Cassandra,” he says, smirking at me like he knows all my secrets and they amuse him. His voice is deep and scratchy, just like the one I heard this morning in my room. He doesn’t look like any ghost I’ve ever seen either. If isn’t wasn’t for the long arching scar across his neck, he would look almost alive. I don’t know what he is though, because ghosts still have their mortal injuries, but his has healed.

“Who are you?” I ask him.

“We have met before,” he says. His accent is so think that it takes me a moment to understand him.

For a moment, I’m so entranced by the way his mouth moves as he speaks that I can’t answer. The way he says the words makes it sounds far more intimate than a normal ghost encounter.

"How the hell did you get into my house this morning?" I ask. "Ghosts aren't allowed in."

One side of his mouth curls up in a wicked grin. "I am not a ghost."

"I'm not dead either," the girl adds.

“Necromancers only deal in the dead, so if you two aren't ghost find another human to bother."

"But you are my favorite mortal," he says.

"I don't even know you."

"You will, very soon and very well."

            I step forward and swipe my knife at him, but before the blade can knick him, he disappears, taking the girl along with him.

I think about doing the incantation to call them back, but I won’t bother. Those two didn’t look dead, not really. They must be some sort of other dead-ish thing. Necromancers deal with ghosts, but there are other supernatural beings out there—vampires, liches, spectra, shades, ghouls, banshees, and demons. They could be anyone of those. And I don’t deal with anything that isn’t a spirit. I have to draw the line somewhere, don’t I?

I stay where I am, staring at the empty spot the two of them left. There was something familiar about the boy, but I can’t figure out what. Maybe the dreams and seeing non-ghosts beings are a sign I’m going bananas. I push it all out of my mind and jog through the woods and head toward the neighboring property.

The second I step over the property line, I’m hit by memories of my summers with Blake Harrington. For the last five years, I spent every summer with my grandparents. I might have protested being shipped off every June, but then I ran into Blake down by the creek that ran past his and my grandparent’s house when I went there to swim. I never complained again about visiting Ravines again.

At the age of twelve when every other boy his age was either skinny and scrawny or short and stout, Blake Harrington was almost six feet tall, broad shouldered, had a six pack, and not a single pimple. You’d think someone like that would be a snob, and while he was conceded, he was also sweet. Without speaking more than five sentences to me, he invited me to his house. We ate cookies and we bonded over our embarrassing mothers.

After that day, we spent every summer together, going to the beach, taking walks down by the creek, and talking for hours about nothing important. The time spent apart during the year never mattered. We would pick up like I never left when we got back together.

Since the moment I met him, I’d always fostered a secret hope that Blake would like me. But in all those years, even when he’d been flirty with me, he’d never made a move. I knew what the meant. I was good enough to be his best friend, but nothing else.

Then last summer, the final day I was there, when Blake took me to the Alligator Farm, everything changed. He held my hand as we walked around the park and treated me like his girlfriend. I was so ecstatic that I couldn’t form a coherent thought. When Mom arrived to pick me up and take me back to Miami, Blake pulled me behind an oak tree and kissed me.

The bark of the tree bit into my back as Blake pressed me against it. His mouth was quick and sure, while I didn’t know what to do with my tongue or hands, but it didn’t seem to matter to him. My pulse thumped as his fingers held my head in place as he deepened the kiss. I was too stunned to say anything after he released me. Like an idiot, I stumbled away from him, got into the car without saying anything, and Mom drove away. I turned around and watched him as we sped out of the parking lot. Blake didn’t smile, he didn’t wave. He stood there, his face emotionless, staring after me until I could no longer see him.

I didn’t hear from him that year or this summer when I didn’t show up in June. Was such an awful kisser that he changed his mind about me? For whatever reason, he blew me off, and that wasn’t okay with me. We’d been best friends for years, and to let one little, misguided kiss ruin that was stupid. And just like that—with a lot of resentment and a lot of chocolate cake— my eternal crush on Blake Harrington vanished.

I step in front of Blake’s white home. It was built during antebellum South and was so grand it requires a live in housekeeper to keep it up. After I knock on the front door, I do some deep breathing, bargaining with myself that if I get away from the house without punching Blake in his handsome face, my reward will be leftover donuts.

The second I spot him through the opened front door, I think about running because I don’t know if I can this interaction nonviolent. When Blake sees me, he smiles down at me, his arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the doorway.

“Cass Charon,” he says in a Southern twang.

In the past year, he has grown even more, to at least six-foot-two, which is almost a foot taller than me. I have to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. He must have just returned from surfing because his cheeks are a little pink and he smells like salt and sunshine. I avert my gaze and remind myself that I hate him.

Blake looks nothing like his mom, who is petit, blond, and blued eyed. I’ve never met, or even seen a picture of his father, Isaac Harrington, but I assume Blake takes after him. Blake’s dark eyes are a deep, warm brown, his skin olive colored, and he has wavy brown hair that’s long enough that the ends curl over his brow and around his ears.  

He pulls me in for a hug, and I go stiff in his embrace because I swear his lips brush over my hair. Before I can decide if he kissed my head or not, he sets me away from him, and says, “I’m surprised.” He runs his hand up and down my arms as he looks me over. “Pleasantly. You look good, Cass, prettier and prettier every time I see you.”

“You look fatter.” I jab his hard stomach, failing to prove my point. “And uglier.” He’s not offended, instead he chuckles at me because he knows the truth. All the girls fawning over him never let him forget.

            “I’ve missed you, Cass.”

“Well, I haven’t missed you. I’m only here to deliver this for your mom,” I say, giving him the makeup.

He tosses the lipstick and eye shadow onto the antique hallway table and turns back to me. He doesn’t let my stony response bother him. “I’ve been waiting for you all summer. Are you finally visiting your grandparents?”

“My mom moved us here last week.”

He grins again, flashing his perfect white teeth. “Get in here.” He pushes the screen door open wider. “We’ve got rum cake, and Mamma made some iced tea this morning before she left for the Garden Club. I don’t even think she spiked it yet.”

I start to follow him inside because it’s a habit, but then I get a flash of his face after he kissed me, his expression trapped between horror and disgust, like he couldn’t believe he’d degraded himself.

“No thanks. I have to go running before I go to the school for the orientation.”

“I always liked that about you.  I wouldn’t mind if you ran by here in those cute little running shorts.” My hands tighten into fists when winks at me.

“Stop it,” I say. “No one winks in real life.”  I turn to leave, but he places his hand on my waist. My breath catches in my throat.

“Don’t go,” he says. “I thought we could spend the day together, relive old times.”

            “I don’t want to relive anything with you.”

“Don’t say that. I can explain.”

“No thanks,” I say.

“Please.” He sticks out his lower lip, trying to change my mind by pouting.

            “Not everyone is impressed by you,” I say.

            He chuckles. “Yes, they are.”

            “Not me. Not ever.”

He drops his hands from me and draws back. The light in his eyes dims like I’ve hurt his pretty little feelings. He lets me walk away this time, and I don’t look back once when he calls after me. If he couldn’t bother to send me a simple text message, a phone call, or even a smoke signal in over a year, then I didn’t mean to him what he meant to me.

I do a lot of cursing as I stomp through the woods to Black Creek Drive. I’ve called Blake everything vile thing I can think of by the time I reached Brittany’s house. I ring the doorbell and wait. A woman in her early forties answers the door. Brittany’s step-mom is plump and pleasant. Her red hair is half curled, and half hanging around her shoulders like I caught her mid-hairdo.

“May I help you?” she asks.

“I’m Cass Charon.” I hesitate, not sure if I should tell her who my mother is because she’ll instantly assume I see dead people, too. “I’m Judy’s daughter.”

She smiles a little too big and embraces me. “Oh, Cass! You’re all grown up. I haven’t seen you since your grandfather’s heart attack. How’s he doing?”

“Pretty well, considering.”

“That’s great news. What are you doing here?”

“We live in Ravines now.”

“You’ll be in Brittany’s class. She’ll be so excited!” she exclaims, like Brittany will be my best friend. “Come in. Come in. Brittany has been at a friend’s beach house for the last few days, but she’s coming home this morning.” I follow Mrs. Moore into the house and sit on the couch. The whole room is decorated in flowers, roses on the wall paper, paintings of sunflowers, drapes with daisies. Like my mother, Mrs. Moore has found a theme in her home decor and has run with it. “You’ll love Ravines High. Have you met any classmates?”

“I know Blake Harrington.”

“Oh.” She giggles and fans herself like she’s talking about a famous actor instead of the boy next door. “Such a nice boy. So charming. So handsome,” she says with her hand over her heart.

What is it with everyone? Is every female in Ravines secretly in love with Blake? Sure he’s good looking, but there’s so much more to life than that.

Mrs. Moore continues, “I knew Blake’s father, too. We went to high school together. Isaac Harrington was a sight to see.” She gets a dreamy look, similar to the one she had when she was talking about Blake a few moments ago. “Blake and Brittany are quite the item. They’ve been dating for almost a year and a half.”

Ah. Things make a little more sense now. I spent the entire summer with Blake and he didn’t once mentioned Brittany. No wonder he never called me after we kissed. It might have pissed off his girlfriend.

“Did I hear the doorbell, Emmy?” a thin, dark haired, balding man asks. He dressed like most men his age, tan pants, a Polo shirt, and loafers.

“Honey, you remember Cass Charon, Judy’s daughter. She’s come to see Brittany.”

“Oh, how nice,” Mr. Moore says. “She sent me a text last night saying she’d be home around ten.” He checks his watch. “She’ll be here any minute. Can we get you something to drink while you wait for her?”

“Thank you, but I’m fine. I don’t need to see Brittany. I’ll just leave this with you.” I hold up the purse. I don’t need to meet the girl who Blake really likes.

“What’s that?” Mr. Moore asks.

“Brittany’s purse.” I place the pink bag on the coffee table. “I found it in the woods.”

“I’ve never seen it before,” Mrs. Moore said. “Did you find her wallet inside?”

“No.”  

“Then why do you think it’s hers?” Mr. Moore asks.

I pull out the gold necklace and hand it to him. “Because of this.”

He studies it for a moment before shrugging. “I don’t recognize this either. The necklace and purse could belong to anyone named Brittany,” he says.

“But I found it in a drainage ditch, just a few houses down from here.”

“Black Creek floods all the time, and every time it all kinds of things get redeposited.”

“Sorry to bother you, then,” I say.

“Don’t be sorry,” Mrs. Moore says, laying her hand on my shoulder. “It was a kind gesture, trying to return something lost.”  

“Well, nice to meet you,” I say as I turn toward the exit, wanting to leave. I don’t make it out of the house, thought. A large framed photo over the fireplace catches my attention as I inch toward the door. I suck in a shocked breath when I realize that I’m looking at the girl from my dreams. And the ghost I saw on the woods on the way over here. I look from the picture and then back to Mr. and Mrs. Moore.

“Crap,” I say, not meaning to speak out loud.

“What is it?” Mr. Moore asks.

“I’m sorry to be the one who tells you this, but Brittany isn’t coming home. She’s dead,” I say.

The Gift of Death

I'm trying to find my creative center again. I'm also trying to regain my sanity, but that's going to take a while so I'm focusing on writing right now. I've got almost a month until I start teaching Summer School and I have plenty of time on my hands. I don't have the brain capacity to write something new, so I'm rewriting a book that I wrote while in a class at BYU about eight years ago. Back then, I thought the story was pretty good, but now, after almost a decade, I realize the writing itself is pretty crappy. It was the first full length thing I'd ever written, and I think it can be much improved.

I thought it would be fun to post the progression and progress of the book on the blog. All the other entries are so depressing as of late. Things could use a little cheering up, and maybe it'll get me out of the doldrums, too. So, here you go. I very, very, very rough first draft, riddled with typos and mistakes, of a rewritten book. I heart this story because it includes most of my family as main characters. My sister, mom, niece, and granddaddy are in it. It's about ghosts. I believe in ghosts as much as a fat kid believes in cake. I've seen ghosts, I've heard them, and I've felt them. You might think that makes me weird, but I also believe in Big Foot, aliens, and true love. This book is also about the apocalypse, reapers, and a little magic--all things I love. The main character, Cass, is a necromancer who just wants to be normal, but whose gift will ultimately save the land of the living.

Hope you like. I enjoyed rewriting it.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

I sense my life, slipping away, a tinny taste of blood in my mouth. I close my eyes and listen to the waves as they crash against the building that hides the room that will be my final resting place. I can hear my heartbeat, echoing in my chest, slowing down to almost stillness. Metal digs into my wrists as I yank at the cuffs shackling me to the wall, but there is no miracle to save me, no mercy, and no comfort for me in the end.

            My vision blurs as I try to take in my surroundings, but I can’t focus. Soon I’ll bleed out, and my body will be nothing but bones and skin, void of a soul. Life doesn’t replay itself or flash before my eyes. Death is my gift.

The wall to my left splits open, revealing an entryway to the Afterworld. The rotting stench of torment and the wretched moans of pain pour out. If my hands were free, I would protect my ears from the piercing sound. The wailing stops and I hear the echo of boots clomping toward me. There is only one being that can walk between the worlds of the living and the dead.

The Reaper has come for me.

As he nears me, the chill in the room evaporates, a welcoming warmth like moving into sunlight. I turn my head, wanting to face him, but the bright void behind him obscureness his features. He is nothing more than a tall, black silhouette, when he reaches out for me I feel the rough callouses on his fingertips. He is solid and real, everything I’ve wanted.

The chains holding me against the wall fall away, and I take his hand. The world halts. My heart slows, and then my pulse quiets to nothing, stopping for all time.   

My fingers tighten around the Reaper’s hand, and I step into the bleakness with him, never looking back.

 

            I come out of the dream, gasping for air, like I’m rising from the grave. Trying to bring myself back to life, I press my fingertips into my eyelids until all I can see is floating dark spots when I open my eyes. I’ve had vivid dreams before, but nothing like this. I didn’t just see the dead girl. It’s like I was her. She will soon appear to me soon because I’m a necromancer.

I have dealt with the dead my whole life, but before now, they have never gotten into my subconscious.  I can summon and control spirits. Yes, I do use a little magic to raise the dead, but that’s where I draw the line. I am not a witch.

Not wanting to dwell on the disaster that is my life, I pull the covers over my head and close my eyes. I’m almost asleep again, when I hear a gruff, accented masculine voice say, “Cassandra.” No one but the dead call me by my full name.

I must have been hallucinating because the dead aren’t allowed in the house. There is a buried salt line around the entire property, keeping out any evil thing, dead or otherwise. I hear movement next to my window, a rustling of curtains, and he speaks again.

“Cassandra, I have waited lifetimes for you. You will be mine soon.”

Being a necromancer, I’m not scared of much, especially disembodied voices, but the idea of a ghost getting into my room and implying he want me as his undead girlfriend freaks me out.

“No thanks,” I say. “I have a boyfriend.”

He chuckles, the sound reminds me of hot gravel shifting beneath my feet.

I take a deep breath, kick off the covers, and toss the pillow to the floor. Once I’m on my feet, I grab my ghost-killing iron knife from the nightstand, ready to kill whatever has gotten into my room, but I swipe at nothing.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. All I have on is a t-shirt and underwear, my wavy blond hair is frizzed out, and my green eyes are wild. I look every bit as crazy as the population of Ravines, Florida thinks I am.

I groan at the insanity that is my reality, smooth my hair into a ponytail, pull on a pair of jean shorts, and strap my knife around my waist, positioning the leather case against the small of my back. I never know when I’ll be attached by something dead. One of the many perks of necromancy.  

I walk down the plum colored carpet in the upstairs hallway and roll my eyes at my mother. Somehow my sister and I convinced Mom to not deck the entire house in her favorite color, but everything seems to have a little purple in it.

The whole kitchen is covered in eggplant wallpaper, curtains, pot holders, and even little eggplant salt shakers. I don’t think Mom has ever eaten an eggplant, but that didn’t stop her from using it as theme.

Mom’s auburn hair is curled into a short bob, and her makeup, as always, is flawless. She is dressed in a violet nightgown and matching slippers. We’re both a little shorter than average, and athletic but still curvy. We look a lot alike, except for our hair color. Dad might not have left me with much, but he at least graced me with his dark blond hair. 

“Happy Birthday!” Mom shouts when she spots me.

Did I mention today is my eighteenth birthday? And I’m not even having a party because no one would come. After a decade of living in Miami, we moved back to Ravines. The only person I know in this town is Blake Harrington because Mom used make me visit my grandparents every summer and he lived next door.  I let out a deep sigh and sit down at the table. I refuse to think about Blake.

I say good morning to my two year old niece, Anna, as she giggles and grinds chocolate into her shiny black hair. Then I turn to deal with my mom. “We’re not talking about my birthday,” I say.

“Oh, don’t be such a party pooper.” She sets a plateful of donuts in front of me.

“It’s my birthday, so I can poop on whatever I want. What’s this?” I ask. The table is filled with smashed brownies, stale cookies, and box of random pastries.

            “Breakfast.” Mom passes her hand over the table, like a middle-aged game show model. “I went to the grocery store to pick up salad, but then I walked by the discount bakery rack. . .”

            “All of this is too fattening.”

I push the donuts away, but not before inhaling their scent. My mouth waters because I want to eat everything on the table. Thanks to good genes and running, I have a fast metabolism, but three or four desserts a week are all I can get away with. Moving, starting a new school, and having no one to talk to has been stressful. To combat depression, I consumed half a dozen cookies yesterday. I can’t eat the donuts, too. I have to draw a line somewhere, don’t I?

“It’s your birthday, so calories don’t count,” Mom says. The rationalization of a

dessert addict. “Besides, donuts are breakfast, not dessert.”

She sits across from me, gives Anna a Sippy cup of milk, and takes a donut for herself. Biting into it, she sighs like a smoker taking the first puff of nicotine into her lungs. Mom is a smoker, but she thinks it’s a secret. She hides a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in the pocket of a purple raincoat in the closet.

            The thought of her hidden cigarette, reminds me of my dream and the scent of fire, the comfort the Reaper brought, and the dead girl accepting death. I should tell Mom about it and the feeling that someone was in the room with me, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I might be horrible at being normal, but I’m excellent at avoidance.

After I continue to ignore the donuts, Mom pours me a mug of bayberry tea, and I try not to gag. We never run out of bayberry tea. It’s like drinking watered down potpourri, but the herbs ward against ghosts and the harm they can inflict. It also makes us stronger and heal much faster than ordinary humans.

Mom cleans up Anna and removes her from her highchair. With Anna on her hip, Mom spins in circles while my niece giggles. I roll my eyes at her as I leaf through our The Grimoire of the Dead that sits on our kitchen table.

The leather blinding of the book is cracked and the yellowed pages hold every Freeing Mom and every necromancer before her has performed. There are also sketches of the tales of the Afterworld that have been passed down. Most kids got fairytales at bedtime, but I got stories of devils and demons.

I stop turning the pages when I reach the section about the Marked necromancer and her fight to save the world. “Do we really have to do this stupid ritual tonight?” I ask.

On the night of our eighteenth birthday, when our powers come into their full strength, we perform a ceremony to see if we’re Marked to fight Abaddon. The Marked girl is the only person in existence who is strong enough to defeat him. Hundreds of girls have been tested, and none of them were Marked. It’s a pretty safe bet that I’ll be cleared at midnight, too.

“Yes. It’s a tradition.” Mom starts to say something else to me, but is cut off by the phone. “This is Judy, Purple Lady of the Year! What can I do for you?” she asks.

Since my parents divorced fifteen years ago, Mom has supported us by hawking cheap cosmetics door-to-door. Because of her love of purple and her charisma, she rose to the top of the tacky purple ladder. Much to her shame, I don’t wear makeup because I spent my youth as her unwilling makeup model.

We also use Purple Lady Cosmetics Company is our cover because no one likes to admit they believe in ghosts. It’s a lot easier for someone to come to you, saying they need a facial exfoliator, but really need to exorcise a demon living in their attic.

            “Alluringly Autumn eye shadow and Raunchy Red lipstick? I have both in stock,” Mom says. “I’ll have Cass bring it over. Don’t forget the party tonight. Wear something purple and get a ten percent discount! See you then, Georgia.” Mom hangs up the phone, and then goes over to her trunk full of cosmetics and digs some of it out. “Here’s the eye shadow and lipstick Mrs. Harrington ordered. And she said she’s sure Blake would like to see you,” Mom adds. “In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t been over to see him yet. I always liked Blake. Such a nice boy. So handsome.” Mom sighs likes she’s taking another bite of a donut.

Every woman, no matter her age, has a little crush on Blake Harrington. He says they can’t help it. Unfortunately, he’s right. He’s charming and so good looking that it makes you want to slap the handsome right off of his face.

“Don’t try to deny it. I know you like him,” Mom says. “He was the first one to call you Cass, and ever since then, you’ve never let me or anyone use your full name.”

Despite myself, I smile again at the memory. We were thirteen. I was all braces and acne, but when Blake called me Cass, I felt beautiful for the first time in my life.

I shove the makeup into my messenger bag and leave through the sliding glass door. I don’t say goodbye, but I do grab a donut on the way out. Though the heat is heavy with moisture, I breathe in the thick air, happy to be out of the house and away from my mother. I take a palmetto-flanked path that leads through the woods to Blake’s, and just as I hop the small ditch dividing our properties, I see a small pink purse in the shallow water.

I swat a mosquito away from my face as I reach down for the bag. I search its contents, and only find an empty wallet, a melted lipstick, a slimy piece of paper that once had words written on it, but now has only blotches of bleeding blue ink.

Seeing no use in returning a trashed purse to persons unknown, I start to toss everything back into the ditch, but then I see something glinting in the dirty ditch water. I reach down and grab a necklace half buried beneath a layer of rotting debris. I pull up the mud-caked chain, and with my thumb, rub away the gunk to reveal the inscription of Brittany etched into the gold heart-shaped charm.

I’ve never met her, but I know a Brittany Moore lives a few houses down from Blake.

My hand necklace around the charm and a ghost appears.

 

Life Isn't Bliss. Life is Just This: It's Living.

In general, Spike really knew what he was talking about. He was a wise, old, psychopathic vampire. He had been alive long enough to know the truth of our existence. I'm sorry all my posts are so depressing, but this is where I am. I feel like a burden and a never ending sad story. I used to be a glass-half-full kind of girl. I was so optimistic that I'd find the silver lining if my house burned down. Now it seems like my cup has a hole in the bottom, because every time I pour in some Diet Coke, it's gone within seconds.

When you're young, life is an endless possibility. You are a superhero, a doctor, or a mermaid. But when you're an adult, you realize you can't fly, you're horrible at science, and you can't grow gills. I used to think if I kept on believing and hoping that things would get better. I thought I'd be happy forever and get everything I ever wanted. Now I've learned that nothing is guaranteed, things don't get better, just different, and happiness comes and goes. Life continues on, a relentless pumping of your heart, even though it's broken. You go to work, take care of your children, and pay your bills. Then at night, when everyone else is asleep, you're alone, watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer until your Tylenol PM kicks in and gives you a few hours of restless sleep.

These days, it feels like reality is a barren wasteland, where my broken dreams are buried deep, suffocated by the arid soil. I never thought that hardest thing would be to just live in the world. But that's what bravery is, getting on with your life, even though you're terrified. I'm trying to fill in the darkness with light, but it feels like I'm a black hole of hopelessness. I'll keep looking heavenwards because it's the only thing I know to do. It'll get better one day. It has to. And I guess that's my hope. It's still there, buried along with my dreams, but it's fighting its way to the surface. I haven't given up yet. I'm still going, still trying. They say your trials make you or break you. I'm trying not to break.