Soon after Rachel turned eighteen, she got legal custody of Kate and me, and moved us to a shitty one-bedroom apartment in Buffalo. It sucked, but it was a major upgrade from foster care, so Rachel did everything she could to make it work. We all did.
For a time.
It’s been more than two decades since I saw the woman we once called Mom. I never consciously learned her scent, herlaugh, the color of her eyes. I don’t remember whether she was kind before she abandoned us, or cruel, or indifferent. I don’t know if she gave us birthday gifts or put Band-Aids on scraped knees or made us chicken noodle soup when we were sick, or sat around day-drinking with strange men and falling asleep with lit cigarettes dangling from her lips.
I have no idea who she was, who she became, who she wanted to be in her earliest dreams, before she had three daughters. Before she gave us up.
So don’t ask me how the fuck I recognize the woman hovering at my bedside as Mommy Dearest. I just do.
“Shit!” I bolt upright and crash to the floor, tangled in the sheets, certain I’m going to die. But Ghost Mom doesn’t make a move. Just keeps on staring, her glare even more judgy than Rachel’s.
Half-convinced I hallucinated her, I drag myself back into bed and flick on the nightstand lamp. The apparition is still there. Frowning now, as if I’ve somehow upset her.
“Well, you’re not saying anything!” I point out, emboldened by the light. “It’s rude!”
She opens her mouth—to speak? To unleash a flock of wild ravens to peck out my eyes? To projectile vomit, Exorcist-style?—but nothing comes out. Not even a creepy ghost-moan. Before I can figure out what to say next, she just—poof!—vanishes.
Figures. Even in death, my mother has perfected the art of the quick exit.
I’m about to turn the lamp off again when I catch sight of another flicker, and the ghost reappears.
But no, this one is different. Younger. Late teens, maybe twenty at most. Her hair is long and auburn-colored, like Rachel’s, spilling over an old-timey dress. The bottom half is black with char.
A chill slithers down my spine.
“You’re not my mother.” I’m not sure why this realization disappoints me. What would I even say to the woman who “quiet quit” motherhood and left us with this legacy?Sorry you kicked the bucket, thanks for the creepy Hell magic, now fuck off?They don’t exactly make a Hallmark card for it.
Ghost Girl shrugs, a gesture so human I almost forget she’s not. Then she trails out the door and down the stairs.
“Wait!” I cry out, but she doesn’t.
After Helena left, Rachel made us swear on our mother’s proverbial grave that we wouldn’t go into the basement tonight.
Well, call me a sinner, but that woman’s grave is the least sacred thing to me in the world right now, and I havezerointerest in sitting around waiting for the next otherworldly surprise. Rachel’s in total denial about witchcraft—swears Helena’s bat trick was just a clever illusion, never mind the fact that the magical murder house cleaned up after its own feast, unpacked all our bags into our respective childhood bedrooms, and lit scented candles in the bathrooms—and Kate’s busy playing the role of supportive middle sister. So that leaves me. Getter of answers. Disobeyer of orders.
Ignoring the prickle of goosebumps along my scalp, I wrench open the basement door beside the fridge, revealing a set of rickety wooden stairs that leads down into dank, musty darkness. At the very bottom, the faint glow of my young ghost companion flickers.
She folds her arms and glares. Impatiently. Like,well? Are you coming or not?
Okay. Let’s recap. Sentient, scone-making house? Check. Mystical bat-woman telling us we’re witches? Check. Demoniclegacy, dark magic, portal to Hell? Check, check, check. And now, a ghost from Ye Olden Days is beckoning me into the basement.
Right.
This is the part where a smart,rationalgirl says, “You know what? Let’s wait until morning. Bring a friend. A flashlight and a weapon at the very least. Oh, and leave a note! Always leave a note.”
Butthisgirl? This girl says, “Fuck it. Let’s go.”
The steps are rough and damp against my bare feet, the air thick with mildew and rot. Not of the decaying corpse variety, thankfully, but it’s definitely giving Mother Nature is Tired of Your Shit and Has Taken Over Management. I guess that explains why there’s lichen on the walls, and at least three different species of mushrooms sprouting from cracks in the cement floor.
I consider harvesting a few, but I’m severely out of my element here. Murder-house basement shrooms? Yeah. Something tells me these are not the edibles I’m looking for. I love a good hallucinogenic experience as much as the next girl, but I think I’ve had enough Alice-in-Wonderlanding tonight to last me… at least until tomorrow.
Ghost Girl has vanished again, so I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim and then try to find a light switch or chain. I’d even take a dungeon torch at this point, but no dice. Nothing but cobwebs and moss and probably other things I don’t really want to be touching.
“Hello?” I call out. Just like every girl in every slasher movie ever. At least I’m not wandering around in my underwear. That would be a bridge too far, even for me.
Plus, spiders.
Pulling my sweatshirt hood up to prevent any wayward arachnids from descending into my hair, I soldier on, tiptoeingacross the cold floor, eyes slowly adjusting. The space is cluttered with boxes and tote bins, garden crap, old glass jars. Typical basement stuff.
