I arrived back at home to find out my sister was there and in her bed. It turned out she might have the dreaded, infamous swine flu and was spending the next few days or so away from school.
“Don’t go visiting her,” my mom warned me, as she stirred a pot of chicken soup. “If you are sick already you’ll only get worse, even if you have a face mask on.”
“Mom, I’m not that sick.”
She eyed me. “You are something considering you’re here and not at work. I can tell that much. Now go lie down.”
I obeyed and headed to my room. I had planned to tell her that I was sent home because of physical sickness instead of the truth. Anything that had to do with me and mental illness always brought out the worst in my parents, especially my mother. If I had told her that Frida sent me home because of concerns about my mental state… oh boy.
As I walked down the hallway past Ada’s room, I heard a muffled cry from behind her door.
“Perry, is that you? I heard your bike.”
I stopped and stared at the door, not daring to come any closer lest the influenza be waiting on the other side of it.
“Yeah, it’s me. Work sent me home because I’m sick.”
“Do you have swine flu too?”
“No. I don’t have any flu. They just think I’m sick.”
Silence. I started to walk away.
“Perry, can you come in here, please?”
“No. Why?”
“I need you to do me a favor. Please?”
I sighed and edged closer to the door. “I can do you a favor but I’m not going in there. You’re swine flu ground zero.”
A loud, painful sigh followed and then, “OK. Um. You see...it may sound funny, but...well...”
It was like pulling teeth. “What, Ada?”
“Can you write on my blog for the rest of the week?”
That was not what I was expecting. “Huh?”
“I have to do my blog posts but I’m too sick to get dressed or take pictures. Plus I look like shit.”
“Well, I look like shit too, so I can’t be much help.”
“It doesn’t matter, I just need you to write a few posts, even if you are just updating people on my situation.”
“Which is?”
“That I have swine flu! Goddamn it, Perry. Don’t you listen to a thing I fucking say?”
Though I had an admitted potty mouth, I still winced whenever my “sweet” young sister dropped the F-bomb.
“Sorry. Continue.”
Her voice came through, more muffled. I leaned in closer to hear her.
“I’ll give you my login information and everything. You can go onto your computer and do it all there.”
It sounded easy enough, but for the life of me, I had no idea what to write about. I told her so.
“Anything. It doesn’t have to be clothes-oriented. I would prefer if it wasn’t because Converse Chucks and leggings will never be the height of fashion.”
Buuuurn.
“And anyways,” she continued, “it doesn’t even matter. I just need the posts to be generated. If I don’t post every day, I lose readers. Even by not doing it this weekend I have already lost ten per cent, and if that continues, I’ll lose my advertising revenue.”
“Not to mention global domination,” I added.
“Yes!” She cried out excitedly then lapsed into a coughing fit. I grimaced and backed away from the door as a precaution.
“Exactly,” she squeaked out when she found her breath. “Please, Perry?”
“Sure, sure. It’ll give me something to do at any rate.” And hopefully would take my mind off of my problems.
Unfortunately, my own problems always had their slinky way of creeping back into things, like Spiderman’s symbiote.
As I sat there in front of my computer, staring blankly at the screen, I realized I had nothing to write about. Fashion was out of the question, as Ada apparently thought that would scare away her readers. Which I didn’t understand because leggings, studs, zippers, chains and a whole lot of black was so in right now (according to the other blogs I’ve read, anyway), not to mention how she is constantly borrowing my stuff, but I didn’t want to argue. It was her blog and livelihood, and I had to remember that in some ways this was a real job to her.
I considered writing a little blurb about my experiences as a failed stuntwoman, or maybe a bit about one of my favorite bands, Slayer. But I decided no one would give a damn about my times at the gun range, and speed metal wasn’t made for her audience.
Then it came to me. I knew exactly what to write about and how to do it.
I leaped off my chair and brought out my ailing camera. Luckily it worked well enough that I was able to transfer all of my pictures from the weekend, including the video.
I whipped open my film editing program, and for the next few hours I immersed myself into the filmmaking process.
Most of the video I shot was pretty low-grade. I mean, it was a digital SLR, not an actual video camera. The sound was scratchy and the light, though bright in real life, didn’t pick up much detail. But the experience was all there, and even when I faltered in trying to remember some details about that night (maybe I was trying to block them out, I don’t know), the video brought me right back to it.
And to Dex. Seeing his face on the grainy footage, hearing that deep, almost sneering voice of his, brought a wave of excitement over me. Where he came from, what he was doing there, where he went—these questions were just as intriguing as the other ones that surfaced.
Dex aside, the video was pretty damn creepy. The eeriest part was seeing movements and flickers in the shadows around me. Now, despite my interest in the paranormal, I never watched those ghost hunting shows on TV. Ironically, I am too chickenshit and my imagination is far too powerful. One show and I would be convinced I had a ghost in my house. But I knew enough that the only time you can really pick up ghosts on camera is when you see those little white “spirit orbs” and what have you.
Well, that’s exactly what it looked like in one of my shots. It was as I was heading up the stairs following Dex. A white...shadow...flew up the dark walls and around the corner, as if it was trying to race me up the stairs.
I shivered and immediately flicked on all the lights in my room. That part was definitely staying in the film.
You see, the only thing I had to talk about that was even remotely interesting was what happened to me at the lighthouse. And with the video to play alongside it and back up everything that I wrote, I knew that it could actually be a worthwhile addition to Ada’s blog. A bit offbeat but attention-grabbing nonetheless. Worst-case scenario, it had her readers coming back to see what would happen next.
I decided to break up my story into three different posts and schedule them so they would publish days apart. That way, by the time Ada felt better and was ready to blog again, my story would have been told with maximum impact.
That night I busily worked away on my story, relaying my nightmares in fervent prose and capturing the jittery atmosphere as I approached the lighthouse. I ended the film part right at the moment where I kicked open the window and disappeared into the building.
Despite feeling ill at ease as I remembered each instance of the lighthouse mission, I fell asleep that night with a smile on my face. I didn’t have any dreams.
CHAPTER SIX
I woke up the next morning to loud banging on the door. It sounded like something was going to break it down.
I moaned and rolled over. It was ten a.m. I had already woken up at seven-thirty to call my boss and see if it was all right for me to work today. I had felt a lot better than yesterday, maybe not full of pep and beans, but then I let it slip that my sister was at home with the swine flu. I guess the flu paranoia had a hold over everyone because the conversation went from “Yes, come in” to “No bloody way. Stay at home until you know for sure you don’t have swine flu.”
Well, I knew I didn’t have swine flu, but I can’t say I argued at all with her logic. Though it still didn’t reflect very well on me, this was their doing. Plus, I was lazy and the thought of Alana being stuck on the phones for an extra day made me cackle inside.
“What?” I yelled at the pounding door, my morning voice cracking. “Can’t I sleep in? I’m sick. Maybe.”
“Lemme in!” Ada yelled from outside.
“Don’t come in, you sicko!” I sat up. I didn’t actually want to contract this infamous flu.
“Perry, my blog, holy shit.”
Aww crap. The night before returned to me. She was pissed off that I took her fashion bible for jealous tweens and turned it into the Ghost Whisperer. Sure, I had Jennifer Love Hewitt’s rack but not the rest of her body post–“I’m a size two” slim down. I sighed and crawled out of my warm bed, quickly slipping on my house robe.
I walked over to the door and leaned against it. I could imagine her fiery expression behind the door.
“I’m sorry, Ada. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Open the door!” She pounded on it hard and my head felt the impact.
I supposed that because I probably ruined her career and her income, I deserved the swine flu.
I opened it and took a few steps back, covering my nose and mouth with the sleeve of my robe.
She stood before me looking wane and bony. Her eyes were flashing with brilliance (or anger), giving her the appearance of a mad woman with frazzled white hair, like Doc Brown’s granddaughter.
“You are a genius!” she exclaimed.
“Come again?”
She waltzed into my room and over to the computer.
“Um, please don’t touch anything,” I pleaded.
“Oh, whatever,” she scowled and proceeded to run her hands all over my desk. I wondered if I had enough sanitizer in my drawer to eradicate her. She flipped my laptop open and immediately opened her blog post. Or should I say, my blog post.
“Look!” She pointed at the screen.
I edged closer and looked over. It looked the same as it had last night. I shrugged at her.
“Have you seen the comments?” she asked incredulously.
“Ada, I just got up.”
She shook her head at my priorities and started scrolling down the screen to the comments section. She turned to look at me, utter shock and glee (and maybe a slight hint of admiration?) in her eyes.
“Two hundred comments!”
“Huh,” I mused. “That’s good, right?”
“Good? I’ve never gotten that many before. I mean sure, lots of people look at my blog and all that shizz, but two hundred? From your post? The most I’ve ever gotten was a hundred and sixty, and that’s only because I was giving away a Chanel scarf.”
“You gave away a Chanel scarf?”
“It doesn’t matter, Perry. Focus! This is insane. And all because you made up this crazy ghost story.”
I scoffed. “Made up? I didn’t make it up. That’s what happened on Saturday night when you were busy knocking boots with The Whiz.”
Her nostrils flared. If she was standing, her hands would have gone straight to her hips.
