Free The Haunting of Sunshine Girl by Paige McKenzie Page A

I’ve never been good with blood. When I was six and lost my first tooth while biting into an apple, my mouth filled with blood and I actually fainted. Mom loves telling people that story. A nurse’s daughter, scared of the sight of a little blood, she’d laugh.
    Apparently I’m not so good with rust either. Did I really sleep like this?
    Slowly, clutching my coffee mug to keep warm, I walk up the stairs, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. I have to walk past the bathroom to get to my room, and Mom has left the door open, the lights on. I want to walk right past it without looking in, but I can’t help myself; before I know what I’m doing I’ve turned my head and looked inside. I brace myself for rusty brown stains on the floor, the broken mirror, the scratches on the tile.
    But what I see is even scarier. “Mom!” I shout, my voice is so loud that it startles me.
    â€œWhat?” she shouts back, running up the stairs. “Are you okay?”
    I shake my head. “Of course I’m not okay,” I answer. My hands are shaking so hard that coffee is splattering out the sides of my cup. She takes it from me, then looks me over like she’s trying to find a cut or a broken bone, trying to figure out what could have made me shout for her the way I did.
    â€œYou’re spilling this everywhere.”
    â€œDid you . . . did you clean it all up?” I ask, but then I shake my head. She could have wiped up the water, but you can’tscrub away scratch marks. You can’t replace a broken mirror at seven in the morning. Beneath my feet the carpet that was damp just a few hours ago is dry. The scent of mildew hangs in the air, but then again, this house always smells damp.
    â€œI’m going to try to, but seriously, Sunshine, coffee leaves a stain. It’s a good thing this carpet is tan . . .”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œYou splashed coffee all over the carpet,” Mom says, pointing to the floor just outside the bathroom door. I haven’t actually stepped inside yet.
    I shake my head. “No, I mean . . . how did the bathroom get like this?”
    She sighs. “Get like what? Listen, honey, I know I said I could give you a ride to school, but you really have to get going or else I’ll be late. The way you shouted—my gosh, I thought you must have been dying or something. Don’t scare me like that.”
    â€œNo,” I say slowly. “I’m not the one who was dying.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? Is the dog hurt?”
    My skin prickles, making me want to scratch myself. “What are you talking about?” Mom doesn’t answer. Instead, she crouches down and starts blotting the fresh stains on the carpet with a paper towel. A cold chill makes goose bumps blossom on my arms and legs. “What do you remember about last night?”
    Without looking up at me, she answers, “We had roast chicken and mashed potatoes with too many lumps in them. We made ice cream sundaes, and you spilled chocolate syrup on your shirt, and we fell asleep on the couch watching The Tonight Show, and now I’ve woken up with a crick in my neck so bad that I think I might have to find a chiropractor.”
    I take a step backward, away from the bathroom, away from her.
    â€œThat’s all you remember?” I ask, my voice shaking. “Nothing else? Nothing at all?”
    â€œIs there something you think I’m forgetting?”
    Yes.
    A scream so bloodcurdling I can still hear it echoing in my ears.
    A little girl’s voice begging for mercy.
    A darkness so black, it felt like I’d never see the sun again.
    Mom stops blotting, sits on her heels, and looks up at me. “Did you have another bad dream or something?”
    Did I have a bad dream? No. It was real. I have the ruined shirt to prove it. But she says the stain on my shirt is chocolate syrup. One of us is going