Free I Spy Dead People by Jennifer Fischetto Page A

to my room, and a door slams downstairs. The floorboards beneath my feet vibrate. I flinch and stare at my phone on my comforter. I need to grab it and call 911, but what if it's just the wind? I couldn't face Troy if I called the cops because Mother Nature shut a door. Not after his being cool with my playing sleuth. He'll think I can't handle it.
    With my stomach practically in my throat, I walk down the stairs sideways, my back pressed against the wall so I can watch in front and behind me at the same time. Well, not the exact same time, obviously, but a quick glance in each direction tells me I'm alone. I may be overly paranoid, I may have watched way too many crime dramas and horror movies, but at least I won't be caught off guard by some heinous villain.
    At the bottom, I peek around the staircase, down the hall. Dad's office door is shut, but it can't make that sound anyway. The coat closet and garage-slash-basement door are shut too. It doesn't mean they weren't open a minute ago though. I edge forward and open the closet with a wide jerk. Nothing but Dad's and my jackets and a couple of umbrellas. No coats or boots. It's been a few years since we've lived up North, so when the cold comes we'll have to go shopping.
    I grab the garage doorknob and turn it. I walk down one step. The empty garage is another step straight ahead, and to my left is the dark flight down to the basement. I reach out to flip the light switch and hesitate. Why bother? I'm not going down there. Never go into a basement or attic. That's the number one rule in horror films. Along with no running through the woods in high heels, and the first people to die are either black or having pre-marital sex. I don't plan on doing the first or last, and the middle one I can't control.
    I turn around, slam the door shut, and head to the kitchen. The light above the stove is on, and I stare at the orange, triangular glow on the floor. Once I'm standing in it, I notice one of the table chairs overturned. Maybe that was the first crash? Great, but how'd it happen, and what about the door?
    The car alarm still beeps, but at least it's quieter back here.
    A cold chill starts at my head and dances around me to my feet. I shiver and glance up at the vent in the wall. There's one beside the doorframe and another at the baseboard by the table. Even if something's blowing though, it would be the heat, and it's definitely getting colder in here.
    Something behind me rattles. I twirl around but don't see anything. I take a couple of steps, stand in the doorframe and spot movement from the corner of my eye. It's Dad's office door. It's sliding open at turtle speed.
    I have to be seeing things. This is insane. And even crazier is that I haven't bolted out the door and into the road yet. As freaked out as I am though, part of my brain is screaming that there's a logical explanation. And that's why I take a few more tentative steps, until I'm in front of Dad's door. I peek in, but no one is on the other side. How is it doing that on its own? More importantly, what the hell is wrong with this house?
    The cold from the kitchen gushes down the hall, straight at me. It blows my hair off my shoulders, takes a right, and passes me into the office. It rustles the papers on Dad's desk, growing stronger and stronger until the curtains blow and a whirlwind circles the room. Papers fly, and something from Dad's bulletin board pulls free and circles, mid-air, like water circling a drain.
    I step inside and stretch out my arm until my hand is inside the windstorm. My fingers become instantly cold, as if holding an ice cube. I pull back and rub my knuckles.
    Suddenly the wind stops, and the paper falls. It's the photograph of Cameron McDougal.
    My heart thumps so loud it competes with the car alarm. I don't believe in the supernatural. It's fantasy and illogical, but it's also the first thought that enters my mind. Is Cameron's spirit here trying to tell me something?
    The floorboards