Free Dust to Dust by Melissa Walker Page B

felt my presence.
    â€œWhen I went on the ghost tour . . . And the radio station changed without me touching it . . .”
    I nod. “I was there. But that wasn’t the way I was supposed to haunt. Another ghost did that for me, changed the station, and Thatcher got really mad.”
    I think back to that night, to Leo interrupting Thatcher’s teaching and stealing my energy to connect with Carson. In that moment I thought Leo’s way was more fun and exciting. But I came to realize how wrong I was.
    The poltergeists lure people with their charm, but all of it wasjust an act to reel me in and then use me for what they’d never have again.
    A life force.
    â€œWait, why did Thatcher get mad?” asks Carson.
    â€œBecause there are Guides, and Thatcher’s one of them. They teach you about real haunting—the kind that helps people truly move on from someone’s death. It’s soul to soul; it isn’t physical.”
    Carson nods like she understands. “That night made me so sad,” she says. “I thought you were there, but maybe trapped in some dimension and trying to escape or something. I didn’t know what to do or how to help.”
    â€œThat’s just what Thatcher taught me—that kind of haunting can do more harm than good,” I say. “It doesn’t ease the Living; it makes them more anxious about your passing.”
    â€œThe Living.” Carson says it with a shiver. “But you were alive that whole time.”
    â€œI didn’t know. I thought I was dead.”
    Carson reaches out across the table and touches my hand. “You should talk more about this—think of how many grieving people you could help. You could tell them that their loved ones want them to be okay. You’ve seen how it works!”
    I pull my hand away quickly. “Don’t start this again. It’s private. I mean it. You have to promise me you’ll keep all this to yourself.”
    She looks down at the table, but I see her nod.
    â€œSeriously,” I say.
    â€œI promise. But I still think you should let people know what you saw.”
    â€œYour opinion is noted.” I shove a forkful of grits into my mouth.
    Carson looks back up at me. “The stuff about the haunting to help people move on is really beautiful. It makes perfect sense to me.”
    I nod as I chew, wanting to change the subject, now that she’s pressed me more about making my story public.
    â€œYour mom did that,” she says.
    I look up at her sharply.
    â€œShe haunted me,” says Carson, not backing down.
    Carson always told me how my mother would come see her when we were little, after she died. She said she felt Mama’s presence, that Mama wanted me to know that she was okay. But we were little girls, just six years old, and no one would listen to Carson. Not even me.
    Maybe deep down I believed her, but I was jealous. I guess I still am.
    â€œWhy didn’t my mom haunt me that way?” I ask her.
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe she tried but you weren’t open to it so she had to have me give you the message.”
    Carson says this gently, sweetly.
    I take another bite of breakfast, and Carson asks, “So what kind of powers do you have now?”
    I nearly spit out my eggs. “Powers?”
    â€œYeah, like can you still move things without touching them? Are you still . . . telekinetically inclined?”
    I roll my eyes. “No,” I say. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œYou haven’t tried ?” Carson shrieks in disbelief.
    Her mom comes over to bring us more warm butter and we quiet down for a minute until she walks back to the kitchen.
    â€œGo on, make that butter tray move,” whispers Carson.
    â€œThat isn’t how things work.” I realize that I sound like Thatcher responding to me when I wanted him to teach me energy tricks in the Prism. How ironic is that? “Besides,