Free Ghost Hand by Ripley Patton Page A

hadn’t stopped my dad from making a trapdoor into the underporch from the back yard, with a wink in my direction and an explanation to my mom that it was for “maintenance purposes.” The trap-door was barely noticeable from the exterior of the house, unless you knew what to look for. The CAMFers would not be guarding it.
    Another groan and crash shook the ceiling over my head. The burning house seemed to be thinking of collapsing straight into the basement, and I really didn’t want to be there when it did.
    I hurried to the right window on the farthest wall and tried to pull it open. It didn’t budge. The wooden frame felt damp against my fingers. Probably swollen shut by moisture. If the other was jammed, I’d be trapped, buried alive under a burning house. Don’t think about it. Solve the problem. Get yourself out.
    Somewhere up above me, in the far-off land of Greenfield, sirens finally began wailing. The cavalry was coming, but I couldn’t wait for them. The house was burning down around my ears.
    I abandoned the right window and crossed to the other one. It felt dry, and though it didn’t open easily, I could feel it give when I pulled. I pulled harder and was rewarded when the window suddenly swung upwards. It had a hook that fit an eyelet in the ceiling so the window could be secured open. I hooked the window, but the opening was too high for me to just crawl through. I shoved a couple boxes in place and stepped up on them.
    Shit! There was no way I was going to fit through the narrow window with my backpack on. I yanked off the poncho and the backpack and pitched them both into the dark ahead of me. Then, I wiggled my way through the window headfirst, my cleavage bulldozing a pile of dust in front of me. When I had pulled my legs and feet through, I sat up and looked around.
    There was the trapdoor, outlined by a lighter square of cracks. It was big enough. I could get through with the backpack and poncho, so I put them back on, careful not to make too much noise. I crawled over to the trap door and laid an eye against one of its cracks. I couldn’t see much, just a strip of grass and the dark backdrop of the woods behind the house, a strange orange glow flickering at the tops of the trees—the reflection of my house burning down above me. I tried looking through several more cracks with similar results. I couldn’t see anyone out there waiting for me. I couldn’t hear anyone either, because the sirens were getting close now, blocking out all the more subtle sounds with their wailing urgency. My backpack was silent and still against my back. When had the blades stopped buzzing? I had no idea. It could mean the CAMFers were gone. Or it could just mean they had turned off their meters. Should I make a run for it, or hide under the porch until the firemen arrived?
    The fire decided for me as the peaceful, cool underworld of the basement caved in with a deafening roar. Smoke and dust, and house shrapnel exploded through both the windows leading into the underporch, scouring me like an apocalyptic wind. I was thrown against the trap door. It burst open, and I tumbled out onto the grass.
    The sirens were at the front of the house. The stars swam above me in their dark lake. I lay panting and hurting, curled in a fetal position as my house crackled and hissed into the night. My mother’s poncho was bunched up around my neck. Eventually, I sat up and pulled it down over my chest and lap. Why was my face wet? There was a medium-sized piece of glass embedded in my thigh. I pulled it out and held it in my ghost hand, watching my PSS shine through it.
    Men’s voices called to one another. I knew I should get up and go to the firemen, but I just didn’t have the will or the energy. The heat of the burning house was so intense though, that I did crawl away and lean against my father’s old art studio. At least his art was safe. Except for The Other Olivia . She’d be gone forever. But all the rest of it had been