Free A Strange There After by Missy Fleming Page B

attention wandered to the shards of glass
littering the countertop and the floor. I did it. It made me happy
to finally be able to manipulate objects, but the way it happened
scared me. I didn’t like tapping into my desire to harm others. I
wasn’t a violent person, and I sure didn’t want to start being one
now. If giving into sinister urges allowed me to interact with the
living, then I wasn’t interested. I’d find another way. One that
didn’t frighten me.
    Tearing my gaze from the broken glass, I
wandered out of the kitchen in the opposite direction as Catherine.
My previous task was not forgotten. I needed to find George. Maybe
someone in this house would have the decency to give me the
truth.
     

 
    Chapter
Nine
     
    It surprised me to find my ability for
sensing ghosts crossed over to the other side with me. The familiar
ones, like George and Jackson, stood out. I tracked their energy
easily, a bloodhound with a scent.
    My super senses led me to the laundry room,
with its high priced appliances and organizational bins. The space
never used to spook me. I enjoyed my quiet time in here, doing
laundry away from the step-monsters, but these days, I tended to be
a glass half empty kind of gal. I kept expecting the freaky faced
woman to leap out of the shadows or from every corner I turned.
    I heard voices before I even entered.
    Jackson knelt before the tiny space between
the dryer and the wall, trying to coax a terrified George from the
space. When he heard me, Jackson glanced over his shoulder.
    “Maybe you’ll have better luck.” He moved out
of the way, and I took his place.
    “What’s wrong with him?”
    “No idea. I found him in here talking to no
one.”
    George had wedged himself into a gap barely a
foot wide. I peered in at the terrified little boy. His wide eyes
tracked my every movement, but he didn’t come over to me like
usual. I crouched down and tried to lure him out.
    “George, it’s me, Quinn. Come on, sweetie,
I’m not going to hurt you.” He didn’t budge, only stared at me with
suspicion. I tried again, “George, please. Jackson and I are
lonely.”
    It worked. The boy inched forward, and I was
able to take his hand. Slowly, I managed to maneuver him into the
center of the room, and his little shoulders relaxed. I drew him
over to a shaft of sunlight streaming in the narrow window. Neither
of us would be able feel the warmth, but it was the bright,
comforting light I desired. Jackson remained near, leaning against
the countertop, arms folded over his chest. He offered me an
encouraging smile.
    The second I sat, the entire atmosphere
darkened, a sensation I remembered from my ghost hunting days. It
was a feeling of not being alone, an oppressive air pushing from
all sides. I kept the open door at my back, wary of shadows. Just
because I couldn’t see the threat didn’t mean it wasn’t there. No
wonder the poor child trembled continuously.
    I kept a hold of his hand. “Are you okay?” He
nodded quickly. “What’s wrong, George. You can trust me,” I
soothed. “Is something here?”
    He trembled harder, his entire body jerking.
Nice, Quinn, scaring him won’t get you information. Instead of
demanding once more to know what frightened him or checking to see
if Jackson noticed it too, I moved past it, hoping to find out more
about his childhood.
    “Where were you born?”
    His gaze searched mine, the deep pools of his
irises full of gut-wrenching grief and weariness. It always killed
me to hear of children trapped in this world after they died. They
deserved to be someplace they were loved, not left to wander a
house full of strangers. I’d heard EVP of kids asking where their
mama went and doing anything to been seen. It broke my heart, more
so after experiencing how hard it was to attract attention and the
aching frustration when it didn’t work.
    Eventually, he answered. “Right here, Miss
Quinn, only two months after they finished settin’ up house.”
    “And your