Revived Spirits

• Copyright © by 2011 Julia Watts
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• About The Author
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  

Beanpole Books

P.O. Box 242

Midway, Florida 32343

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

First Edition

Editor: Katherine V. Forrest

Cover designer: Linda Callaghan

ISBN 13: 978-0-9831032-2-6

This trilogy would not have been possible without the sage advice of Katherine V. Forrest. It was a deep honor to have my little mysteries edited by one of the greatest mystery writers of all time. As always, I am grateful to Carol and Don and especially to Ian and Alec because I can’t imagine writing for kids without living with them. 

This book is dedicated to my mom and dad, June and
Rayford
Watts, who, like Miranda’s
family,
embody the very best parts of the spirit of Appalachia.

Julia Watts is the author of
Kindred Spirits
and
Free Spirits
, two other books about Miranda, Abigail, and Adam.  She has also written several other novels for young adults and “old” adults. A native of Southeastern Kentucky, she lives with her family and numerous cats in Knoxville, Tennessee, where she teaches writing.

“You’re really bad at this,” Adam says as I run smack into another glass panel.

“I know,” I say, laughing.

“You’d think a psychic would be able to find her way through a maze.” Adam takes my hand and leads me through a passageway.

“Well, I could if the person who designed it was here, and he just happened to be thinking about the maze so I could read his thoughts. But since that’s not happening, I’m out of luck.”

“It’s a good thing you can rely on my logic, then,” Adam says, a little arrogantly, in my opinion. “This is the way out.”

He’s so sure of himself I kind of hope he’s wrong, but he’s not. The passage he picks takes us out of the house of glass and back to the sights and smells of the carnival midway.

Wilder,
Kentucky,
isn’t big on excitement, so a traveling carnival stopping here is a big deal. Mom was iffy at first about letting me come, but she finally caved as long as Adam and I agreed to her conditions: we wouldn’t ride anything that looked dangerous, we wouldn’t eat anything that could give us food poisoning, and we would come here in the daytime instead of after dark.

Her last condition was the only one that bothered me. There are no lights brighter than the occasional streetlamp in Wilder, so missing out on all the carnival’s bright bulbs and neon seemed like a shame. Also, if we’d been able to go out at night, my friend Abigail could have come too.

But Mom had stood firm. “There’s stuff that goes on at carnivals at night that I don’t want you to be around,” she’d said.

“Hey,
wanna
go in the haunted house?” Adam points to the parked eighteen-wheeler painted with bats and vampires and frightened ladies in low-cut dresses, their necks dotted with fang marks. The words
Dracula’s Castle
are painted over the entrance. “Or should I say the haunted truck?”

“Dracula’s semi,” I say, laughing.

It’s strange—even though I know the
carnival’s
cheesy, to me it’s still exciting. But when I look at Adam’s thoughts, they’re all about how lame it is. Adam’s from Louisville, and he’s used to a lot more excitement than I am. His family moved to Wilder because his dad, Dr.
So
, got a job at the hospital here. The
Sos
are the only Asian family in town, so moving here was a big adjustment.

Even I have to admit that Dracula’s Castle is lame. Inside the truck it’s dark, and there are spooky sounds that are obviously coming from one of those CDs people buy to scare trick-or-treaters on Halloween. There’s a
grate
that sends up a loud rush of air when you step on it and a fake skeleton that looks like it was stolen years ago from a high school biology lab. And that’s it.

Since I live in a real haunted house, it makes sense that a fake one would seem cheesy. Technically speaking, though, only one room in my house is haunted: my room. Fortunately for me, the ghost who haunts it is Abigail, a girl from the 1800s who was close to my age when she died of scarlet fever. Until Adam moved to Wilder, Abigail was my
only friend.

Living in a haunted house—and liking it—is unusual,
but  Mom
, Granny, and I are unusual people. Like the women in our family who came before us, we have the Sight—the ability to see into the minds of others. Granny and Mom both use the Sight to help people. Granny dispenses herbs and potions and advice, and Mom is a social worker who can help even the clients who are unwilling to talk about their problems out loud. I try to use my Sight to help people too, but because of my age, I’m not as in control of it as Mom and Granny are. Sometimes, when I walk down the halls of Wilder Middle, my head buzzing with people’s thoughts like a hive full of bees, I just want all the information to stop.

Adam and I are laughing when we stumble out of the haunted house. “If that had been a pizza,” Adam says, “they would’ve had to charge for the extra cheese.”

“Speaking of which, I wouldn’t mind a snack,” I say. “You don’t think we could get food poisoning from a bag of popcorn, do you?”

“Nah.”
Adam gets down on his knee to tie one of his Converse high-tops. He may live in a small town, but he still dresses like a skateboarding city kid. “I figure the cotton candy’s probably safe too.
Well, as safe as anything that’s pure sugar can be.”

Looking toward the concession stand opposite Dracula’s Castle, I spot my mom. She’s cradling something fluffy and pink in one arm and eating a
Sno
-Cone. A man I’ve never seen before is talking to her, and she’s laughing, her lips red from
Sno
-Cone syrup. The man’s a little stocky and not much taller than she is, with glasses and salt-and-pepper hair and a beard that’s all salt. Mom had said something about meeting a friend at the carnival, but I didn’t think the friend would be a guy.

“Look,” I whisper to Adam. “That must be the friend Mom said she was meeting.”

Adam shrugs.
“Yeah?
So?”

“So it’s a guy.”

“I repeat, yeah?
So?
I’m a guy, and I’m your friend.”

“I know, but we’re kids. And I’ve never known Mom to hang out with guys.”

Mom spots us and waves. Come to think of it, she’s a little overdressed for the carnival in her favorite purple dress and dangly amethyst earrings. Once we’re closer, I see the pink thing she’s holding is a plush poodle. “Don’t tell your granny I had a
Sno
-Cone,” she says, blotting her extra-red lips with a paper napkin. “She’d never stop lecturing me about all the artificial colors and flavors.” She smiles over at her friend. “Oh, I’d like you to meet someone.” She says it like it’s an afterthought, but I know it’s not because inside her head she’s saying
please like him, please like him
. “This is Dave,” she says. “He teaches English at the community college over in Morgan. Dave, this is my daughter Miranda and her friend Adam.”

We say our pleased-to-meet-
yous
, and Dave says, “So Sarah tells me you’re starting eighth grade,” but it’s hard for me to make chit-chat because I’m hearing him thinking.
Her eyes are her mother’s, but the red hair must come from her dad
.

Finally Mom says, “Well, the last thing these two want is to be seen standing around talking to a couple of grownups. Why don’t you and Adam have some more fun,
then
meet me back here in half an hour?”

I’m afraid to look in Mom’s head to see what she’s really thinking: Is she really being sensitive about how kids our age find adults embarrassing, or is she just trying to ditch us so she can be alone with Dave? When I decide to find out, the only thought of hers I can read is
Miranda, please respect my privacy
.

On the way home, Mom and I don’t talk much. Adam fills in the silence by blabbing about the rides at Six Flags and how much cooler they are than rinky-dink carnival rides. After a while, he’s quiet, too. Since I know better than to
get into Mom’s head, I fall into his.
She’s upset
, he’s thinking about me.
Today’s definitely not the right time to tell her
.

Tell me what?

Ever since I was four years old, Abigail and I have had the same nighttime ritual. Shortly after dark, she scratches on the inside of my closet door, which is the passage she uses to get from her world to mine. And we visit.

When I was little, Abigail would sit on the floor with me, and we’d play with my dolls, dressing them up and having tea parties. Mom says she and Abigail used to do the same thing when Mom was little, back when Abigail was her ghostly companion. For some reason having a ghost friend during childhood is part of having the Sight. Mom, who grew up in this house, had Abigail, and Granny’s ghostly companion was a little Cherokee boy who taught her about herbs and remedies. The sad thing, though, is that once a girl in our family leaves childhood, once she gets old enough to give life herself, her ghost friend disappears forever.

I know my time is coming soon. The signs are there. Adam used to be taller than me, but now I’ve got a good four inches on him. Just a few months ago, wearing a camisole under my tops and dresses stopped being enough, and Mom had to take me to
Walmart
to buy a bra.
A tiny bra, but still.
Any day now my body could fall in with the lunar cycle, which means any night I see Abigail could be the last time ever.

I can’t bear the thought of losing her.