Haunting Blue Read online

  Haunting

  Blue

  By

  R.J. Sullivan

  Damnation Books, LLC.

  P.O. Box 3931

  Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

  www.damnationbooks.com

  Haunting Blue

  by R.J. Sullivan

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-274-7

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-275-4

  Cover art by: Ash Arceneaux

  Edited by: Andrea Heacock-Reyes

  Copyright 2010 R.J. Sullivan

  Printed in the United States of America

  Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

  1st North American and UK Print Rights

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  “Haunting Blue offers action and adventure with supernatural elements. It reminded me of those boys' adventure books, but centered around a kick-ass heroine doing her own thing. R. J. Sullivan writes such compelling prose, the reader can't help but finish the story. ”

  —Adra Steia, author of Swamp Baby, Spirit-Mother, and Muse

  * * * *

  “... Sullivan has crafted a Midwestern Goth Paranormal with Haunting Blue. In this fast-moving story, he explores not only the horror of a murderous ghost, but also the more insidious terrors of small-town life, with its narrow-minded citizens and intolerance. Like Stephen King, Sullivan captures the way a homey setting can turn fearful. He has also created a remarkably appealing heroine. Blue is utterly believable; anyone who's ever felt like an outsider will appreciate and root for her. Sullivan portrays the vulnerability and defiance of adolescence with great skill.”

  —H.R. Knight, author of What Rough Beast

  * * * *

  “Wow! I enjoyed Haunting Blue immensely. R. J. Sullivan has an uncanny understanding of a teenage girl's mind. Haunting Blue offers brilliant characterization with the grounding realism so necessary for paranormal fiction.”

  —Carina Gonzalez, Former Editor: Realms of Fantasy magazine

  To Linda,

  who never doubted

  this would happen.

  Acknowledgements:

  What a long, strange trip it’s been! I have many friends, editors, and peer writers to thank: Debra Holland, Ash Roland, Kelly Mortimer, Charles Cafrelli, Mary Kay Woolsey, Cory Emberson and Mom and Dad. Their suggestions and input all helped to make this story stronger. Anything that still doesn’t work at this point is strictly my fault.

  Chapter One

  Perionne—Present Day

  These are the longest three hours of my life.

  I knew this would happen, and sure enough. Here I was, stuck in the car with Mom giving me the evil eye. Mother and daughter trapped together in our Range Rover for 180 intolerable minutes.

  In all fairness, it didn’t start out that way. While Mom made her client calls on the cell phone, I created a zone of rock music around myself. Just me, the iPod™, the earbuds, and the cooler-than-Aragorn lead singer taking me away, freeing my mind and spirit. I folded my knees against my body, crouching so no one driving past could see me.

  At 17 and already a high school junior, I still waited for the growth and boob fairies to visit me the way they had my classmates over three years ago.

  Most of the time, I hated being so small, but today I could shrink down into the seat and close my eyes, bobbing and rocking to the rhythm of the tunes.

  Mom punctured my “zone” with what she considered the height of mother-daughter diplomacy. “What is that crap you’re listening to?”

  I braced myself for the argument but tried to answer the question. “It’s Linkin Park, Mom.”

  “Like Abraham Lincoln?”

  “No, Linkin like…um…Linkin.” I spelled the name, trying not to roll my eyes. God, she is so out of touch.

  “Well, they’re louder than hell, Fiona. I can hear them right through your headphones.”

  I wanted to reply that I could hear her right through the earbuds, too, but I had promised myself I’d be on good behavior today.

  “Where’s the Britney disc I got you for your birthday?”

  Melted into a silver puddle in the trunk if I’m lucky. “It’s packed away. I just felt like a change of sound, Mommy Dearest.” Oops, better watch it. That came close to pushing her buttons.

  Too late. I could tell I’d already gotten to her.

  She took a deep breath, brushing the dark bangs from her eyes before continuing. Mom had let her normally short, business-friendly haircut grow long the last few weeks in favor of attending to the more important chores associated with moving her office.

  When Mom got angry—like now—the wrinkles around her mouth became more pronounced, and her dark blue eyes flashed—a predator-like warning I’d learned to recognize over the years.

  She spoke through gritted teeth. “I thought you liked Britney Spears.”

  “Well, yeah. Maybe a few years ago. She’s so yesterday.” Of course, Linkin Park also went back a few years, but the difference in quality made it unfair to compare.

  “When did you get into this loud crap? What happened to those nice singing bands like Boyz II Men and INXS?”

  I stifled a chuckle. She didn’t mean INXS, but it wasn’t worth correcting her. We had enough to fight about.

  Mom didn’t want to argue about music. She’d just set me up in order to blindside me. “This is Joey’s influence, isn’t it?”

  Actually, over half the discs I’d ripped into my iPod™ had come from Joey. Melissa Etheridge, U2, Tori Amos, Concrete Blonde, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Doors…a whole world of music I’d never experienced six months ago. “It’s not just Joey. This is what everyone listens to in Broad Ripple.” True enough. In Broad Ripple, everyone hung out at the coffeehouses, and most were college students. What did she think was gonna happen to my impressionable young mind?

  Mom’s nostrils flared. At times like this, the stress caused from years of balancing single motherhood with her skyrocketing career would shine right through the caked on make-up. I could almost feel sorry for her, but then she would blow it all by saying something obvious and dumb.

  No exception today. “Those people from the Caffé Espresso were too mature for you.”

  “Well, stop the presses and rewrite page one!” I rolled my eyes at the familiar complaint. Next would come a comment about my blue hair. I decided to forestall it. “You brought me to Broad Ripple, remember? You moved us to the biggest college hangout in Indy, and surprise. I end up making friends with the college students, and now you finally stop playing super-lawyer long enough to notice? Here’s a clue. When I take up bingo and shuffleboard, you can safely assume I’m hanging out with an even older crowd.”

  I reached into the pocket where I normally kept my trusty cell, intent on escaping into my own conversation or at least saying “hi” to Joey. My fist clasped on the hollow cloth pocket, and I couldn’t hide the disappointment from my face.

  Mom didn’t miss any of it. She saw the look, read my hurt, and attacked. “Oh, no. No cell phone calls. Your cell stays with me until I get every penny back from the overcharges last month. Four hundred dollars! Spent on a boy who lived just down the road! Don’t you have any sense of responsibility?”

  I folded my arms, feeling my face burn, and tried to shr
ink down into the seat. “Well, since I just quit my job, you might have to keep that phone for a while.”

  “I’m sure they have fast food restaurants in Perionne. You’ll figure something out.”

  We sped along I-69, stewing in an uncomfortable silence. I averted my eyes and looked out the window, watching the endless, flat farmland whisk by. The moving van followed.

  Mom started again, her forced, even tone revealing the hot temper percolating beneath the surface. “That’s not really fair, Fiona. Those hours I put in paid off. As the senior partner of Shaefer and Gerrold, I helped build the firm, and I’ve kept us living pretty damn good while I did it.”

  Now the whining started. I’d heard it all before, and I could easily tune it out. She rambled on, anyway. “The property opportunities are so much greater in Perionne than in Broad Ripple. Very powerful clients have requested my firm specifically.” She nodded once, convinced she’d made her point.

  My mother, the lawyer. Sounds like a bad TV sitcom. She handled acquisitions, bankruptcies, and property distribution. If her example indicated anything, she worked in a fast-moving, constantly changing environment.

  “Opportunities like this keep a nice roof over your head. They also keep you in the best schools in town.” She stopped defending herself and attacked. Sharpness entered her tone. “Even when you can’t keep your grades up.”

  So much for being on my best behavior. She wants the “Mom of the Year” award? I’ll burst this little bubble right now. “Mom, what time did I come home last night?”

  Her face flared red beneath her make-up and the car swerved. The silence that followed spoke volumes. She knew as well as I that she couldn’t answer. Not last night, not any night, six months back.

  I reached for my iPod™, thinking we’d finished the conversation, but Mom collected her composure and started in again. “I understand they have an amusement park in Perionne.”

  Apparently, the question about my comings and goings was too hot for her. She continued on like the previous five minutes had never happened. “You’ll probably have an easy time finding kids your own age there. I’ll admit I didn’t know that much about your ‘friend’ Joey, but I could see enough. Look at how much you’ve changed, just in the last month.”

  “That had nothing to do with Joey.” Now, it was my turn to flush. Every time she said the name “Joey”, heat would creep into my face.

  Mom didn’t approve of the denim jacket, the earrings, the bracelets, the half-tees, or anything else I chose for myself. She hit the roof when she saw the dye job. I didn’t explain the blue hair. Everyone in the Caffé Espresso wore some form of colored hair, streaks, spikes, highlights—especially the poets and writers I hung out with. They were comfortable expressing their individuality, and that’s how I wanted to be.

  Instead, I’m sitting here, trapped and squirming. That’ll teach me.

  I ruffled the pages of my paperback, To Kill a Mockingbird, wondering if I would have a chance to read any more of it. The novel sure had me pumped up for small town hospitality, yessirree.

  We continued North to a road laughably labeled “Highway 20.” We passed a sign informing us that Perionne lay 10 miles east of La Grange—helpful, I suppose, if you knew where or what La Grange was. We took the exit, and the road deteriorated into large chuckholes, sudden dips, and narrow shoulders, making the car rock maddeningly for those of us trying to read in the passenger seat. The signs insisted you could still travel 55 miles an hour. Through the trees, I could see a billboard advertisement of Perionne Park. The aerial photo looked like a traveling carnival with rickety, spin-and-barf fair rides.

  “This will be good for you,” Mom said. “Maybe you’ll realize how ridiculous you look, and you’ll dye your hair a more respectable color.”

  I knew she’d get around to the hair. “Thanks for the support, Mother.”

  “Oh, you think I’m being mean?” The lawyer façade dropped, and she scowled at me. “I should have made you cut it off. Shave it off and go to school bald.”

  “That’s child abuse, Mother.”

  “Are you telling me about the law, young lady?”

  Whoops. Wrong approach. “My friends liked me this way.”

  “You mean Joey liked it. Were you going to get a nose ring like his, too? That would look really attractive. Jesus, Fiona. I thought you had more brains than that.”

  I slipped lower into my seat, wishing I could somehow float up through the roof and out of the car.

  “You’re better off never seeing him again. One thing I’ve learned in life is that you have to make your own mistakes. So, go to school looking however you want.”

  I shrugged. Soon, Mom would settle into her new office, and I’d be left alone. I just had to endure another few days, but she’d brought up Joey—the one person I’d been trying desperately to forget. Those thoughts only dredged up the hurt, and I didn’t want to face the pain right now. It was too fresh. We’d only said goodbye last night.

  Sweet, crazy Joey. I’d let him pick the color of my hair. He had loved to run his fingers through the strands. We’d had a rocky relationship, but my heart hurt when I thought about breaking up with him. Every time I’d tried, I would feel a cold hollowness in my chest. Then, I’d put it off another day, and the pain would leave.

  Over time, I realized Joey was no good. The drinking, the smoking, the fits of self-abuse. He said nice things to me. He truly had a talent for poetry, and he was great in bed. Oh, yes. The first man I’d been devoted to. My head spun from the previous six months of passion. I wanted to be with him, forever. It killed me when I found out I couldn’t control the monster side of him.

  Especially after the incident last month.

  Then, Mom laid the news about the move on me, and the point was moot. In her own way, Mom had done me a favor. Not that she needed to know. Any of it.

  The pain returned, and this time, nothing I did would make it go away.

  I grabbed at my abandoned earbuds. My silver bracelets rattled. Between my earrings, the chains, and the buttons strewn across my denim jacket, I served as a walking advertisement for Claire’s. I liked the look. Still did. If I really wanted to, I could’ve ditched the buttons. Heck, I could’ve dyed my hair brown and been done with the whole thing. Let Mom think she’d won.

  No way.

  I’d keep the hair. If I was going to glow in the dark, I might as well jingle. Better to be damned for who I am. Either that, or shave my head and go dyke.

  I looked out across the expanse of highway and over the tops of the trees to a cluster of rust-colored tracks supported by a wooden framework. The roller coaster of Perionne Park appeared as a series of arcs dropping off and disappearing through a gathering of high-rising branches.

  Having nothing better to do, I stared at the towering structure, then had an uneasy feeling the coaster stared back, the arched structure bearing a closer resemblance to a lumpy sea creature than wood and steel. We approached, the highway leading us past the park, and a cold, chilling jolt of fear coursed down my spine.

  Panic overcame me, along with an urge to throw open the door, jump for it, and run like hell. My body tensed from the anxiety. Something wasn’t right about that place. What, I couldn’t tell.

  Even though I didn’t want to do anything that might get her attention, I risked a quick glance at my mother. She projected her usual, stylish confidence, showing no symptoms of the uneasiness overwhelming me.

  Uneasiness? More like sheer terror. I swiped a hand across my forehead and stared, dumbfounded at the cold wetness reflected on it. I craned my neck in the direction we’d come. I could still see the coaster, slipping away over the horizon. I took a deep breath.

  With a clear head, the ride looked neither impressive nor scary. Instead, I saw a dilapidated, old relic—outdated, rickety, and pathetic. A few hundred yards from the coaster, the top half of a Ferris wheel rotated above the trees, seats sun-bleached in pasty yellow and pink. That was the only other object vis
ible from the highway, completing the depressing picture. Cheap, small fun for cheap, small minds.

  Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

  Perionne, Indiana. A sign read, Population: 6,500. Soon, 6,502. Up ahead, I saw a small cluster of suburbia surrounding a town hall and a school building. Must be a 90-minute drive to anything remotely resembling decent shopping. Even Wal-Mart® had passed through without stopping. I swallowed back cold fear, telling myself it could all turn out okay if I stayed on my best behavior.

  For all the good it’d done me so far.

  Chapter Two

  My first day at Perionne High School was a disaster.

  The beginning of the end started in American Folklore, taught by a Mr. Haplin. Well, my schedule listed him as “Haplin”, but everyone called him “Hap”. Fine with me. I’m sure he imagined it endeared him to us and made him appear cool. He couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  I wanted to grab a seat in the last row, but a fat guy with dark hair and greasy, corkscrew curls already occupied the back. Like Jabba the Hut surrounded by three toadies, he lorded over his domain. The guy wore a sweat-spotted redneck T-shirt and a black denim jacket. He could barely squeeze his oppressive bulk into the chair attached to the desk. His dark, beady eyes bugged out of his piggy-face when he saw me. He scratched five-day stubble on his reddened cheek, daring me to invade their space.

  Hap entered the classroom, shutting the door behind him. Tall and lean, he towered over us. A huge bald spot circled his head as if he’d been freshly scalped. Perching on the edge of his desk, he looked and acted young—for a teacher, I mean. Perhaps in his early thirties, he spoke with a quiet hesitation, as though still new to the whole public-speaking thing.

  “Hi, kids,” he announced, sounding like Mr. Rogers. “Today we’re going to continue our discussion on Perionne folklore.” He glanced at a single sheet of paper before placing it behind him on his desk. “First, I want to introduce a new student joining us from Indianapolis. You’ve probably already noticed this colorful girl sitting toward the front. I’m sure you’ll want to introduce yourself.” He grabbed a loose sheet of paper and searched for my name.