#Wattys2015 The Ghost of James Fitzpatrick

Chapter 11

In the bright morning light of Sunday, I sprawled atop my comforter on my back. My hair was damp from my shower and I let it fall over the edge of the bed, where it brushed along the colorful tufts of my throw rug. I was comfortable in my jeans and my dad's old sweatshirt, and my thoughts walked down new and different paths this morning.

I thought about the families that went before us here in this house, our house, in particular James', and I thought about my family, and how boring, and lucky and happy we had always been. I closed my eyes and pictured Death walking down Lilac Street. His long, black robe trailed behind him, his hood hung low to shadow his grotesque features, and he gripped his ever-present sickle. He stopped at our little gate, right here at 421 Lilac Street, pushed it open, and wham, his face hit the 'Netherby Family Force Field' that surrounded and protected our family. Death was embarrassed, like he had run into a sliding glass door at a party, and he glanced around to make sure no one had seen him.

I opened my eyes and James was there. He began to appear slowly, just like before, and I felt my heartbeat quicken. I could see his chest coming in to view by the chair at my desk. I sat straight up in the middle of my bed.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God." I pulled my comforter up over my head like I was five. I heard mom and Josh outside in the front yard being very normal, and it was surreal as they laughed and dragged crunchy oak leaves from our sidewalk with a rake.

"Not happening, not happening. This is not happening to me," I repeated, trying to convince myself. "Oh my God," I whispered feeling breathless, "I really do see dead people, like that freaky little kid in the movie."

I felt the overwhelming urge to pray and opted for the 'Our Father', which I shamelessly overused, from scary amusement park rides to math tests, and now ghost sightings.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name," was as far as I got before I peeked over the top of my comforter. There he sat in the pink wooden chair by my desk; a dead person, in my room, as big as life.

I put my pillow over my mouth and screamed into it. It just felt like the right thing to do, but I could see that his eyes went wide, and I felt a quick twinge of regret. He appeared more nervous than I. I slowly lowered the pillow and held it against my chest.

Within seconds, he was no longer transparent and sat upright in my uncomfortable chair. We looked at one another for a moment, until remarkably, he offered an awkward wave as he had a few days before from my window. I lowered my voice to a whisper and decided to speak first.

"You know the only reason I'm not just totally freaking out right now is because, frankly, you're not very scary," I said nervously, "in fact, you actually look scared."

He leaned in toward me. "You are freaking out just a little," he whispered. This was a true statement. I could feel myself shaking.

"I'm right, right?" I asked in all sincerity. I considered myself mildly knowledgeable, as I'd seen this sort of thing in a dozen movies. "You're not going to take over my mind, or make me crawl on the ceiling?" I began to ramble, and then gasped. "You sent me that text, didn't you?"

I asked questions but did not allow time for him to reply and my voice began to rise. "I knew it; I knew it was something weird like this! And how did you know my name? Last time I saw you, you said my name. How did you know my name?"

"I've heard your family call you 'Sar...'"

I interrupted him and continued excitedly with my interrogation. "Did you send me that text?"

He looked around nervously as if the decibel level of my voice would attract attention, which it certainly would eventually.

He spoke barely above a whisper. "I don't know what you're talking about, but I do know I didn't send you anything, and no, I'm not going to hurt you, you don't have to be afraid," he said calmly, "and in your defense, I don't know how I would act if I were you."

"Oh my God," I said as I felt myself begin to relax, "you're being rational. You're calm and rational." I slowly pulled the pillow away from my chest and set it next to me on the bed. I decided to stand, very slowly. I sensed that his presence was somehow fragile, and I didn't wish to break it.

He sat about six feet from me, and when I stood, he decided to stand as well. He was tall and he wasn't smiling as he was in Margaret's photos, but I knew I was looking at James Fitzpatrick.

His hair was a bit wavy and messy near his eyes, which were blue like Lucy's, but ironically, more alive and brighter in contrast to his dark hair. His cheeks were full of color and I could again see the freckles across his nose. He was dressed like a lot of boys at my school; a red and white letter jacket that read 'Arden High Baseball' on the front. Beneath his jacket was a gray sweatshirt, and he wore jeans and sneakers, just like anyone else.

In less than two minutes, the tables had turned, and as I approached him, James Fitzpatrick, a ghost, looked a little frightened by the sight of me, Sarah Netherby, a flesh and blood girl. I reached out to touch his arm and felt the leather of his coat sleeve. It was real. He was real.

"My name is James," he said, and we both said Fitzpatrick at the same time, and he looked at me curiously and extended his hand.

"Sarah Netherby," I replied and slowly took it.

His hand was warm and dry and strong, and it held mine for a moment, and I felt an adrenaline rush between my lungs, then it was gone. He was gone, like warm breath on a cold windowpane, he disappeared.

I could still feel the warmth of his hand in my own which only amplified its emptiness, but I knew he would be back. I recognized that look in his eyes. I saw it in the eyes of the "Pink Hat Lady" at church. The "Pink Hat Lady" and James Fitzpatrick were both looking for something or someone, and don't ask me how, but I knew he had come back to this bedroom for my help.