Chapter One
“Write it down,” my mother, the history professor, has always urged. “Keep a written record. Years from now, it will make you feel good to look back and remember those times.”
And so, from the age of nine, I kept a journal. Nothing special really. Just a “hello world” from Carissa Anne Graves. You know. School. Family. Friends. Movies and music. Boys. The typical teen stuff.
Considering what came later, the irony of my mom’s longtime advice wouldn’t be lost on me, and explained why, when the “occurrences” started, well, occurring, it seemed only natural for me to put pen to paper—or fingers to keyboard—to create a record of events as they unfolded. Despite my mom’s best “trip down memory lane” intentions, however, none of these “hello world” snapshots of the Graves family from this period of time will ever make me “feel good” when I look back and remember.
Not. Even. Close.
In fact, for a long time I couldn’t even think about those days without breaking out in a cold sweat, gagging, and dry heaving from the now-familiar nausea. It’s only because my psychologist father assures me that it will be what he calls “cathartic” that I’m willing to go back in time, to open that door—open this file folder—that contains a firsthand account of events I’m still struggling to understand…and come to terms with.
It’s a process, says my father, the family shrink. Healing takes time, my mom chimes in. My big brother tells me to get over it and move on. My little brother pretends like it didn’t happen the way it did.
He’s the lucky one.
Me? I’m still wondering how you’re supposed to “get over it” and simply “move on” once a dark force moves in and turns your life into a real-life haunting.
I know. You’ve got questions. I wish I had answers. But all I have are words. A collection of words I’ve avoided for over a year.
Until now.
I’m determined to get through the telling. Get through it and move on. It’s important that I do this, my parents tell me. They’re probably right.
So please be patient. I’m still shaky. But here goes.
Today Grandma showed us a picture.
Perched on a stool at our breakfast bar, my mother squinted at the display on my grandmother’s cell phone.
“I’m not exactly sure what you expect me to see, Mother,” my mother said, a frown creasing her forehead.
“What are you talking about? It’s right there!” My grandma, standing behind my mom’s right shoulder, pointed at the lit screen.
My mom frowned and brought the phone closer. “I’m just not seeing—”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” My grandma snatched the phone away. “Are you blind, Alyce? There!” She pointed to the phone again. “Right there!”
My mom’s brows lowered, her frown deepening the furrows above her eyes. “What? Where? All I see is a lot of overturned furniture.”
I set a glass on the counter and grabbed the orange juice from the refrigerator.
“There!” Grandma Knight jabbed at the right side of the phone with her index finger. “That face! That horrible, horrible face!”
I started to pour a glass of juice and glanced over at the phone display. I gasped. A ghostly pale face—not human, not even close—appeared along the right side of the photograph. Eerie, disquieting circles of light glared up at me from the dark recesses of black eye sockets set between the chiseled cheekbones of a skull head.
