Michael's Ghost Girl

Things That Go Bump in the Afternoon

Part One: Fall, The Beginning of it All

"Oh crap!"

The same crack in the sidewalk caught Michael—again—sending him and his skateboard flying. He landed hard, breathing heavily before pushing himself up and raced down the street, hoping he might retrieve his skateboard before it reached the bottom of the hill.

He looked up at the trees, their yellowing leaves almost as big as his outstretched hand, "I hate those freaking maples," he muttered. At least no one had seen him fall this time.

The gentle downward slope of the street made an almost perfect ramp for skating. This street, with its century-old sidewalk lined with big leaf maples, presented a hazard because the roots cracked and created open ridges in the concrete. An unwary skater could find himself thrown off balance and off his board if he didn't pay attention—like today.

There was a hidden advantage to the maple conundrum. The damaged sidewalk could provide a launch for jumps and flips, but if he wasn't careful, the consequences could be painful. These days, in the war of Michael versus the maples, the maples frequently won. Fortunately, the damage seemed minor: he would probably wind up with a few bruises, but more painful than the bruises was the blow to his ego.

He sighed as he gathered up his backpack and adjusted the cap on his blond head. His agility on the back of a rolling skateboard seemed the only thing that had not left him. It was the one place where he could feel truly free. Maple roots aside, this one thing he loved had not abandoned him.

It had been a year of loss. First his father lost his job, forcing his parents to make a drastic decision and sell the home they could no longer afford. After weeks of looking they had found an old Victorian "fixer upper" in one of the older neighborhoods established in the city, and by a stroke of luck the price was right, so they purchased it.

"Don't worry, it's a fixer-upper, it's just going to take time," his parents had promised when they first showed him the old, rundown Victorian they intended to buy. The house had been on the market a long time, and they were getting it for a song. "These old houses have character that new ones don't. And I've checked it out," added his father, "This house has good bones. And look at the yard—our old house didn't have a yard even half this big." Michael tried to understand for his father's sake, but he could not share his enthusiasm.

They were doing their best, Michael admitted; they had painted the exterior a light grey,  and chose white for the trim and columns which graced the original front porch. Old climbing roses had been trimmed back and placed on trellises. The blackberries, which seemed to grow everywhere, had been killed, and the lawn mown and re-seeded. His father built a new fence, following the design of the original, and painted it the same white as the trim. To an outsider's view, maybe, their efforts to transform the old house were succeeding. To an outsider the house stood proud and tall as it had when first built. Inside was another story, though little by little the work his parents put into it was beginning to show.

For all his parents' efforts to make their new house a home, he missed their old house. His parents arranged for him and his sister to stay in their school, but it didn't compensate for leaving the familiar suburb where he and his friends had grown up. Watching his dad lose his job and search for weeks before finding another hurt. Though his mom made a decent salary as an RN, they fell further and further behind on the mortgage payments, no matter how much overtime she worked. When his dad did find a new job, it didn't pay as much as his old one, so they still had trouble keeping up with the bills. When the realtors started coming, he braced himself for the inevitable.

He  didn't understand why they had picked this neighborhood. While there were houses  that were well kept, while others had fallen into a state of disrepair and left that way. In some, lawns were mowed, leaves were raked, gardens lovingly tended, porches were kept repaired and there was no sign of peeling paint. If the neighborhood had been a living person, it would have suffered from a split personality disorder.