CHAPTER ONE
Our new house smells like lemons. Mom says it’s because the previous owners cleaned the floors so well, but it isn’t just the floors—it’s everything.
Babung’s house never reeked of scented chemicals. Most of the time her living room smelled like orchids and jasmine tea, her kitchen smelled like tonkatsu curry and dumplings, and her bedroom always, always smelled like peppermint.
But then my grandma died, and took all the good smells with her.
My eyes start to water, and the sharp tang of lemon hits my nostrils again, making me sneeze.
Maybe I’m allergic to this house. And not the mild kind of allergic, like Dad is around cats. The serious kind of allergic, like how some people can die if they eat peanuts or shellfish.
If I’m deathly allergic to this house, does that mean I won’t have to live in it?
“What are you up to, Eliot?” Dad appears in the doorway and flashes one of his signature everything-is-going-to-be-great smiles. In his arms is a cardboard box marked “kitchen” with big, swooping letters.
“I can’t breathe in this house. I think I’m going into anaphylactic shock,” I say with a flat tone. It takes a surprising amount of skill, considering I’m on the verge of sneezing again.
“I think you’d have to ingest part of the house to have a reaction like that.” Dad hums, amused. “If you’re going to test the theory, maybe start with the wallpaper? Most of it has to come down anyway. Just make sure you start at the edges, and watch for splinters.”
“This isn’t a joke!” I wave my hands around, motioning to—well, everything. “What if the house has asbestos? We could all get sick. Really sick.”
Dad’s laugh echoes through the space, and for a moment it feels like the house is laughing at me, too.
I glare at the walls like we’re on the brink of becoming mortal enemies.
“How do you even know what that is? And anyway, this house was built in the ’90s. I doubt it has any asbestos.” Dad looks around, twisting his mouth thoughtfully. “Ghosts, maybe. But not any life-threatening fibers.”
My heart thumps. He knows my weakness, and he’s using it against me.
I can’t hide the hope in my voice. “You really think there could be ghosts here?”
“You’re the expert,” he says with a shrug. “Why don’t you get your toy out and have a look around?”
The hope evaporates. My parents never take me seriously. Not about ghosts, or allergies, or moving to this house in the first place.
Babung always listened to me. At least, she used to. Before everything changed.
I blink firmly, fighting the sting of frustration in my eyes. “It’s not a toy. It’s a scientific device that detects electromagnetic energy. It shows you when there’s paranormal activity nearby.”
He snorts. “For forty bucks, it had better!”
I cross my arms over my chest, but Dad is too busy admiring the wide entrance hall to notice. He made a point of talking it up when he and Mom announced we were moving. They tried to sell me on things like “crown moldings” and “exposed beams,” as if it was somehow going to make leaving California easier.
For the record: It did not.
“So, what do you think?” he asks. “Pretty cool place, huh?”
I don’t share his optimism. Not about this. “Everything smells like cleaning spray.”
Dad tilts his head and a long strand of inky-black hair falls below his brow. In California, he wasn’t the only Asian dad with shoulder-length surfer hair. But I spent the entire cross-country drive staring out the window, and there were no dads who looked like mine for at least two hundred miles. Maybe more.
Dad is unfazed. “I’m sure there are far worse things than a house smelling clean, kiddo. Think of the alternative.”
I glance at the faded wallpaper peeling at the edges, and the water stains blotted around the ceiling. “It smells more like deception.”
He shakes his head like I’m a little kid who’s just said something ridiculous. Like I’m seven instead of twelve. “Try not to worry so much. This is our fresh start! Let’s enjoy it.”
I try to force a smile because I know it’s what my parents want, but my face won’t budge. Maybe when you’re sad, face muscles just don’t work the way they’re supposed to.
I can’t help it—I don’t want to be here. I want our old house, and our old neighborhood, and our old memories.
Mom and Dad are desperate for a change of scenery, but did they really have to move across the country to Roseheart, Maine, to find it?
The box starts to slip from Dad’s hands. He balances it awkwardly against his knee, readjusting his grip. “Why don’t you start unpacking your room? The movers already unloaded your boxes. You could be all set up before dinner if you start now.” He winks like we’re sharing a joke, and disappears down a narrow hall that leads to the kitchen.
I wait until his footsteps fade before heading up the stairs. They creak no matter where I step. I’m pretty sure it’s a sign that even the house wants me to leave.
“It’s not like I want to be here,” I hiss to the stairs. When I make it to the landing, they go quiet.
My new bedroom is at the end of the hall, right next to the upstairs bathroom. I recognize it from the photos Mom showed me, even though it looks a little different in person. It’s bigger, for one. And I thought the walls were pink, but they’re actually a pale lavender, which I guess is better. I don’t really like pink anything, unless it’s mochi or strawberry milkshakes.
My bed is already set up against the wall, with a brand-new rug stretched out across the floor. It’s shaped like a fluffy white cloud. Hanging from the ceiling is the mobile Babung and I made together, with wooden stars and moons. It’s lopsided, and the paint is chipped just about everywhere, but it’s been a staple of my bedroom since I was in kindergarten.
I’m glad it didn’t get left behind, or tossed out with the other mementos my parents decided we’d been “holding on to for far too long.” But it feels wrong to have my stuff in this house. It feels like a betrayal.
I shove my hands into my pockets, and something soft scratches against my fingertips. Frowning, I pull the object out and hold it in my palm. A flimsy white rabbit stares back at me, ears crumpled with its body folded in half.
Babung loved to crochet little animals, but her favorites were always rabbits. She said they were lucky—that they’d make me lucky. That’s why they were always my favorite, too.
But Babung isn’t here, and I’m thousands of miles away from the only life I’ve ever known. That doesn’t feel lucky. It feels like a curse.
Curling my fingers over the yarn animal, I shove the rabbit back into my pocket, sit beside the nearest box, and start unpacking. Because curse or not, there’s something important I still need to do.
It doesn’t take me long to find the electromagnetic energy detector. It’s bulky and unsophisticated, and could easily be confused with all the outdated equipment Dad thinks should be stored for an eternity “just in case.” The stuff that probably should’ve been tossed or recycled instead of the old mementos.
But the detector isn’t junk, and it definitely isn’t a toy.
It’s how I’m going to prove ghosts are real, and find a way back to Babung.
I have to—because it’s the only way I’ll ever be able to speak to my grandma again, and make sure she remembers all the things she forgot.
CHAPTER TWO
I hold the ghost detector in front of me, staring at the clunky device with my brows pinched. The green light doesn’t waver. Not even when I shake the detector like a magic eight ball, hoping that with enough tries, it will eventually give in.
Most of the time, green is a sign that things are working correctly. No one worries when they see a green light—they just go. But this is the bad kind of green. Like mold, or kryptonite, or toxic potatoes.
A green light means no electromagnetic waves, which means no ghosts.
I sigh, staring up at the patches of ceiling where chunks of plaster are missing. It’s been three days since we moved in. Three days of searching this new house for paranormal activity, and I haven’t seen so much as an amber hiccup. And definitely no red.
Either I wasted forty dollars on something that doesn’t work, or even the ghosts don’t want to live in this house. Personally, I think it’s the latter.
But I’m not going to give up on Babung—so maybe it’s time for a new plan.
If there are no ghosts in this house, then I need to find a way to bring them here.
Trudging back up the squeaky stairs, I go to my room and set the ghost detector down. I kneel on the rug, peering beneath the mattress at the assortment of small boxes that still need to be unpacked, and spot the mint-green one covered in white flowers. I pull it out from under the bed and set it straight on my lap.
My heart pinches. It was Babung’s before she—
Well. Before.
She used the box to store spools of thread and spare buttons. There were always so many different colors inside; it was like a treasure chest.
Now the box is mine.
I remove the lid and set it aside. Crocheted bears, frogs, and rabbits in different shades of the rainbow stare back at me. There’s a dried four-leaf clover pressed in wax paper—“To keep the memory safe,” Babung had told me on the day I’d found it.
If only it could be that simple for people.
I swallow the knot in my throat, gaze drifting to a charm shaped like a pair of geta—traditional Japanese shoes that look like wooden flip-flops—and a Totoro figurine from Babung’s orchid garden. Underneath it all is a photo of me and Babung at Disneyland, standing in front of the flower beds shaped like Mickey Mouse’s face.
My heart lifts a little, like a balloon caught in a breeze, and I pick up the photo and a couple of the crocheted animals, and wander back downstairs.
Most of the surfaces are still covered with moving boxes, so I find an empty corner near the unlit fireplace and set up my collection of things. I perch Babung’s photo in the center and surround it with animals. After a quick trip to the kitchen, I return with several tea lights, a half-eaten pack of Hi-Chews, and a bowl of leftover rice sprinkled with furikake, and set them around the photo with care.
I step back to observe the offering, tapping my bottom lip as I think.
It needs something else. Something that doesn’t just encompass Babung, but is Babung.
Mom appears in the doorway with yet another cardboard box. Her normally wavy brown hair is bundled into a low knot. It’s almost the same dark brown as mine, except the only time my hair is wavy is when I undo my braids.
I normally have two that hang in front of my shoulders, but sometimes I keep my hair in two buns at the top of my head. Babung always said my hair reminded her of a little bunny. Sometimes she’d call me Usako when she’d hug me goodbye, like the nickname was a secret code word only the two of us knew.
Now my hairstyles are a habit I don’t want to break.
“There you are! I thought maybe you’d want to help with—” Mom’s voice falters when she spots the shrine in front of me. “What’s all this for?”
“Babung did this every year for her parents. It’s how you honor the dead.” I motion to the rice, and the candles, and the candy. “I know it’s not all the right stuff—we don’t have lotus-shaped sweets, and there’s no spirit horse because we don’t have any cucumber or eggplant to carve. But the rice is okay, right?”
“Sweetheart,” Mom starts, mouth hanging open in between her words. “That’s for Obon. It doesn’t start until the middle of August. And, well, we’re not Buddhist.”
“But Babung was,” I argue. “And she won’t care what we celebrate, or when.” If Babung is a ghost, she’ll be flexible. She’ll visit any time of the year, just as long as I help her find the way back.
Mom’s shoulders fall, and she sets the box on the floor. “I—I don’t think it works like that, Eliot.” She pauses like she’s thinking over which words to use. “I know you’re really interested in ghosts these days, but I don’t want you to think that—” She clamps her mouth shut, visibly flustered.
She acts like that a lot these days. Like when she’s around me, she forgets how to speak. Because Mom doesn’t like talking about Babung, or what happened in California.
And she really, really doesn’t like talking about ghosts.
Mom clears her throat. “Hey, what do you think about giving me a hand with these last few boxes? I bet the house will be so much better once we clear out all the cardboard and bubble wrap, huh?”
I glance down at the makeshift altar. The offering for Babung isn’t finished—but it’s making Mom uncomfortable, and I don’t understand why.
Babung was Dad’s mom and my grandma, but it’s Mom who gets weird whenever the topic of her death comes up. She’s always quick to change the subject, and whenever I bring up spirits or the afterlife, her eyes dart around like she can’t even bring herself to make eye contact with me.
But isn’t talking about Babung better than pretending she never existed at all?
Besides, I’m the one who lost my grandma before she was even really gone.
Copyright © 2022 by Akemi Dawn Bowman
