Haunting Zoe Read Free

numb—too overwhelmed for the day—to feel anything.
Or it might just be a perk of being dead.
    After Zoe had seen me at the wake, I’d been
so sure there would be someone else, anyone else, who would have
the same ability. I should have known it was too much to hope
for.
    Zoe and I had been best friends as kids. We’d
made mud pies, had secret forts in the woods behind my house, she’d
even been my first kiss. As innocent childhood kisses go, it had
been pretty memorable. But all that changed after her dad died. I
remember knocking on her door every day that summer, only to be
sent away by her mother because she didn’t feel like company.
    Every. Single. Day.
    She ended up homeschooling for a while and by
the time she came back, we were in high school. I had new friends
and new hobbies. We just didn’t fit in each other’s lives anymore.
I got popular, and she got bitchy.
    And that was being generous.
    For the most part we’d managed to stay clear
of each other, until the end of school last year when my best
friend Bruno had asked me for her number out of the blue. Even as
an unexpected feeling of jealousy and possession had flared up
inside me, I’d jokingly slapped him on the shoulder and told him
he’d be better off asking out a pit viper.
    I close my eyes, trying to remember what the
inside of her house looks like. The air around me changes and when
I open my eyes, I’m in her kitchen. The storm is still raging
outside and above me the simple chandelier flickers. Zoe is
standing there, her back to me. Her long, messy brown hair is
hanging in loose strands and she’s in what I assume are her
pajamas, her feet bare.
    The lights flicker again, harder this time,
and she turns to face me, a glass of milk and a plate of pizza in
her hands. I watch as her eyes focus on me and I can’t help the
momentary feeling of relief.
    She really can see me, even now. Whatever had
happened at the funeral home hadn’t been an isolated incident. Then
as I stare into her doe eyes, they widen, her face pales, and I see
her mouth open. The plate and glass slip from her fingers and crash
to the floor, shattering in every direction.
    I hold out my hands in front of me.
    “Don’t move,” I say calmly.
    Then she screams.
     
    ***
     
    Zoe steps backwards, which is exactly the
wrong thing to do, and I hear the glass crunch under her foot. She
cries out, lifting her foot and getting off balance. She falls
backward into the shards of white plate and clear glass.
    “Stop moving,” I order. “You’re going to cut
yourself to shreds.”
    She screams again, this time the sound is
hoarse, like she can’t quite get her vocal cords to cooperate. I
sigh, rolling my eyes.
    “Will you please stop screaming? Seriously
Zoe.”
    Her mouth clamps shut, but she’s still
breathing heavy, her face flushed. I wait, folding my arms across
my chest, for her to relax and process.
    “What are you doing here?” she manages
finally.
    I don’t miss a beat with my response.
    “What am I doing here, as in in your kitchen,
or do you mean here in more general terms? As in why am I not—”
    She cuts me off.
    “Rotting in the ground somewhere?”
    I feel my nose crinkle at the thought.
    “I was going to say dead, but thanks for the
vivid.”
    She frowns at me skeptically then turns her
arm to examine the damage. A thin line of blood is dripping from
her elbow, a small sliver of glass stuck in the skin.
    “I’m bleeding,” she complains.
    “That’s what happens when you fall into a
pile of broken glass.”
    She shoots me a nasty glare.
    “Shut up Logan.”
    Ah, yes, that’s the Zoe I remember. Brave,
yes. Clever, yes. And with a mouth that could make a sailor
blush.
    She grabs the glass sliver with two fingers
and pulls. The blood flows faster, but she doesn’t seem to be too
bothered by it. She tosses the sliver aside and sets her forearm
against the floor, using it to push away the remaining glass and
clear a path.
    She examines her cut foot