Ghost Killer Collection

Chapter 6

My dad was a spry and active sixty-eight year old, but I still worried about him. The best way to assuage my concerns was to talk to him via video chat every week or so. As was our routine, I sent a text message to his cell phone, asking him to log into Skype. In ten minutes, I was seeing my dad through the monitor on my laptop. He looked good…the quiet life agreed with him. His thick grey hair was neatly combed, his face clean-shaven, and he was wearing a crisply pressed button down shirt. I thought perhaps that I had caught him as he was going out for the evening.

“Hey, Dad, is this a bad time?” I asked

He smiled. “Nah, always a good time to talk to you. I am expected at the Moose Lodge for potluck tonight, but I have a few minutes before I need to leave. How are you, George? You look a bit…pale?”

Dad didn"t usually mince words and I was pretty sure I looked worse than “a bit pale.” I smiled and said, “Yeah, been sick with the flu or something, but I"m on the mend now. How are you?”

He arched an eyebrow, an expression that meant he didn"t completely believe me, and said, “I"m great. Did I tell you about the fish I caught at the lake last week? Damn big one—twenty pounds at least; had some of the neighbors over for a barbeque on Sunday to help me eat it. Probably the last barbeque of the year since it"s starting to get chilly out. So what"s wrong, George?”

I smiled again and sighed. “Dad, remember our old neighbors, the Wrights? Their son Bobby was a pal of mine.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “I think so. Didn"t they live down the block? Two kids…the dad was a teacher, I believe.”

“Yeah, that"s them. Do you remember their little girl? She was sick or something. I remember Mom saying something about an accident when she was a baby.”

I wasn"t completely sure that I saw it, but I thought he stiffened at the mention of the little girl: or was it the mention of her illness? He seemed to shake it off and then shook his head and said, “Can"t say I do remember her, but then I don"t recall the family much, except for the boy that you played with. Why do you ask?”

I was almost positive that he was lying, which was something he never did, at least not to me. I decided not to ask about it, and instead I said, “No real reason. Just had these weird dreams while I was sick, and Bobby and his sister were in them. I remembered there was something wrong with her…and then there wasn"t. You don"t remember that, Dad?”

This time his brows furrowed suspiciously. “Nope, I remember them living in the neighborhood, then they moved. Mr. Wright was transferred to a different school or something. Probably just something your mind made up while you were ill, boy; nothing to worry about.”

I wasn"t sure what I had expected from him. Was I hoping that he"d confirm that little Camille had been ill and then she wasn"t? Because let"s face it, that theory was insane. I didn"t see a point in asking about my college buddy…Dad had only visited me in San Diego once, so I was sure he wouldn"t remember him.

He was still looking at me suspiciously and I realized this call had been a bad idea, so I said, “Guess you"re right, it was the fever—brought on a bunch of strange dreams about stuff from years ago.” I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant.

Dad peered through the digital miles at me, then said, “Well, I should go…don"t want to keep the ladies at the lodge waiting.” He winked. “Besides, it"s poker night, so I want to be sure I"m at a good table. Some of those folks cheat, and I seem to always get stuck with that crowd when I"m late.” We said our goodbyes and disconnected.

My thoughts drifted back to my youth. Were there other incidents of the vintage-clothed Harry Potter people? None came to mind specifically, just that feeling that I had been seeing these people everywhere, all my life. Of course, I hadn"t remembered any of it until today, which didn"t mean a whole lot, since logic dictated that these were most likely old memories that appeared in my dreams, became warped by my fever, and then resurfaced in my waking hours.

The whole thing was making me tired, and because I was feeling better, I knew I would want to get into the office tomorrow to get caught up. I made something to eat and retired to my bed in the hope that sleep, sans the strange dreams, would be the only thing plaguing me for the next eight hours.