Beyond the Grave by Mara Purnhagen Page A

read the scattered news reports about my mom. But she didn’t know the truth, and that’s what I needed her to understand, so I told her everything, including all the details about the Watcher and what, exactly, had happened to my mom.
    She listened, her brow furrowed. I kept my voice low, even though the restaurant remained empty and the waitress only came by to check on us once. It felt good to release my words, to tell my story to someone for the first time. Once I got started it was difficult to stop. I even told her about my late-night attempts at making contact with something, and how that had finally happened a few weeks earlier.
    â€œYou’re actually communicating with an entity?” Bliss asked.
    â€œYes. I’m not sure what—or who—it is, but I have a recorder full of EVPs.”
    â€œCharlotte, are you sure that’s a good idea? After everything you’ve told me, it seems dangerous to mess with this stuff. As in, really dangerous.”
    â€œBut maybe not. If there’s even a chance it could help my mom, I have to try. And now I have Michael, so I’m safer than I was before.”
    â€œRight.” Bliss sat back. “The Protector.”
    I felt a flicker of panic. Did she not believe me? Had I just spilled all of my secrets to someone who thought I was crazy? I waited, trying to decipher her reaction to my story, but Bliss kept her face perfectly blank.
    â€œSo?” I braced myself for the imminent recommendation that I visit the nearest psych ward. “What do you think?”
    â€œI think…” She seemed to be searching for the right words. “I think you’ve given me a lot to digest. And I’m still not sure why you came to me with all this.”
    I didn’t have a response to that. Why had I come to Bliss?
    It had to be more than simply needing an “outsider” opinion.
    â€œCharlotte.” Bliss studied the glass in front of her, not meeting my eyes. “When I was in the eighth grade, some kids convinced me that there was a student in the boys’ bathroom that needed help. I went in, and saw one of my teachers using the urinal.”
    The change in topic temporarily silenced me. “What?”
    â€œIn the ninth grade, everyone convinced me that Monday was Tacky Day,” she continued. “I showed up wearing my grandfather’s old pea-green suit coat. No one else was dressed that way. And in the tenth grade, I received an invitation to an exclusive party. It wasn’t until I had been dropped off that I realized it was an abandoned house.”
    â€œThat’s terrible, but why are you telling me this?” I asked.
    â€œBecause.” She looked up. “Because if this is a joke, I need you to tell me now so I can walk away with a little dignity. If this is some weird trick you’re playing to see how I’ll react, I’m begging you—don’t. I’ve been through it before, Charlotte. Please don’t do this to me again.”
    There was something achingly sad buried in her voice, something that made me want to scream at all the people whohad tricked her before. How could I convince her that this was real?
    â€œBliss, I swear to you.” I reached across the table and took her hands in mine. “I swear on my mother that this is real. And I swear that I am not the kind of person who would ever, ever play a prank to hurt someone.”
    I realized in that moment why I had come to Bliss. She had helped me through my panic attack without hesitation. She was a person who wanted to help, who wanted to do the right thing, even if it was for someone she didn’t entirely trust.
    Finally, she looked at me. “Okay. I believe you, Charlotte. I do. And I want to help, but I’m not sure how.”
    â€œStart by telling me what you think about all of this.”
    She pulled her hands gently away from mine. “I think I have a theory.”
    â€œAbout the