The Haunting of Starkweather Farm: A Stone Spur Novel

By Phillis Fox

For seventeen-year-old Drew Genetti, it is an intense summer -- talking to his first ghost, exploring his first cave, fighting for his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543909852

Book preview

25

He was doomed. The glow from the streetlight cast dark bars on the wall. Sprawled against the pillows on his bed, seventeen-year-old Drew Genetti squirmed under the weight of his high school chemistry text. No way was he going to pass that test in the morning.

Why, oh why had he thought he could plow through the book in one night? He should have kept up with the assignments—would have kept up—if only chemistry wasn’t so boring. It was so boring he wanted to poke his eyes out with... with what? He glanced around his room. TV remote? PlayStation controller? DVD player, iPhone, laptop computer? The trouble with electronic gadgets was they had no sharp edges.

There was a business opportunity: iStab! Make calls, surf the Web, kill yourself when you can’t stand summer school any longer.

And Drew couldn’t stand it any longer. He dumped his text, study guides, and notes onto the floor. His clock said 3:00 a.m. He set the alarm for 7:00 a.m. He would cram more in the morning. Maybe.

He turned out the light and nestled under the covers. The air conditioner kicked on, and cool air whirred through the vents. Drew drifted off to sleep, dreaming. He glided downhill on his bike, the wind in his face. Fast. Smooth.

Someone sat on the foot of his bed. Drew snapped awake. Was it his mom? It couldn’t be time to get up already.

Whoever was on his bed scooted closer. Drew’s heart beat so loudly he could hear it. Who—what—was in his room? Peppermint. He smelled peppermint.

Drew bolted upright and clicked on his light.

A portly, elderly man dressed in coveralls and a plaid shirt perched on the bed and mopped his brow with a blue bandana.

Grandpa! No wonder Drew smelled peppermint. Vardon Starkweather always had a pocketful of peppermint candies. Eight years ago, when Drew spent two weeks with his grandparents, Vardon doled out peppermints in a never-ending stream. While they tinkered with Vardon’s tractor (the rear tire was taller than nine-year-old Drew). When they drove Vardon’s pickup to the feed store (he let Drew steer). When he showed Drew how to catch crawdads in a creek and shoot tin cans with a BB gun.

Those two weeks in Missouri had been awesome, way better than Disneyland. Except for photos, Drew had not seen his grandparents since.

When did you get here? Drew asked. Why didn’t Mom tell me you were coming?

I couldn’t reach her.

Odd. His mom never turned off her cell phone. Where’s Grandma? Did she come, too?

Vardon said, Don’t believe anything your grandma tells you. She’s crazy. He dropped the bandana from his forehead.

Except that he didn’t have a forehead. He had a big, ragged, red hole. Blood and gobs of brain dripped from splinters of bone and splatted on the blanket.

Drew gasped. Blinked.

Vardon Starkweather was gone.

Huh? How could his grandpa disappear? Drew patted the spot where Vardon had sat. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t spotted with blood.

Drew crept out of bed, opened the door to his room, and peeped downstairs. The stairwell was dark. No light meant his grandparents and mom were not in the living room.

The vision of his grandpa must have been a nightmare, an incredibly realistic nightmare. One more reason no one should have to take chemistry. It gave you bad dreams.

Drew slipped into bed, plumped his pillow, and checked the time. Four minutes after three. He fell asleep composing a Surgeon General’s warning about summer school.

* * *

His mom’s clogs slapped across the hardwood floor of Drew’s bedroom. She must be in her work clothes. Like all the medical staff at the hospital, she wore ugly Crocs. It must be morning. Drew pretended to be asleep.

Like his mom cared.

Mae Genetti jerked the covers off her son. Time to get ready for school.

Couldn’t she think of a nicer way to get him out of bed? Drew yawned and stretched but refused to sit up.

Now, Mae said. She switched off his alarm.

Running his fingers through his tangled curls, Drew glanced at his clock. Six-fifty. Ten minutes before he had to get up. His mom was so anal.

I’m serious, she said.

I’m Drew.

Mae shot him one of her what-was-I-thinking-when-I-had-you looks. I’ve got to get to the hospital early today.

Expecting lots of sick people?

Mae put one hand on her bony hip. She’d gotten positively skeletal since his dad left. She issued one more warning. I mean it, Drew.

He wanted a few more minutes of sleep, but if he didn’t do something, she would never leave. He hauled himself upright and plunked his feet onto the floor.

That seemed to satisfy his mom because she headed for the door. As soon as she closed it, Drew flopped back into bed. Ten more minutes of sleep. That was all he needed.

* * *

Drew woke up and checked the time. Crap! He hadn’t slept for ten minutes. He’d slept for an hour. He was late, really late. He jumped out of bed and into some clothes. Stuffed his keys, calculator, and notebook into his backpack.

He raced downstairs. There was no time for coffee. No time to call anyone for a ride. (The one thing his mom refused to buy him was a car.) He dragged his bicycle from the garage, set the burglar alarm, and sped off, pumping as hard as he could for Hinsdale High School.

Drew burst into the chemistry lab long after class had started. Twenty-two summer school students ripped their eyeballs from their midterms and glared at him.

Drew sauntered to Mr. Johnson, the geek teaching the class.

Mr. Johnson said, You’re late.

I’m sure you’ll give me the detention I deserve, Drew replied.

A couple of students giggled.

Mr. Johnson handed Drew a thick test. Good luck. You’ll need it.

More giggles.

Drew swaggered to the back of the room and plopped into a chair. He read the first question:

Given the equilibrium system at 25ºC:

NH4Cl(s) <-> NH4(aq) + Cl-(aq)(H=+3.5 kcal/mol),

what change will shift the equilibrium to the right?

Was this even English?

He flipped through the pages. The whole test looked like it was written in Russian. He didn’t see a single question he could answer. Not one.

Maybe there was a way he could pass. He sneaked a glance to his left. Maryann tapped question number seventeen with her pencil.

Eyes on your own paper, Genetti, Mr. Johnson commanded.

Drew squirmed. If he couldn’t cheat, he was going to flunk. No two ways about it. He took a deep, ragged breath. Then another. He clutched his desktop to keep himself from bolting from the room. If he ran, everyone would laugh. If he left—when he left—he needed to make a statement.

Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that right away? He paged through the test and circled answers at random. Then smiling serenely, he stood, stretched, and ambled to the front of the room.

The whole class gaped at him. Just as he’d hoped. He figured they thought he’d really answered the questions. They wondered why they found the test so hard.

He dropped the test onto Mr. Johnson’s desk. Now for the kicker. You said this test was going to be hard. Thanks for taking it easy on us.

Mr. Johnson snorted.

Drew sauntered from the room as though he’d just aced the test. The door clicked shut behind him. When his mom learned that he’d flunked, she would have a cow. A whole herd of cows. Enough cows to keep McDonald’s in burgers for years. He’d have to listen to her say I told you so and you’ll never get into a decent college and all the other garbage she went on and on about. But he didn’t have to listen to her now. Or even an hour from now. He would get royally stoned and get home just before curfew at 10 p.m.

Drew strolled down the hall and out into the hot summer air. He had almost eleven hours of freedom.

He ran smack into his mom.

Good, you’re here, Mae said. Let’s go.

Drew freaked. Had Mr. Johnson ratted him out? Was his mom finally going to make good on her threat to send him to military school?

Did you ride your bike? Mae asked.

Something wasn’t right. The hospital where his mom worked was close but not so close that she could have beaten him to the school doors—not even if Mr. Johnson called her immediately.

Mae snapped her fingers in front of Drew’s eyes. Your bike. Is it here?

What’s going on?

Didn’t the school tell you? Mae dragged Drew toward the bike rack. We have to go to Stone Spur.

Drew fumbled with his combination lock. To Grandma and Grandpa’s? His mom was lying to him; she was dumping him at a military school. He decided to play along until he could figure a way out. Why?

Your grandma shot your grandpa.

Drew laughed. Yeah, right. Like this was a cheesy, TV crime drama. Then he noticed his mom’s face. Her eyes were red, and her makeup was streaky. Had she been crying?

Mae said, It happened last night at three.

At 3 a.m.? That was when he saw his grandpa holding his head wound. Drew sagged to the ground.

His mom jerked him to his feet. Are you high? Have you taken something? She sniffed Drew’s clothes to see if he’d been smoking weed.

Drew forced a croak from his dry throat. Where was he shot?

In their bedroom.

No. I mean what part of his body.

Mae yanked Drew’s bike from the rack. She shot him in his head.

Drew felt dizzy and steadied himself against the bike rack. This couldn’t be happening. No way did his grandma shoot his grandpa, in the head, at three last night. No way did Drew then see his grandpa with a head wound.

Mae pushed Drew’s bike to her Lexus. I’ve been on the phone with the sheriff and with your grandma’s attorney. She’s in jail now. They won’t release her until we show up.

Drew stumbled to the SUV and helped his mom lift the bike onto the bike rack. He slid into the passenger seat. He felt feverish and queasy. When his mom climbed behind the steering wheel, he said, Something weird happened last night.

No kidding. Mae pulled onto the street.

I dreamed about Grandpa. At least he hoped it was a dream. He hoped he hadn’t seen a ghost.

Mae tromped on the gas and sped toward home. I want to be on our way in half an hour.

Grandpa showed me his wound and told me not to believe anything Grandma said. It was so real. It seemed like he was actually in my bedroom.

Mae wrenched the SUV to the side of the street, slammed on the brakes, and collapsed against the steering wheel. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t turn off the car. She just sat there, slumped against the steering wheel.

Mom, are you okay? Drew squeezed her arm. Mom?

Mae sat up, squared her shoulders, and drove off. Pack your clothes and whatever electronic devices you want to take. And don’t forget your toothbrush and underwear.

In minutes, they were home, a brick and glass mansion that always reminded Drew of the local funeral parlor. The house had cost a bundle. His mom got it in the divorce, but his dad was supposed to help with the mortgage payments until Drew finished high school.

Mae raced inside. Drew lifted his bike from the rear of the Lexus and pushed it into the garage. What did he want to take to Missouri?

Thirty minutes later, he had loaded his laptop, his PlayStation, and his secret stash of weed into the SUV, but he hadn’t packed any clothes. He sat at the foot of his bed—not on the spot where his grandpa had sat—and stared at his empty duffel bag.

He was torn up about his grandpa, and he would never believe his grandma shot him. But why did he need to go to Stone Spur? He was already lost in chemistry. If he missed a week of classes, he was doomed. Doomed to have to take chemistry a third time. Doomed to listen to a million lectures from his mom about how he was throwing his life away.

Mae marched into Drew’s bedroom. Ready? She snatched up the empty duffel. Obviously not.

What about summer school? Maybe I should stay with Dad, Drew said.

Mae jammed cargo shorts and tee shirts into the duffel. You think I didn’t ask?

His stomach tied itself into a knot. His dad didn’t want him.

Your self-centered father and his child bride have ‘other commitments’—whatever that means. Mae crammed a handful of socks into the duffel.

Drew exhaled. It wasn’t his dad who didn’t want him. It was his dad’s new wife.

You’re flunking, aren’t you? Mae asked.

Drew shrugged.

You might as well withdraw.

Really? Drew could hardly believe his good luck. He tried not to feel happy, with his grandpa dead and all, but he couldn’t help it.

Mae dropped the duffel at Drew’s feet. You’ve screwed up your chances of getting into a good college, and you’re grinning. She took the garment bag with his suit from the closet. You’re hopeless. She stalked from the room.

Hopeless but free! Drew stuffed some underwear into his duffel and got his toothbrush and razor from the bathroom. He zipped the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and practically skipped downstairs. A week in Stone Spur and he’d have the rest of the summer to hang out with his friends.

It was going to be a great couple of months. Then he recalled how blood and gore had dropped from his grandpa’s forehead. His poor grandpa. And his poor grandma. It was too bad, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Drew tossed his duffel into the Lexus and buckled himself into the passenger seat. He glanced at his mom, already behind the wheel. In a low cut top and a short skirt, she was dressed like she was going on a hot date. Drew fiddled with the nav system. It said, Turn left on Regency Place.

Mae shot Drew an annoyed glance and turned off the nav system. I know the way to Stone Spur. She started the engine and backed out of the driveway.

Could’ve fooled me, Drew said. We never go there. Before the divorce, they vacationed abroad and spent holidays with his dad’s parents in their downtown Chicago condo.

Mae sped off. I’ve been busy working—in case you hadn’t noticed. Working so that you could live in a nice house, wear designer clothes, and buy the latest cool phone. Mae backed out of the driveway. Working so you could flunk courses, then go to summer school and flunk them again.

Great. Now she was mad and he had wanted to talk to her about his dream. She clutched the steering wheel like she wanted to strangle it. She was probably thinking about his neck.

Drew gazed out the window as the pretentious mansions of his swanky Chicago suburb gave way to ordinary homes. He tried to imagine how he would feel if his mom shot his dad. Maybe his mom wasn’t angry. Maybe she was just upset. He asked, Are you sad about Grandpa?

Mae shrugged.

She hated it when he shrugged in reply to her questions. Now she was doing it to him. When her phone chimed, she picked it up and answered a text message. How many times had she warned him about texting while driving?

Well, screw her.

If he couldn’t ask her about his dream, there was always the Internet. With his iPhone, he found two possible explanations. First, there was something called hypnagogia—a near-sleep experience during which people have hallucinations so vivid that they seem real. In hypnogogic states, people saw, heard, felt, and even smelled things, including other people who often disappeared suddenly.

That sounded like what happened to him. He was drifting off to sleep. He smelled peppermint (his grandpa’s favorite candy). After talking for a while, his grandpa just disappeared.

Then there was something called a crisis apparition. A lot of people claimed to have seen loved ones at the moment the loved ones died. Sometimes the loved ones interacted with the people. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes the people had been asleep, but sometimes they were awake and going about their daily business. Opinion seemed divided on whether the crisis apparition was a ghost or just psychic communication between people who were close.

Although Drew didn’t believe in ghosts, he thought psychic communication was real. His mom certainly could read him. Trouble was, as much as he loved his grandparents, he and his grandpa hadn’t been really close. Sure, they talked on the phone. They sent him birthday cards and random Christmas presents like an iron bullfrog. He wrote thank-you notes, and not just because his mom made him. But he had seen his grandparents only twice, once when he was a few weeks old and then when he was nine. Drew’s mom always had some excuse not to visit Missouri. She seemed to have some beef with her parents although she never admitted it—at least not to him.

Maybe his grandpa was sorry that he hadn’t gotten to see more of his only grandson. Maybe in death, he was reaching out for a connection he’d always wanted. That thought made Drew sad. I’ll miss you, Grandpa. Sorry we didn’t spend more time together.

Drew glanced at his mom. He wanted to talk to her, but her phone rang.

Thanks, I’m holding up okay, she said into the phone. After listening for a while, she added, We should be there about half past six. I’ll text you when I’m at the courthouse. She ended the call.

Who was that? Drew asked.

Your grandma’s attorney.

His grandma’s attorney. His grandma needed a lawyer. She was in jail because she shot his grandpa. It all seemed so unreal. And so overwhelming. He didn’t want to tell his friends what had happened. He just texted them that he would be out of town for a few days on a family emergency. He didn’t bother to respond to their questions. He wished he could get stoned. Instead, he escaped into the music on his iPod.

* * *

By early evening, they were outside Stone Spur, Missouri, population 2,467. The speed limit dropped to 40 mph. Mae slowed. Drew noticed the businesses which lay on the outskirts of the town—a vet clinic, a car wash, a Sonic, an auto parts store. A real happening place to live.

Mae turned left at a stoplight, probably the only one for fifty miles. In a couple of blocks, they were on the town square with its VFW, café, furniture store, and stone courthouse. Most of the old brick buildings around the square were empty. What did kids his age