fuonlyknew

Excerpt:

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PROLOGUE

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Katy

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THE EARTHY AROMA of decay nestles in her nose. She spits out a mouthful of soil. Her teeth are gritty and  she grinds her jaw as she digs in the dirt with a stick.  Digging deep so the message will
remain until next  time. The stick breaks. 

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“Damn!” She throws the stick. Her companion, a  black dog with a white star patch, sniffs the air then  growls. 

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Katy stops. “Coyote, are they here?” 

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The dog whines, stands, and begins to pace. The  leaves whisper as a cool breeze passes through. High pitched screeches and the click of gnashing teeth echo  in the distance. 

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Coyote barks.  

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Katy’s heart drops in her chest. She doesn’t have  much time. She claws at the ground; her nail tears off  and blood mixes with the dirt, but she does not stop. 

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Coyote barks and barks and barks. Katy digs and  digs and digs. 

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  She needs to finish. She needs to make sure the message remains so that it will be here for her next  time. So she will find it and remember. 

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Coyote barks. Katy digs. The wind howls. It whips around her. The loose dirt stings her face and eyes.  Tears stream down and she chokes back a sob.

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Time freezes into silence. Nothing moves. 

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The wind stops. 

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Coyote stops barking.  

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Katy stops digging and looks up.

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A loud thump shakes the ground, followed by a low watery growl. The smell of rotten eggs linger. “Come, Coyote!” Katy’s foot slips in the loose soil as  she pulls herself up and runs. Coyote bolts
ahead. The creature chases her and the dog.  

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  It flies over her message but does not disturb the soil. 

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Ask the girl.

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CHAPTER 1

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Lila

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I WAS TOLD every person experiences three deaths.   The first is when the body stops working. The second is when you’re sent to your grave. The third is in the future, when the last person  who remembers you dies, and speaks your name no  more. 

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My father has died twice but still lives on in my heart. But this doesn’t comfort me. 

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I pressed my forehead against the cold glass as  I stared out the car window. Trees and buildings  whizzed by, sending a wave of nausea through my  body. I inhaled deeply, pushing it back along with a  deep ache of loss. No more late-night movies. No more  corny jokes about how I’m not allowed to date. No  more childhood home as the car pulled onward to our  new lives in Missouri with my aunt and uncle. 

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A furry black blur dashed out from behind a  billboard sign. “Mom, watch out!” 

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The car lurched as Mom and Rose jumped from my outburst. “Lila, what is it?”

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I waited for the thump, but instead only heard the steady rhythm of tires on pavement. I whirled around,  expecting to find a flattened animal out the back window—but nothing. “Didn’t you see it?”

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“See what?” Rose asked, peeking out the back. “I think it was a cat or dog?” 

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“I don’t see anything.” Rose turned back around.  Her head was shaking as she nestled her earbuds into  her ears. She thinks I’m making things up, again. I  know she thinks I’m being the dramatic,
unreliable  older sister. The sister she can’t count on, who stirs up trouble and starts fires. But I didn’t start the fire. No one believes me that I didn’t do it. I was just at the  wrong place at the wrong time. I
tried to explain that  to Mom and Rose, but they didn’t believe me. But it’s  been that way ever since I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. When people know, they treat you differently,  even your
family. 

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“Whatever it was, I missed it,” Mom said. Her eyes  met mine in the rearview mirror. “Lila, are you okay?”   “I’m fine.” She thought I made it up too. “Sure?”

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  “Mom, I’m fine,” I said. 

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Mom held up her hands. “Okay, okay.” 

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The car went silent. 

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Rose turned up her music, blocking me out. Mom  gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles  were white as sun-bleached driftwood. She mumbled  to herself, sighed, and clicked on the car’s
blinker.  It ticked loudly, announcing our descent onto the Parkville exit. 

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The car turned down Main Street, lined with old Western-style brick buildings. Ancient homes perched  on the bluffs and cliffs above the town. On the other  side, a muddy, choppy river flowed a
few hundred feet from the road.

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“This place hasn’t changed much,” Mom said. Rose squirmed in the front seat as she stared wide eyed out her window, her phone held up as always,  recording a video. “I can’t wait to do my documentary.  I found out that this town has a ghost!” 

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“Well, there’s a lot of history in this town. That’s for sure.” Mom drove the car slowly up Main Street.  “Too much history,” she mumbled. Mom caught her  reflection in the rearview mirror and fixed
her hair frantically. She had the same blonde hair as I did, but  her eyes were a brighter green.

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Aunt Theresa and Uncle John are nice but a little  different. They’re complete opposites—my aunt, a true  Midwest lady who hugs, kisses everyone, and makes the  best baked goods ever; my uncle, a rough, tattooed, bald  biker who tells long stories about his good old days. We  only saw them once a year, which was enough for me.  Now I have to figure out how to live with them. 

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We drove through downtown Parkville and entered  a subdivision of colonial-type homes sitting high on  steep hills above the road. Tall oaks and maple trees  shaded the street and sidewalk where
families in  shorts and T-shirts walked their dogs, rode bikes, and pushed baby strollers. Eventually the houses became  fewer and Mom turned onto a small gravel road with  a sign that read, “Cooper’s Inn.” The road wound up,  and our small car groaned as it climbed the steep hillside. The trees closed in around the driveway but  soon opened up to a grand three-story Victorian home  with a broad wraparound porch and four spiraling  pillars, much like Juliet’s tower. 

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“Wow!” Rose was gazing out of her window. The  house rested on a bluff overlooking the Missouri River,  rolling hills, bluffs, and some of the town. “I always  love the view here.”

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My aunt waited at the back door with a warm  smile and waved as we pulled up. Her long dark  hair sprinkled with gray blew into her face when she  stepped outside. She wiped her hands on an apron
dotted with flour and dough before tucking her hair behind her ears. Mom and Rose went to greet her,  but I walked to the back of the car to get my bags to  avoid the hugs and pinched cheeks. A flash of bright light appeared out of the corner of my eye. Near the  forest, small globes of light
floated around the trees. I squinted to get a closer look. 

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“Yoo-hoo, Liiilaaa!” My aunt walked toward me,  arms wide open. My heart dropped and my chest  tightened, bubbling up against the urge to scream or  cry uncontrollably, but I knew I had to get this
part  over. So I closed my eyes and let my aunt drown me in  her arms.

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  It will be fine, Lila. 

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Relax.

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Breathe.

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About Kim Bartosch:

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Kim is a young adult writer of
paranormal mysteries and thrillers. She is fond of ghost stories and has experienced many hauntings during several paranormal investigations. She has contributed many articles regarding travel, hauntings, and more on various sites. Kim has been on several ghost hunts across the U.S. with her sister. She photographed a
ghost at the Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

As an advocate for Autism and Bipolar Disorder, Kim offers her support to many charities and programs, such as Joshua Center and Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance (DBSA). Kim feels
there aren’t enough programs for mental disabilities. Her goal is to give as much help to set up these organizations for success so individuals, such as her autistic son and bipolar sister, will have the support they need.

Kim is an avid member of the Society of Children Book Writers & illustrators (SCBWI.org) contributing her time to many events and conferences.

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