Page 8 of All Her Ghosts

“Thedyingseason,” someone adds in dramatic, movie announcer emphasis.

Mrs. Wilson rolls her eyes, waving a hand like she can knock the comment out of the air.

“Yes, yes, we do tend to sensationalize this time of year. Let me reassure you, the real answer is far less interesting and more to do with state curriculum standards. So, before you ask,” she says, holding up her comment-knocking hand, “because one student always does—no, it has nothing to do with theveil between worlds growing thinneron Halloween.”

State curriculum. That’s funny. The most unintentionally honest reason for these stupid safety briefings I’ve ever heard—and I’ve heard a lot. Every year since kindergarten, always the first day of October, like clockwork.

Like propaganda.

They started feeding it to us young, a constant stream in every classroom and news broadcast, so we never think to question it. Never catch how Washington hadn’t crossed the Delaware with ghosts nipping at his heels, how Lincoln didn’t have to salt the Gettysburg National Cemetery three days ahead of his address to clear out all the ghosts.

They hit us hard and early, made it so normal we never question when our parents’ stories talk aboutsnowdays off from school instead ofghostdays—when they never mention summer swarms, ghost drain, or ghost sprays. We don’t notice that “getting home before the streetlights” used to mean avoiding getting grounded, not avoiding the grave. Or that those streetlights used to be electric, not the gas lamps ghosts can’t eat.

They teach us not to notice anything, so we swallow it down easy when they poison us with the crap they make up.

My skin buzzes, overheated and too small. Sucking my arms farther into my sweater sleeves, I sink down into my seat, picking at any flaw I can find in the skin of my arms. It almost grounds me.

Almost.

“Remnants no longer retain the means to process outside stimuli,” Mrs. Wilson drones with a perfectly placating smile, every word ringing with the cadence of government mandates—and did the government mandate that patronizing smile too? Does the “state curriculum” dictate how many teeth they need to show when they lie to us? How much skipped-stone eye contact over the students’ faces makes it look honest?

“Everything they appear to experience is only an echo of their own life.”

This is why it’s so important I don’t drop out? So I can sit herelistening to Mrs. Wilson parroting the same word-for-word propaganda as if it’s not made-up? Like 80 percent of the population can’t see the ghosts with our own eyes? Like there wasn’t one sitting outside the school gates, clearly waiting for something—

Someone.

“Despite what they may appear to experience, ghosts are not substantive. They are without sense or memory.”

My fingernails dig into my arms hard enough to hurt.

“Theydoremember, though,” I blurt. “They seek out family members, manifest inside their old homes. If you actually pay attention, you can see bits and pieces of what they used to look like. What is that if not memory?”

Library Boy perks up from his bored stupor. His head twitches my way, a glitter of mischief kindling. Unfortunately, other kids look too. Someone laughs, “What, you hold a lot of séances, Spooky?” and a pack of mean little snickers answer.

Mrs. Wilson ignores it. Revenge for earlier, I guess, deciding she’s not paid enough to pick this battle either. She rolls straight over me, folding my protest into her spiel.

“Even if the remnant were to fully manifest in the guise of a family member—which, I should add, is so rare as to be functionally impossible—it is residual energy only. They cannot be spoken to or reasoned with. A remnant feels no emotion or pain, so we must not feel guilty or hesitant to use our protective equipment.”

“Convenient,” I mutter. Library Boy smiles, sneaky. It sends a spark shooting through my stomach, threatening to burn its way out.

I’ve gotta stop looking at him. With effort, I drag my eyes away. At the front of the room, Mrs. Wilson turns to the whiteboard.

“Moving on, let’s get through this quickly. What’s an item or protective equipment we use to ward against remnant activity?”

An arm shoots up across the room. “Ghost salts!”

Mrs. Wilson nods, writing it on the board. “Correct. Ghost salts are always our first line of defense. It disrupts the manifestation, allowing us time to vacate the area of infestation. Now, will—”

In my peripheral, I catch Library Boy straighten. I don’t know him, but I know trouble. True to form, he spies his opportunity and pounces. “How does it work?”

Blinking, Mrs. Wilson turns. “Pardon? If you have a question, Sebastian, I expect to see a raised hand.”

“You can look at both my hands, I don’t care. I just wanna understand how it works. Ghosts are pure energy; they absorb electricity wherever they cross it. Salt water is a conductor. Shouldn’t it make them stronger?”

One of the indistinguishable mean girl trio rolls her eyes, announcing loudly, “It cleanses them, duh.”

Library Boy—Sebastian—grins. “You saying you’d disappear if you took a shower? That’s rough, buddy.”