Sam. That’s what I think about now. About his shaggy curls, his puppy dog eyes. The smile that makes my heart melt. The ache in me is  growing every day I don’t see him, every night I spend in this house by myself with no one capable of seeing me. Nobody able to reach out and touch me. But I can’t go into the woods, I can’t go to the river and call him. I can’t go because I’m afraid. I’m terrified that he’ll look into me and see the darkness. He’ll see whatever it is that writhes in my stomach like snakes. I don’t want to feel ashamed. I don’t want to have to tell him no again. That I can’t go with him yet.

I can’t stand to see the look in his eyes when I say it. And so I just stand there, staring into the woods.  I stay that way until dawn.

            Caleb is tired the next morning. He rolls over and jams a pillow over his head when Nakia’s footsteps tap down the hallway and into the living room. He doesn’t look up. She stands in the doorway staring at his still form curled on the couch, at the cell phone he clutches in one hand and the messy circle of salt that rings the couch. She shakes her head in disbelief and turns away, the front door slams behind her and Caleb startles awake. For a minute he blinks in confusion, looking around in bewilderment. When he spots the circle of salt on the ground he flops back onto the sofa cushions and rubs his eyes, muttering to himself, “It worked. Shit, she was right.”

            He really thinks that it worked. I fold my arms across my chest and smirk at him. Is he ever in for an unpleasant surprise. The look on his face is going to be priceless. But what can I do next? What’s next on the “haunting” roster? I haven’t exactly had a lot of experience in this sort of thing. Shrugging, I trail him into the kitchen. I’ll just follow him around until an opportunity comes up I suppose.

            Once he’s out of the salt ring he looks nervous and jumpy. Darting from the living room to the kitchen, he reaches into the cupboard and snatches up a blue box labeled ‘sea salt’, and I snicker as he sets out to make himself a another circle in the center of the kitchen. When he’s done he sets the box down on the counter and his shoulders slump in relief.

            “Okay,” he says to himself, “now I can eat breakfast without being assaulted by a crazy ghost, awesome.”

            I’m not riled up enough for him to hear me, but I shoot back anyways, “Me, crazy? Isn’t talking to yourself supposed to be the first sign of insanity?”

            Rifling through the cupboards he unearths an old box of strawberry flavored pop tarts and moves to stick them into the toaster, taking care that his feet stay inside the salt circle as he does so. It’s funny to watch, because he has to stretch over the counter, standing on his tip toes and bracing himself with one hand on the edge of the counter because the toaster is nearly out of his reach. It’s tempting to give him a little shove, make him tip forward and smack his face on the counter on the way down, but I stay my hand, content to just watch him struggle to get the pop tarts into the toaster for now. They drop in and he pushes the lever down, leaning back with a grunt of satisfaction.

            Even though I can’t eat them, I can still smell the strawberry pop tarts toasting, and the scent makes me a little depressed. I used to love pop tarts. They’re so sugary and bad for you, but they taste so good. Nakia and I always used to eat them at my house the morning after we had sleepovers, watching Saturday morning cartoons in our pajamas. Giggling a little hysterically because we hadn’t slept the night before. I miss that.

            The pop tarts spring up, and Caleb actually jumps, staggering back into the middle of the circle. That chases away the dark mood, and I have to hold my sides I’m laughing so hard. The look on his face when he realizes he’s freaked out over pop tarts is hilarious. He reaches out and grabs them, hissing at the heat on his fingertips, throwing them on a plate. Then he holds the plate with both hands and turns, staring through the doorway into the living room. I realize he’s pumping himself up to take the dash from his kitchen salt circle to the living room, and that makes me even happier. I walk back through the door into the living room, standing just in front of the circle he made last night. This is going to be fun.

            Finally he takes a deep breath and jumps over the line of salt in the kitchen like an athlete taking a hurdle. For a second his socks slide on the kitchen tiles and his left arm flails comically while he clutches the plate with his right. Then he regains his balance, swearing and red in the face, and gallops into the living room, heading for the perceived safety of the couch.

            I time it perfectly, reaching a hand out to snag one of the pop tarts off the plate as he goes flying into the circle. He doesn’t even notice until he’s on the couch, panting in triumph. Then he looks up, and I can only imagine what he’s seeing. Floating pop tart anyone?

            I’m laughing so hard now I can barely breath. His face is perfect. His mouth hangs open wide, and his eyes are as round as dinner plates. My laughter seems to repress the darkness, and I become nothingness again. The tart falls through my hand and drops to the ground, splattering red strawberry filling over the hardwood floor.

            Caleb is pressing himself as far into the back of the sofa as he can, almost crawling under the couch cushions. He’s eyeing the pop tart in terror, as if it was floating by itself. The phrase “ghost pop tart” scrolls through my head, and I’m laughing again, hands on my knees, bent over and gasping for breath in between bouts of giggles.

            The melodic chime of the doorbell jerks me upright. Someone’s come calling. Another customer? Caleb’s torment is written all over his face. He wants to get up and get the door, but he keeps looking down at the pop tart, and then over at the door, then down at the pop tart, chest heaving as he gasps frantically. The doorbell rings again, and that seems to give him a bout of bravery. He springs off the couch and races around the corner, socked feet slipping on the hardwood again. He skids to a stop in the front hall and pulls the door open.

            “Hey dude,” a voice says, and then there’s a pause. “Woah…what’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

            My laugh sounds loud in the silence that follows this remark. I round the corner to see a tall, skinny boy who can’t be more then sixteen.

            “You have the money?” Caleb grunts.

            “Yeah, it’s right here. Aren’t you gonna invite me in?”

            “Not today, I have shit going on.” Caleb turns away. “Wait there.”

            Shit going on indeed. Obviously he doesn’t want his customers to see he’s cracking a bit at a time, leaving trails of salt behind him as he falls apart. He heads into the living room, and I’m left with skinny kid, who shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and leans forward, trying to see past the door into the living room. He must catch a glimpse of the salt circle, because he mutters, “What the hell?” and pulls back, shaking his head. When Caleb comes back he shoves the baggie at him. The guy gives him the money and leaves without saying anything, walking really fast down the driveway, like he can’t wait to get away from the house.

            Caleb folds his arms and stares after him. “What’s his problem?” He seem to suddenly remember that he’s not safe outside his circle, and turns abruptly, stomping back into the living room where he sits on the couch for most of the day.

            Nakia comes home after school, and he’s still there. She sets her backpack down on the floor beside the couch, staring at him. “What’s that? Are you inventing a new way to do lines?”

            “It’s salt,” he snaps. “It keeps her away from me.”

            Nakia raises her brows at him, and then backs away slowly down the hall. Her door slams, and Caleb shouts after her, “I’m not crazy! It really works!”

            Sure it does.

            There’s a knock on the door at noon. Caleb pauses, mutters something about pizza and hauls himself off the couch. He dashes to the door and yanks it open, wallet already halfway out of his pants pocket.

            It’s not the pizza boy though. I look over Caleb’s shoulder to see Larry standing on the doorstep. He’s got a baggy t-shirt with mesh sleeves on and his ball cap is crooked on his head. He’s in the process of grinding the remains of a cigarette under his oversized keds when Caleb opens the door. “Hey, bro.”

            Caleb frowns.“What are you doing here? You just stocked me up.”

            Larry makes a face at him. “Well that’s a nice how-do-you-do. I came over to get my shades. Left them here last time.”

            Caleb doesn’t say anything when Larry pushes past him, but he doesn’t look happy. Larry walks right into the games room and grabs his sun glasses off the poker table, where they’ve been sitting in a pool of sticky beer.

            “Awesome,” he says, and I can’t tell if it’s sarcasm, or he’s genuinely pleased he found them. He walks back, heading straight for the door. For a second Caleb’s face is relieved, but then Larry falters as he passes the living room. He stops, leans back and peers around the corner. He’s staring open mouthed at the salt rings. Shortly before he’d shown up, Caleb had poured smaller rings next to the big one around the couch, creating a path to the kitchen. They looked like some sort of weird reverse Japanese garden. Sea salt stepping stones.

            Larry stares at this for a moment. He turns to Caleb and says in a low voice, “What the hell is wrong with you, man?”

            Caleb’s brows draw down, his lips press into a thin line, like he’s trying to hold back an explosion. Larry goes deeper into the living room, kicking at one of the smaller circles. Salt flicks out over the hardwood, and Caleb says sharply, “Stop that!”

            “Does that bother you?” Larry tips his head to one side and kicks his foot out again, spraying the salt out further, until the circle is broken.

            “Don’t do that!” Caleb bursts out. “That’s the only thing that stops her!”

            Larry stands very still for a second, dark eyes fixed on Caleb’s face. Slowly he says, “Stops who?”

            Caleb’s entire body is tense. He squares his shoulders. “The ghost.”

            Something passes over Larry’s face. A flicker of twisted emotion.“There’s no such thing. What did I tell you about PTSD?”

            “It’s not that,” Caleb snaps. “It’s a god-damn ghost. This is the only thing that stops her. So get away from the circles.”

            Two strides is all it takes, and Larry is across the room, the fabric of Caleb’s t-shirt tangled in his fingers, yanking him forward until they’re face to face, their noses inches apart. Larry hisses, “You’re cracking. You need to get your shit sorted out, or this will end badly. I’m not going to jail with you. If I come back and see this crap here again…” he flings one hand out towards the salt scattered over the floor boards, “you and I are going to be having a very different discussion.”

            There’s a muscle ticking in Caleb’s jaw, and his face is bright red. He doesn’t lean away from Larry, he stares him right in the eyes. His hands are curled so hard into fists that his arms are trembling. He’s going to hit him. They’re going to have a fight in the middle of the living room, rolling around on top of the salt. The tension in the air feeds me. I swell with it, dark excitement blossoming.

            Disappointment crashes down on me when Caleb looks away first. He mutters his consent, and Larry turns without another word. His heavy footfalls echo in the foyer, and then the door slams, rattling the window frames. Caleb waits for the sound of a car starting up in the driveway, then he moves, swinging his fist at the wall with a scream of anger. There’s a muffled thud, and then he falls back clutching his hand.

            I drift over to the wall, ignoring his groans of pain. There’s ragged hole the size of my hand, revealing the yellow drywall underneath. I glance back over at Caleb. He’s curled on his side in one of the salt circles, holding his hand. His knuckles are already red and swollen.

He really is losing it, and it makes me smile.