CHAPTER ONE:

I STARED DOWN AT MY FATHER, LYING peacefully upon the bed. His chest heaved with his last few breaths still clinging within him. Never before had I seen him look so…defenseless. My brother, Tristan sat in one of the chairs by the bed; I couldn’t sit down – I couldn’t move.

“Max…Tristan…” Dad gasped, his voice raspy with remnants of life still gripping his throat.

“We’re here, Dad,” Tristan said. I just stood still, my feet frozen into the flooring. He turned his head, facing us and his eyes were hallow, ghostly eyes. They weren’t his and I almost turned away.

“Endure,” was all he said, before those spirit-eyes rolled back into his head, leaving nothing in their place but an eerie feeling of aloneness.

Endure. No famous last words of wisdom, no confession of not wanting the kind of life we lived for his sons, no apology, and no advice. Though maybe “endure” was wisdom enough coming from Dad. He was never big on words anyways, probably because he was never around to share them.

I looked up towards Tristan and noticed how hard his face was, like a sculpted marble statue. His eyes couldn’t move from the body and his mouth was a flat line, no emotion. Then again, Tristan was about as big on emotion as Dad was on words.

Suddenly, Dad’s body began to take on a state unlike any logical stages of decomposition. His body began to turn a gray, ashen color before dissolving into the sheets. I screamed but terror caught the voice in my throat, grasped onto it, and wouldn’t let it escape.

Tristan looked from the body to me as if I had screamed, though I hadn’t heard anything. His eyes were no longer stone but shown with sorrow, apologetic sorrow.

“It’s gonna be alright, Max. We’ve survived alone pretty good these past years and we’ll do it again.”

He took my hand in his and together, we left that house that had been our home for the past week and a half, and climbed into the old, dilapidated ’65 F-100. The black paint was peeling and the steering wheel had been replaced about four times but there were tons of memories in that damned truck.

We peeled away from the house and never returned to it…until now that is. I stood on the porch, looking at the peeling, green door that was now falling off its hinges. It was hard to believe that we were here once again, ten years later.

“Come on, Max,” Tristan sighed, “We’re going to have to go in sometime, might as well be now, huh?” He shoved me through the door. I stood in the entrance, looking around at the ugly floral wallpaper and antique furnishings. Definitely not Dad’s taste but it was a place to stay and at the time, we really needed a place to stay.

“Hard to believe it’s been ten years,” I say, following him further into the house, “We weren’t here long. What makes you think that Dad’s book is here?”

“It isn’t anywhere else,” Tristan answered, clearly annoyed and impatient, “We gotta find that book, Max. Dad recorded every hunt, every kill since he studied under his dad. It has all the secrets, all the clues, and all the hints we need.”

“I don’t get why we have to keep doing this,” I flopped down on one of chairs in the living room, “I mean, we never actually chose this life, did we?”

“Neither did Dad but he did it,” Tristan rummaged through the old writing desk, flinging papers here and there, not really caring where they happened to land, “We’ve been through this, Max – Dad saved lots of lives and he trained us to do the same.”

“I guess,” I began to pick at a thread on the couch’s seam, “So, found anything yet?”

“No. But it’s got to be here. When he…” Tristan’s eyes flickered towards me and he didn’t finish the thought, “I didn’t think to grab his book. Max, this might not be the life you imagined yourself having but it’s a necessary life and one that someone has to live, why not you?”

I decided not to argue with him. Ten years of arguing hadn’t gotten me very far so why would it suddenly change its course now? I sat there quietly on the couch as Tristan continued searching for the book. Dad had logged every single hunt, every kill, every trick and we needed it desperately.

Hunt, kill – might sound like your average hunting terms and I must admit, when I was younger and Dad and Tristan would leave me wherever we were staying to go on a hunt, that’s what I thought was happening. I never asked when they never returned with a bear or a deer or a rabbit. I just assumed they hadn’t gotten their game. When I was seven, I quickly learned how wrong I was.

It was my seventh birthday when I went on my first hunt with Dad and Tristan. Tristan was seventeen at the time and had been on lots of hunts. He told me the first time is never easy but I’d get used to it. That was right before we packed into the truck and drove off. We drove for miles and miles, not stopping at all the hot hunting attractions.

The truck finally stopped at a cemetery and Dad pointed his boot towards one of the tombstones. Allie Mae Louise. I’ll never forget the name though the moss had somewhat grown over it and stained the stone a pukey shade of green. Dad nodded towards the stone before saying:

“Max, this is your first hunt and it’s about time you learn what we do. This is the family business, Max and one day, it’ll be your job – your responsibility.”

He had then continued to tell me that Miss Louise’s ghost haunted the cemetery and it was my job to put her soul to rest. I had laughed, thinking it was crazy. My dad and my older brother were off their rocker and I remember begging to go home.

Of course, Dad wasn’t big on whining kids and I did as he asked. I had dug up her grave, recited the prayer in Dad’s book, and did everything he had told me to, thinking I was losing it too. When we got home that night, Tristan told me everything.

He told me that Dad was a Tracker, just like his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. He said that Trackers had been in our family for centuries and it was their job – our job – to track spirits that haunted our world and put them to rest. I hadn’t believed him at first but went along with it anyways. When you are seven and you idolize your big brother, it isn’t always the best idea to accuse him of being insane.

“Found it!” Tristan announced, “Let’s roll.”

I hopped up from the couch and followed him back out to the truck, “Hey, Tristan um…where to now?”

“Hotel I guess. I’m not stayin’ in that house. We’ll get a bite to eat and do some more research, find new ground to clear.”

I nodded, playing with the radio a bit before getting my hand slapped away.

“My car, my radio.”

“It’s not your car,” I rolled my eyes despite how immature it was and said defensively, “It’s Dad’s and I want to listen to the radio.”

“Fine,” Tristan flicked the knob around before landing on heavy rock, knowing how much I hated heavy rock. It was nothing more than a bunch of people screaming into microphones about being anti-commercial and earning about 150K a year. I wonder what they think about anti-commercial now that they’re living in their multibillion dollar mansions.

“I looked up something last night,” Tristan said, keeping his eyes on the twilight-dimmed road ahead, “There’s something about a haunting in a high school south of Charleston.”

“South Carolina?” I asked, not quite believing what he had just said.

“You’re the smart one,” Tristan scoffed, “Anyway, the story online said something about a girl who killed herself in the upstairs bathroom. There are stories about how some students have been behaving weirdly.”

“They’re high school students, of course they’re behaving weirdly,” I rolled my eyes again, all too familiar with the stupidity of high school.

“Yeah well I am talking about real haunting here, Max. One student threw himself down the stairs and was killed instantly upon impact.”

“So?”

“So this kid was an honors student, football captain, captain of the debate team, and lead in every drama performance. He had everything going for him and to just end it like that…”

“Kids do weird shit,” I reminded him, “Especially in high school. Maybe he actually made a B on an essay and couldn’t take the pressure. Don’t you think that’s more likely than spooks haunting the halls?”

Tristan, for the first time since we got in the car, stared at me as if I were insane, “You’re kidding, right? No way would a kid like that just off himself. But if you need more convincing, the janitor apparently blew up at one of the teachers and stabbed him.”

“With what? His mop?”

“Don’t be a smartass,” Tristan turns back to the road, “With an envelope-opener, moron. The principal said in the news articles that this is highly unlikely and would like some answers. I plan to go and get some.”

“Alright. What’s the name of this school?”

“Jane Hopkins Academy…”

“You gotta be kidding me!” I throw my head back against the head rest, “A bunch of preppy rich kids! Fantastic! Fine, let’s just get this one over with. I think you’ll realize that some kids are just screwed up. It doesn’t mean they’re haunted.”

“We’ll see.”