Prologue

Finders Keepers

I picked up my pen and looked at the tips of it, smudged with ink from my paper as I had been writing furiously for quite some time. I cleaned it off with my finger and put the point back on the paper. The only reason I had stopped was because of a sudden cramp that had frozen my hand. Taking the hint, I had massaged my hand for a few minutes before turning back to my work. This story was going to be a masterpiece – I could feel it. Writing is my life and my stories are my pride and joy. My ideas, according to my friends who asked to read several pieces, are well rounded and each one is enjoyable and exciting. I love to hear about how much they like it and when they offer advice and opinions on it. However … there is one small problem with taking all the credit. Not all of the ideas are mine.

Am I a thief? Please. I haven't stolen anything in my seventeen years of life. How, then, am I taking something that isn't mine and making it mine all without stealing? Simple. They're given to me. He comes up with some of them and gives them to me. And I suppose being so vague about who "he" is may be slightly confusing but it's a really creepy and weird story. True, after six years it doesn't really cross me as unusual at all to think of how all this happened. I could explain myself, but when I do that people usually look at me like I have three heads or something … which I don't … I have one that sits comfortably on my shoulders.

Anyways, the whole "he" part. Well … if the story behind it is really in demand I suppose I could briefly outline it. I was eleven years old. People hated me, mainly because of my parents. Now I know, little kids shouldn't hate other little kids because of their parents. When your parents are a pair of rich snobs who basically own the entire county and have closed down so many independent businesses, other adults are going to start to hate them. I don't even know how my parents continue to make so much money … but they do. Along with that, children have a tendency to not like the people their parents hate, thereby leaving me as victim to loneliness. Parents didn't want my classmates coming over my house and children didn't want to be friends with some kid who had bad parents. It was ugly and horrible. I wouldn't relive those years for a life contract with a nationally acclaimed publishing company. It was painful.

That was when I turned to writing. I needed a way out. I needed a way to escape. I started with a journal, always mentioning how I wished I could live somewhere else. Then one day, an idea struck me. Stories can take the imagination anywhere. If I wanted to escape from such a forlorn place, all I had to do was write a story about wherever I wanted to go. I call them my Triple S stories. They were short, simple, and often stupid. When it came to helping me escape, though, they did the trick. I was on a farm, in the North Pole with Santa Claus, or learning how to become the perfect princess.

One night, I was writing a story about being a ghost hunter. Strange, I know, but I was up for something unknown and exciting. I had left my notebook to use the restroom and when I returned, I couldn't find my pencil anywhere. I could have sworn I left it right on my notebook, but it wasn't there. Giving up after several minutes, I had gone to get another pen from my desk. When I came back to my bed – there was the pen right on the notebook! I had been positive it wasn't there. Shrugging, I had taken the other pen back to my desk. But get this, when I came back to my bed the damn pen was gone again! Naturally, I started to panic a little. I knew I hadn't imagined the whole thing. That pen had been there when I left, gone when I came back, reappeared, and then was gone again! Something else funny caught my eye, though. There was something on my notebook that I had, indeed, not written and it wasn't even my handwriting. It read:

Finders keeps. I like your story.

If I hadn't just gone to the bathroom, I probably would have wet myself. All I could do was stand there, frozen like someone who had just seen a ghost. Oh, I didn't doubt the fact that there had to be something else in the room with me. But I couldn't see it … whatever it was. That's when the pen had hit me in the back of my head. Ouch? I think so. I'd yelled at whatever it was – told it not to hit me. This was my room. I wasn't about to let something push me around in it.

That was the point at which I heard a distinct laugh. It was quiet and deep – I can still hear it was though it was yesterday. It had sounded so amused and I knew that whatever was in my room was a man … or at least had been a man before he turned … invisible. I'd yelled at him again. I told him he wasn't allowed to laugh at me and that he had to leave.

He hadn't left. He wrote on my notebook again, saying that he'd never leave. I wasn't so much as scared as I was angry. I knew it was a guy's laugh, I knew he had to be older, and he was purposely staying in my room when I was a mere eleven. How long had he been there? Had he ever watched me get dressed? Had he watched me cry myself to sleep? Was I being totally and completely violated?

I started grabbing pillows off my bed and throwing them in every direction in hopes of hitting him. I was so furious that tears started to blur my vision. How could ghosts be real? It was just a story. I'd started screaming again. I screamed at him to leave me alone and get out. I thought I had to be going crazy or something. I wanted it to stop. In a fit of tears, I collapsed on my bed. It had to be a bad nightmare. Was my mind starting to confused stories with reality? What happened next is the only thing that let me know I wasn't going crazy.

The sensation of someone wiping my tears away tingled across my cheeks. I could feel their skin against mine. And then I saw it, even if it was only for a split second, a beautiful pair of dark eyes appeared right in front of mine, surrounded by dark lashes. I couldn't see anything else except for those eyes, but I knew he was smiling. Even to this day, I'm positive I saw those eyes. I know I did.

I started to grow up and so did my stories. I was enrolled in a public high school, wanting a change from the private school life. Needless to say, that was probably one of the smartest decisions I ever made. I actually had friends in high school and they helped inspire me to write some of the stories I have. It was easier to focus on subjects other than that of escape. Truth be told, there hasn't been one story he hasn't helped me with. Regardless of if he gives me the whole plot outline or simply a suggestion about how I phrase a sentence, he always helps. I guess I can't take credit for anything being one hundred percent my work except for my Triple S stories.

The only problem with relying on him for suggestions all the time is that he doesn't always reply to me. Like right now. I have no idea if he's even in my room even though he claims he never leaves, which does bother me sometimes. I hate always having to retreat to my bathroom to get some peace and quiet. He followed me there on time when I was upset. I also know for a fact that he's ventured to the other floors on several occasions. He has a distinct scent of the ocean that he carries with him … that and a peppermint smell.

Looking over my shoulder, I then turned back to my story – ready to resume my frivolous writing. I'd probably get another cramp with how fast I was writing. It's odd how much my mind wanders when I'm writing and I am still able to usually stay on subject without missing a beat. The only beat I missed was when the pen was suddenly pulled from my hand … followed by a soft snicker.

"Whatever," I breathed, grabbing another pen out of my desk drawer and resuming my work. I didn't get two words down before it was taken away from me. "Aden," I scolded, spinning around in my chair, "It's not funny."

"Calm down, Loreli." I looked around intently, trying to figure out where his voice was coming from. Even if I couldn't see him, I could still hit him.

"I'm in the middle of something important and I want to get it finished before nine o'clock so I can watch my show." I tried to keep my voice mellow, I really did. Unfortunately, it didn't work.

"Well, I don't like what you're writing so I insist you change it," He laughed. He found it highly amusing that he was always giving me input. The jokes never made me laugh, but they did help me pinpoint his location.

Swinging my arm to the side, I hit something very solid and very invisible. I felt his shirt beneath my hand and grabbed it, content to hear the shock in his voice. "Whoa there, sailor!"

"Pen, please!" He dropped both of the pens to the floor and I only let go of him to pick them up. "Thank you, dear."

"Always a pleasure, my darling."

I rolled my eyes and sat back down. After a few more paragraphs I had started to believe he was actually going to leave me alone. That was, of course, until I felt his elbow resting on my back. He was reading over my shoulder again. I hate when he reads over my shoulder. "This could be personal. Who do you think you are that you can always look over my shoulder?"

"I think I am a seventeen year old girl with lavishing brown hair that shimmers in the moonlight … so sleek and fine …" He ran his fingers through her hair and laughed again, "And I am also quite an outcast although I do have other outcasts to be an outcast with; therefore making me an incast … and I have the most stunning pair of honey eyes that Aden has ever seen. Don't forget that part about short little me not even coming up to his shoulder or the fact that I wear the strangest clothes … or the fact that I sing at the top of my lungs in the shower when I think no one can hear me, although the walls are far from soundproof and good Lord, I bet it pains Aden's sensitive ears to hear such an atrocity-," I slammed my palm into the mass beside me and heard him grunt in pain. He may be a ghost, but it doesn't stop him from being solid … if only for me.

"Why doesn't Aden shut up and stop making fun of Loreli before she decides to beat him up?" I threatened, trying to figure out if he had moved or not.

"Your show started about five minutes ago."

Annoyed, I reached for my remote and turned my TV on. Every Wednesday night I have to watch Ghost Hunters. I'm just interested in seeing if there are other ghosts like Aden out there who bother innocent people. Then again, the most ghost-like thing I've seen on the show is a glowing orb that turned out to most likely be a piece of dust. How interesting. Tonight, though, is supposed to be a really awesome one because the previews gave a hint that the members from TAPS, this paranormal society that does the ghost hunting at different places, found something really, really good. It had better be good or I'm writing to Sci-Fi and telling them that getting up everybody's hopes is mean and cruel and that I'm suing their company for raising false hopes. It's disappointing to watch all the suspense build-up, only to be let down.

Aden seems to like watching the show as well. He's always making comments about how stupid the ghosts in it seem, when he thinks there is a ghost involved. It's interesting to hear his opinion on if something is there or not. There are certain things he may catch that the ghost hunters don't. It makes me want to call in and be like "NO! GO BACK! YOU MISSED IT! GOOO BAAACK!" But I can't so I just have to learn to live with it. Speaking of ghosts…

"Aden?" I asked, lying down on my bed to watch the show.

"Yes?" I could feel him sitting down by my legs. It was weird to see an indentation on my quilt with no one sitting there.

"Why can't I see you?" I really wanted to see who he was. I mean, the guy has been living in my room for practically my whole life, half of the time against my knowledge. I thought I deserved to see him … more than just his eyes.

"Because I don't want to be seen," He said simply. I could tell he didn't want to talk about it, but I wasn't going to give up so easily.

"Are you deformed?" I blurted, picking my head up slightly, "Because if you are, I really won't care. You let me see your eyes that first day! What's the big deal about the rest of your body?"

I could hear him grumbling under his breath at my persistence. I can't help the way I am. I blame it on my parents. They think that by giving me everything I want, it'll somehow accommodate for everything that I need … which it doesn't.

"I'll show you at Christmas."

That caught me off guard. "And by show me, you mean you'll make yourself visible and watch a movie with me, right?"

"I'll think about it, Lor." Feeling content, I relaxed and turned my attention back to the show. Had I known that all I had to do was ask to see him, I would have done it a long time ago. I just always assumed that he would be there one day, looking flesh and blood. According to him, being visible meant that he would look as real as me. I sort of believed him, but I couldn't get the image of a misty transparent person appearing. Seeing someone solid would be, well, weird. Sure, I could touch him now and feel the different between his skin and his shirt … but seeing the different was a completely different thing.

"Could I just see you real quick right now?" I dared to ask, only wanting a mere glimpse of what a ghost actually looked like when it allowed itself to be seen.

"No. Now be quiet so I can watch these stupid gits wander around this stupid house and make stupid mistakes. Then again, if I miss a part, I could always watch you – being as you do stupid things every day."

"What was that, Aden? You want to watch The Exorcist? Oh, I must have misunderstood. You want me to call him? Is that it?"

And there it is … the easiest way to shut a ghost up.