Ghost Academy: Book One
E.C. Farrell
Copyright © 2020 by E.C. Farrell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contact authorecfarrell@gmail.com for more information.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Also by E.C. Farrell
About the Author
Chapter One
Dying feels like waking up.
I blink my eyes open and push myself off the ground, all the solidness and weight of a physical body simply gone. No longer held down by blood and bones and skin, I hover in midair, like when you’re completely submerged under water. All the heavy is gone.
Every movement feels oddly fluid. Cold and confusion send me spinning. Literally. I don’t recognize this field with its tall grass and fallen fence lit by a fat yellow moon. I don’t recognize the mountains surrounding me. I don’t remember why I’m here. I don’t remember where here is.
And, most terrifying of all, I don’t remember who I am.
One piece of information settles in my brain. A single name. My name. Billie.
Billie who? I can’t even remember what I look like, much less how I died.
This lack of memory is almost as jarring as the fact that I’m dead in the first place. Kind of a dumb point to get hung up on all things considered.
I press my palms to the sides of my head and try to think. Strands of long, blond hair brush my knuckles, floating around me as if lifted by the wind. That aspect of my appearance I remember. Maybe. It’s hard to tell if this is information I’ve retained or if I only think I knew it before. I definitely don’t remember anything else about how I look.
I sweep my gaze down and take in my battered jeans, hiking boots, and teal jean jacket. They all shine with a faint light, and I can see straight through all of this, right to the grass beneath me. With a shiver I squeeze my eyes shut and try to focus on the next thing.
Maybe...maybe the body I left behind is close by?
With a wince and a healthy load of dread, I scan the field, but see nothing. I’m only half relieved. This doesn’t make any sense. Then again, I don’t know much about death. I don’t think. Did I have beliefs about the afterlife when I was alive? I can’t remember that either. This confusion only intensifies the feeling that at any minute I might get sucked away by some unseen force.
It’s a little like shooting down a slide, gravity pulling you toward the pebbles at the bottom. I chuckle at the thought. Hopefully I won’t be headed in that direction. At least not if “down” means the bad place. Then again, I don’t remember what kind of person I was when I was alive, so I guess it’s possible I shouldn’t expect any rewards.
A roar splinters the quiet around me. I cover my ears. It’s a combination of sorrow and rage all twisted together like a horrible, mournful tornado. Something about it sounds familiar, but again I can’t remember why. I sink under the weight of its despair, cringing as a thick shadow tumbles across the field. Its presence saps all life out of the air. A super weird thought considering I’m dead. It swirls around me and I’m terrified it will drag me into its orbit.
Is this death? Like, capital “D” death? Because if it is, I am so not following it to any kind of white light or shining doorway. I’ll go haunt some old mansion before I let this thing take me with it.
In a moment of blind panic, I uncurl and dig my voice out of the bottom of my gut. “Back off!”
It’s an insanely stupid thing to say, but it’s apparently effective because the whirlwind screams again, then twists up toward the stars overhead. Still spinning and crying out, it dissipates over the tree line and into the darkness beyond.
I drop my hands and stare after it. There’s a tug at my stomach, like a magnet pulling me in its direction. Though it terrified me before, now I choke on sadness. Tears cold as frost drift down my cheeks. I cross my arms over my middle. Confused. Untethered. Lost. Maybe I should have followed it. Fear tells you a lot, but sometimes it is irrational.
Now that I’m completely alone I struggle to catch my breath. How I can possibly do this without a body, I have no clue, but either way it has the same effect as hyperventilating would on a living person. My head spins.
I’m dead.
I’m alone.
I don’t know who I am.
A soft voice from behind cuts off my thoughts. “Billie Jean Martin?”
With a gasp, I spin around to face two men, both slightly translucent and shining, both in their upper teens like me. The older of the pair, a black-haired dude wearing a sweater vest, is smiling at me. It’s the kind of look you give someone you know will run if you make a sudden movement.
The other guy doesn’t look at me at all. He jiggles his hands in the pockets of his jeans, staring after that tornado thing. He’s a total boy next door type. Wispy strands of dark hair fall over his brows and the collar of his flannel shirt is popped up to his chin. A flush of red stains his cheeks, almost like he’s been standing out in the cold for far too long.
I may be dead, but apparently my metaphorical heart still works, because I’m definitely feeling something fluttering in my
