A Question of Ghosts
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“Becca.” The voice from the radio’s small speaker was tinny and faint.
Becca’s finger stilled on the circular dial. Bette Midler warbled briefly about the wind beneath her wings and the music faded again into static. Becca nudged the dial one notch, and “The Living Years” trickled from the speaker. She turned the dial back to the static.
“Becca.”
A damp chill worked up Becca’s back and she hunched closer over the small blue box. “Is this a birthday present?” she whispered. “Hello?”
She turned sixteen today, and she hadn’t heard this voice in eleven years.
“Not true,” the voice whispered and fell silent.
Becca closed her eyes and listened. Nothing but soft, crackling static for a full minute, two.
After five minutes, she sat up and looked around, dazed. Her bedroom hadn’t changed. Weak light still played through the butt-ugly frilly curtains she would never have picked out. A faint aroma of chocolate reached her from the birthday cake her aunt was baking downstairs. Becca realized she was trembling.