Haunting Joy: Book 1: Haunting Joy, #1

By Lena Goldfinch

A soft, sliding kind of sigh wakes me up. It’s hardly a noise at all.

I blink to clear my sticky, early-morning vision. I know I heard a sound, an almost human-sounding sigh, coming from the corner of my room. As I slide my gaze that way, a chill slithers over me. My room feels creepy and strange.

I peer into the corner and the white dress is no longer heaped in a haphazard pile on my armchair. It’s laid out nice and neat, with the straps up over the back cushion and the skirt spread over the seat. The flip-flops are sitting side by side in front of the chair, toes pointed toward me.

Like there’s an empty girl, in an empty dress, looking right at me.

The ghost of Beth sweeps seventeen-year-old Joy into an extraordinary journey to complete some unfinished business...and challenges her to make some dangerous choices. Like calling Joy's high-school crush, Nick, for help.

"A sweet and charming ghost story that completely won me over." Lena Coakley, Witchlanders

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lena Goldfinch
• Release date: Oct 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540167866

Lena Goldfinch

LENA GOLDFINCH writes heartwarming romance and romantic fantasy for adults and teens. She's a sucker for a good old-fashioned romance, whether it's a novel, novella, or short story, young adult or adult, fantasy or realistic, contemporary or historical. Elements of romance, fantasy, and mystery have a way of creeping into her writing, whether she's writing historicals or something light and contemporary. Her works include: * THE UNEXPECTED BRIDE (Sweet Historical Romance) -- Coming October 6, 2014, Now Available for Pre-Order! * THE LANGUAGE OF SOULS * AIRE * SONGSTONE * HAUNTING JOY * TAKE A PICTURE: A Novella * CHAIN REACTION: A Short Story (Prequel to HAUNTING JOY) Future works: HAUNTING MELODY (HAUNTING JOY : Part 2) "Danger, magic, romance, and royal intrigue, AIRE is a must read!" --NYT Bestselling Author JESSICA ANDERSEN "Looking for something fresh and new to read? Try Lena Goldfinch's AIRE." --SERENA CHASE, USA Today HEA "SONGSTONE sings with characters who come to life, a story full of magic, heart and adventure, and a world that lets you smell the sea air and feel the tropical sun on your back." --LISA GAIL GREEN, author of The Binding Stone "SONGSTONE...an original fantasy world inhabited by superstitious tribal nations and intriguingly developed characters." --SERENA CHASE, USA Today HEA "THE LANGUAGE OF SOULS...the perfect tiny romantic escape." --Tales of Whimsy Twitter: @lena_goldfinch FB: https://www.facebook.com/lenagoldfinch Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/lenagoldfinch Website: http://www.LenaGoldfinch.com

Book preview

One

I never believed in ghosts,

until it happened to me.

At the time, it seemed like any other lazy Thursday afternoon in August. If I’d been paying more attention—if I’d known better—maybe I would have sensed an extra crackle of intensity in the air. Or some shivery, extrasensory perception. Something like that. But, as it was, I was completely unaware of any mysterious sensations and wasn’t looking for anything unusual…

I yank open the lid to the cardboard box on my bedroom floor and start sifting through the clothes my gran got me, stuff she’s found at yard sales and thrift stores. The first thing I pull out is a super-soft, oversized gray cotton hoodie. I hold it in front of me. It has that slightly funky, thrift-store smell, the musty scent of old clothes that have been stuffed in a plastic bag and left in an attic for a season or two. I wrinkle my nose, planning to do a heavy-duty wash on anything I decide to keep—with extra fabric softener.

Passable, my friend Emily says, tilting her head to one side. She’s sprawled across my comforter on her stomach, propped on her elbows.

I look in the full-length mirror and wiggle my hips, just to be goofy. Deciding the hoodie’s definitely passable, I throw it on my desk chair, starting a keeper pile.

You want this? I ask, holding up a pair of Arctic Pack jeans, the kind she likes. Emily’s mom shops at the mall and buys all new clothes. And not always on sale. My grandmother would do her la-de-da head shake if I told her that, which is why I never tell her anything about Emily’s family. Anyway, Emily has all sorts of clothes, but she still sometimes likes to get the occasional freebie from my boxes.

Nah, I’m good, she says.

Meaning you’re too lazy to get up, right?

Possibly.

I smile. Normally, I’d feel the same, but school’s right around the corner, and I’m anxious to find a few new outfits. I shimmy out of my baggy track shorts and pull the jeans on. They promptly slide over my hips and down around my ankles. Emily starts giggling uncontrollably, and I grab a T-shirt from the box and toss it at her head.

"Ew, that stinks." She flings it to the floor and pinches her nose.

That’s what you get. I shoot her an evil grin and giggle at the twisty little face she makes back at me. Not even a belt is going to make these jeans work for me, so I kick them off and start my giveaway pile. As I dig through the box some more, a white plastic bag with a red Target bull’s-eye catches my eye, and I pull it out.

What’s that? A bag of old-ladies’ panties? Emily giggles helplessly again and buries her face into her arms.

Ha ha. I joke back, but as I open the bag, I’m like one of those CSI bomb-squad guys defusing a mysterious package. The bag doesn’t weigh much, so it can’t be jeans or sweaters or anything like that. I think it’s a dress, I say as I lift out a tissue-paper-thin bundle of white fabric. I shake it out by the straps and hold it up to my chest.

"Ohhhhh. Emily sits up quick, her eyes now lit with interest. That’s pretty."

Yeah. It is, I say, a little surprised at myself. I don’t wear dresses. It’s kind of my thing. I wear your standard skinny jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers to school. Maybe my good western boots if I’m in the mood. Still, I stare at myself in the mirror and, well, I like it. A dress. Which is just—weird. There’s also a pair of white flip-flops in the bottom of the bag. I pull them out. Something slides out along with them and falls to the floor at my feet—a pink ribbon with a glass heart pendant.

"Ohhhhh, that’s pretty too." Emily reaches for the necklace, but I snatch it up first. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m going to wear anything pink. Ever.

I got it, I say, feeling my face grow hot. I toss it on my dresser like it’s no biggie—and, honestly, it’s not like I’m ever going to wear it. Probably.

Really, Joy? It’s not like I was going to take it. Emily looks at me like I’ve just accused her of stealing or something.

I know. I slip the flip-flops on. They’re a perfect fit. With the dress straps still pressed to my shoulders, I stare at myself in the mirror, sort of stunned at my own image. I pivot left and right, and it swings happily along with me. Warm, welcoming tingles spread all over me. It’s silly maybe, but it feels like this dress is made for me. Like it likes me. A floaty, girly-girl dress with shoulder straps. Not spaghetti-thin straps, but, still, straps.

You know, Emily says, I kind of like that. Maybe I’ll try it on—

She stands up and reaches for the dress, but I jerk away, pinning the fabric to my shoulders.

We both freeze. We’ve always had this sort of Emily-Joy understanding: if Emily ever wants something, I give it to her, because, really, she cares way more about clothes than I do. It’s been this way between us since fifth grade, when we first became friends. It’s never been an issue. Nothing has ever mattered to me before, not until this dress. Now something matters. I want this something for me.

You don’t even wear dresses. Emily plops down on the bed. She crosses her arms over her stomach and frowns. It’s not a mad kind of frown. More like I’m a puzzle she can’t figure out.

I know..., I mumble. That tingly-warm, welcome-home feeling enfolds me again. It’s just...I kinda like this one. That’s all.

By like, I mean suddenly irrationally obsessed with, have to have it, it’s mine and you can’t have it.

Yeah, that. So weird.

Okay, so you like it. She waggles her head, which is her standard if-you-say-so gesture.

Yeah, I guess I do. I smile a little, feeling light and bubbly inside. The girl in the mirror looks like a whole new me. I’m standing a little straighter; even my smile seems more confident.

Well, then, try it on. She swings one tanned leg over the other and bounces her foot up and down, waiting.

I should probably let her have it. It’s funny that it feels like such a big deal, but it’s just that Emily has always been a little more—I don’t know—prettier, smarter, more confident. More everything. For some unknown reason, today, holding this dress, I find myself wanting to be more too. So I strip off my t-shirt and pull the dress on over my sports bra. It floats down around me, deliciously cool and slippery against my skin.

But when I tug it the rest of the way down, something pierces my waist, like a thorn.

Or spider teeth.

I shriek and pull the dress away from me, flapping the fabric around and trying to jerk it up over my head all at the same time.

"What is wrong with you?" Emily hovers nearby, clearly afraid to step in and get elbowed in the face.

"It’s a spider! I think it’s a spider!"

Sometimes you are just so weird, she jokes. Here. Stop moving. She edges in, plucks the fabric away from my waist, and shakes firmly. Something prickly falls through to the ground. I feel it slide down my leg.

What is it? It’s possible I’m squealing. Okay, I’m squealing, full-out. I hate spiders. Hate. Hate. Hate.

Emily starts squealing too. It’s a bee! I think it’s a bee!

I see it then: a yellow and black shell-like thing on the floor.

Kill it! I scramble backward, tripping over the box. I wheel my arms to catch my balance and just barely prevent myself from falling flat on my butt.

"No way, you kill it!"

It hasn’t moved, not even a twitch, so I grab a pencil off my dresser and push at it, poking it experimentally, pretending—pretty bravely I think—that we’re in Biology Lab or something. It’s dead, I say, wilting a little in relief.

You sure? Emily leans in closer, taking a look at it. The thing is curled up like a quotation mark on my hardwood floor.

It’s totally crunchy, I say, not completely reassured myself.

I think it’s been dead a long time.

Oh, good. She squints at it. I hate bees.

Me too, but I think it’s a wasp. Or maybe a yellow jacket.

Same thing, right?

I guess. I scoop it up in a tissue, shiver in disgust, and toss it into the mini trashcan by my door. I look at Emily, and we start laughing, embarrassed at how we totally lost it.

Listen... Emily slips into her sandals and starts backpedaling toward the door. I’ve gotta go now, but I’ll call ya later. Nice dress. It really does look good on you.

Aw, thanks, Em, I say, feeling a glow of friendship as I follow her down to the front door. She’s not mad about the dress after all. Although, after the bee-wasp incident, I have to say my tingly-warm connection to it has faded a bit. I watch Emily hop into her mom’s old white Volvo. She pulls out of the driveway. After pausing to give me an airy wave, she drives off.

As soon as she’s gone, I race back to my room and yank the dress over my head. I throw it toward the armchair in the corner, and it floats down on a soft pillow of air, coming to rest on the seat, a silky white pool of fabric. I kick the flip-flops off too. They land in a jumbled teepee under the chair. I leave them there, leave the opened box of clothes there too. I’m done with trying stuff on.

Friday morning a soft, sliding kind of sigh wakes me up. It’s hardly a noise at all.

I groan—still not knowing any better, still sort of half-asleep—and let my arm flop off the side of the bed.

Must be the dog.

Hey, Blackie boy, I mumble as I roll onto my side, looking in the corner for my black Lab. He makes all sorts of noises. Although...his sighs are usually world-weary, trying-to-be-patient-with-the-humans sighs, not eerie and soft like this one. Was that you? You hungry?

Blackie’s not in the corner.

I blink to clear my sticky, early-morning vision and glance around. Blackie is lying by the foot of my bed, staring over his shoulder at me quizzically, as only a dog can, with eyes that seem inexpressibly old.

I know I heard a sound, an almost human-sounding sigh, and it came from the corner of my room. Inside my room. I’m sure of it. As I slide my gaze back that way, a chill slithers over me. You know, like that moment in the dark when you suddenly think someone—or something—might be in the room with you.

Only, my room’s not dark at all. It’s clear and bright outside. Sunlight is pouring through my skylight. Even so, my room feels creepy and strange now. I peer into the corner, searching for any sign of movement, for anything different, like a mouse or squirrel or something. But the dog would have been all over that, I think, wouldn’t he? The only thing I see is my chair.

Except...the white dress is no longer heaped in a haphazard pile. It’s laid out all nice and neat, with the straps up over the back cushion and the skirt spread out over the seat. The two matching flip-flops are sitting side by side in front of the chair, toes pointed toward me. Like there’s an empty girl sitting there, in an empty dress, with her empty flip-flops, looking right at me.

I sit up quick and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The room tilts around me, and the floor’s flying up to meet my face, so I grab the edge of my mattress and take a deep,