Heidi Sees

By David R. Michael

Heidi Crolley sees ghosts. She doesn’t know why, but it probably has something to do with her father, who died when she was eight. Her mother never believed her, which is 100% why Heidi lives half a continent away.

After a childhood of emotional trauma, Heidi has created a quiet life where she can avoid the most demanding of the local ghosts—and any contact with her mother. But on a Sunday afternoon in May, Heidi discovers there is one ghost that can make her go home again...

• Language: English
• Publisher: David R. Michael
• Release date: May 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224197521

David R. Michael

Most days, David Michael is a software developer and a writer. Some days, he’s a writer and a software developer. Other days, he’s an amateur photographer. Because, really, who is the same person every day?David is the designer and developer of The Journal, personal journaling software for Windows. He has also designed and developed video games, and has written two nonfiction books and numerous articles about video game development.David lives with his wife and kids in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Book preview

1

My name is Heidi Crolley. I'm 30-mumble years old. A Web page programmer. Single (ish). And I can see ghosts.

I can explain. Mostly.

First, Heidi is a family name on my father's side. Goes back five generations, or so I was told.

Second, I was born an increasingly long time ago that we won't discuss further.

Third, I'm a nerd.

And, fourth, my boyfriend/roommate and I recently decided that he and my other roommate would make a happier couple than he and I. No hard feelings. Seriously. Because finding a two-bedroom apartment in San Jose, California, and roommates you don't hate who help to make that apartment affordable is enough of a challenge. It's not personal, Don Corleone might say, it's modern living arrangements.

As for the seeing ghosts thing? It probably has something to do with my dad, since his was the first ghost I saw, at age eleven. Too bad my mother never believed me, which set the tone of our relationship for the next twenty-two years.

Hold that thought. We'll come back to it.

On this particular Sunday afternoon, which was, ironically, Mother's Day, I was lounging/slouching on the chaise portion of the dark blue Ikea Kivik sectional sofa my former boyfriend had contributed when he moved in, enjoying both the solitude and the near-silence of an empty apartment. I didn't even have music playing. It was just me and a sci-fi romance novel.

I was wearing my favorite pair of black gym pants, which dated back to my first year in San Francisco, and an oversized, long sleeve black-and-green Xbox t-shirt I had scored at a conference about the same time. My almost-curly, shoulder-length, dark brown hair was pulled back from my face with an acid green elastic band. My tortoiseshell glasses had slipped down to perch on the slightly upturned tip of my nose, the ideal distance for my gray-green eyes to focus on the Kindle Paperwhite ebook reader I held in both hands.

The e-reader's display was backlit, but I had opened the vertical blinds of the living room's picture window anyway, just enough to let in some natural light. Unfortunately, that also meant I could hear the murmur of the other apartment dwellers and their celebrated maternal caregivers talking in the courtyard below. At least none of the ghosts out there were shouting.

The former boyfriend's parents had come into the city from Cloverdale and had taken him and his new girlfriend out for dim sum. His parents are adorable, and invited me to go along, but I declined. Because then I could have the apartment to myself for hours (while they waited first in traffic and then for a table at a restaurant on Mother's Day; sentimental suckers). A rare treat.

So it was a surprise--and not an especially pleasant one--when my phone lit up on the arm of the sofa next to me to let me know my mother was calling.

I hadn't spoken to my mother in nine years. Not since I had packed up the grapes of my wrath and left Tulsa, Oklahoma, to become yet another Okie migrant to the Golden State.

So I was both curious and irritated. Concerned that something might be seriously wrong--why else would she be calling?--but also not wanting to ruin a perfectly good Sunday afternoon with what was probably either a butt dial or the next, long-delayed round of our lifetime did-too-did-not-did-too-you-were-always-sabotaging-my-relationships argument. On the other hand, the intrusion had already occurred, and I could feel the emotional knot forming in my stomach.

I sighed, set the e-reader on the sofa next to me, and picked up my phone.

Hello? I said.

After a few seconds of silence, Mom said, Heidi, honey, I-- Her voice was low and flat, as if she were struggling to control her emotions. I was out of practice reading my mother's mood through the phone, but I caught a distinct note of ominous. I need you to come home.

I sat up. My mind went straight to the worst-case scenario, and the knot in my stomach twisted tighter. Is Nicole OK? I swung my legs off the chaise, so I could stand up if I needed to.

I had left one friend behind in Tulsa. Nicole Robbins had been Nicole Moore the day of our initial, disastrous meeting. Things became much worse when Mom married Nicole's father, but improved after their divorce. Though we were no longer legally sisters, we had become what the only child in me assumed actual sisters were like. We talked all the time. We had helped each other through college and therapy. It hadn’t been even a week since our last conversation, and I had seen posts from her on social media as recently as last night⁠—

No, Mom said, which was all I needed to hear. I was on my feet.

What happened? I asked, but I was no longer listening. I was in my bedroom, headed for the tiny closet. Did something happen to the kids?

The kids?

In my head I was making a list of what I needed to pack, who I needed to tell at work. In my closet, I reached through the hanging clothes, found the handle of my rolling suitcase, and yanked it to full extension. I started calculating my accumulated paid time off versus how much extra I could negotiate as I pulled the suitcase into the light. If Nicole needed me--

Heidi! The edge in Mom's voice stopped me. Honey. Stop. Listen to me.

I stopped, suitcase in mid-roll over a pile of sandals and sneakers. I pressed the phone harder against my ear, and made an effort to pay attention. Except I was also trying to decide if I should wait for the roomies to come back and have one of them take me to the airport, or if I should just call a car and leave a note.

Nicole is fine, Mom said. Her voice was flat again, but the emotion she was trying to control was not the same as it had been. This tremor of frustration was more familiar. The kids are fine. This isn't about Nicole. Before I could recover enough to ask what/who/why she had called me on what had been such a wonderful Sunday afternoon--even if it was Mother's Day--she said, This is about-- She took a breath. I need you to come home.

My left hand released its death grip and the suitcase fell on its canvas face behind me. The knot in my stomach, though, kept its grip.

Mom, I said, walking back to the living room, you can't just call me up--

Heidi, I need you to come home.

I didn't quite make it to the chaise lounge and my sci-fi romance. Still standing, I said, I need more than this, Mom. There's work, there’s— I was going to say my former boyfriend's name but stopped myself