Chapter 3

I stayed there all night.

Not because I wanted to. I just couldn't leave. My ghost body floated next to the washing machine, staring at my real body through the foggy glass door.

I looked so small in there. So broken. My neck was bent weird. My fingers were blue-purple now. My eyes were still open, staring at nothing.

I wanted to close them. Mom always said it was creepy when people died with their eyes open.

But I couldn't touch anything. My ghost hands just went through stuff like smoke.

The basement got colder as night turned into morning. I watched the tiny window get lighter and lighter. First dark blue, then gray, then finally that orange-pink color that meant sunrise.

August 16th. One day after Lily's birthday.

Upstairs, I heard Mom's alarm go off. Then water running. Then footsteps.

My heart would've jumped if I still had one.

"Someone's coming," I whispered to myself. My voice sounded echo-y and weird, like talking underwater.

More footsteps. Getting closer to the basement door.

Please be Dad. Please be Dad. Dad would open the machine. Dad would see me. Dad would call 911.

The door opened.

It was Mom.

She came down the stairs in her pink bathrobe, the one she bought last year. Her hair was messy. She wasn't wearing makeup yet. She looked tired.

"Mom!" I flew up to her face. "Mom, I'm here! I'm in the machine! Please open it!"

She walked right through me.

It felt like being doused with ice water. My ghost body shivered even though ghosts probably can't get cold.

Mom walked straight to the washing machine.

My whole ghost body started shaking. This was it. She was going to open the door. She was going to see me.

"Please," I begged, floating right next to her. "Please look inside. Please."

Mom's hand reached for the door handle.

I held my breath. Well, I pretended to hold my breath. Ghosts don't breathe.

Her fingers wrapped around the handle.

"Please, please, please," I kept saying, like a prayer.

Mom pulled—

No.

She didn't pull.

She just touched the handle and frowned.

"That's strange," she muttered. "I don't remember putting laundry in yesterday."

She bent down and peered through the glass door.

I pressed my ghost face right next to hers. "Look closer! It's me! I'm in there!"

But the glass was all foggy. Covered in this gross mist from my breath that had nowhere to go. And the drum was dark inside.

Mom squinted. "Probably just forgot to take out the load. Everything looks wrinkled."

No. No, no, no.

She thought I was clothes.

She thought my dead body was a pile of forgotten laundry.

"These need a rewash," Mom said to herself. She straightened up and walked to the control panel.

"Mom, don't!" I screamed. "I'm not clothes! I'M YOUR DAUGHTER!"

Her finger pressed buttons. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The screen lit up: "DEEP CLEAN CYCLE. HIGH TEMPERATURE. 90 MINUTES."

"NO!"

She pressed START.

The machine came alive.

Water started rushing in through the holes in the drum. Cold at first, then getting hotter. I could see steam forming on the glass.

"MOM!" I threw my ghost body at her, but she just walked right through me and headed back upstairs.

I spun around to the washing machine.

The drum was filling with water. Soap suds appeared, white and foamy. They covered the glass door like snow.

Then the drum started to turn.

Slow at first. Just a little rock back and forth.

My body rolled. Like a rag doll. My arm flopped over my face.

Then the drum spun faster.

"No, no, no, no, no—"

I couldn't look away. I wanted to fly away, go anywhere else, but I couldn't move.

My body tumbled over and over. Thump. Thump. Thump against the metal drum.

My head hit the side. Even through the water and soap, I could see my neck bend even more wrong.

The machine spun faster and faster. My body pressed against the glass door from the force. My face smushed flat against it. Through the suds, I could see my open eyes, still staring.

I screamed. The sound came out like wind howling. Maybe that's what ghost screams sound like.

Water filled the drum completely now. My body floated for a second, then the spin cycle started for real.

Around and around and around.

My arms and legs twisted. My hair got caught in something and I saw a chunk rip out. The water turned a little pink.

Upstairs, I heard Mom humming.

Humming.

Like this was just another Tuesday morning.

I forced myself to float up through the ceiling. I had to know. I had to see.

In the kitchen, Mom was making breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Orange juice in the fancy glasses.

Dad sat at the table reading news on his iPad.

"What are you in the mood for this weekend?" Mom asked, flipping eggs in the pan. "I was thinking we could drive to that bed and breakfast in Vermont."

Dad looked up. "The one by the lake?"

"Yes! They have that restaurant with the amazing lobster rolls."

"Sounds good." Dad went back to his iPad. "We should leave Friday afternoon to beat traffic."

Friday. That was in three days.

They were planning a vacation.

"What about Aria?" Dad asked without looking up.

My ghost heart jumped. He remembered me!

Mom's spatula froze mid-flip.

"What about her?" Her voice went cold.

"She's been in the basement since yesterday morning."

"And?"

Dad sighed. "Sarah—"

"Let her stay there." Mom's voice got sharp like broken glass. "Every time I see her face, I want to throw up. At least down there, I can pretend she doesn't exist."

Jesus! Mom actually forgot she locked me in the washing machine! She thought I was just hiding in the basement!

The toast popped up. Mom buttered it with hard, angry strokes.

"She's been down there almost twenty-four hours," Dad said quietly.

Mom slammed the butter knife down. "Lily was underwater for five minutes and she DIED. Aria's had twenty-four hours. She'll be fine. She's always fine. That's the problem."

Dad didn't say anything else. He just kept scrolling through his iPad.

Mom served the eggs. They ate in silence.

I floated there between them, screaming. "I'M NOT FINE! I'M DEAD! PLEASE!"

But they couldn't hear me.

They just kept eating.

Chewing.

Swallowing.

Like everything was normal.

After breakfast, I floated back down to the basement.

The washing machine was still going. Still spinning. Still churning my body around like dirty clothes.

The display screen showed: 82 MINUTES REMAINING.

Through the soapy, bloody water on the glass, I could barely see myself anymore. Just shapes tumbling in white foam and pink water.

I sank to the floor. Or through the floor. Or both. I couldn't tell anymore.

When would this nightmare end?