The Haunted_Edit Copy 4-7-17

“Gunner!” I exclaimed. I had never, in his entire life, heard
my brother swear.
“What? I think I’m allowed to curse in this situation!”
“Where did you even learn that word?”
“Chelsea, I’m ten, not three. I don’t live under a rock.” He
stepped around the side of the couch so he could sit down. I followed
suit and once I was beside him, he asked, “So, are you okay?”
All the air left my lungs in a sigh so massive it could have
knocked down the three little pigs’ straw house. “Yeah. I mean, I’m
upset, obviously. But I’m okay. I didn’t get hurt. I’m just concerned
for Tucker and the family.”
“What was their name? The family?” he asked.
“I wish I could tell you, but it’s confidential.” I leaned
forward with my elbow on my knee and propped my head on my
hand. “Why do you want to know, anyway?”
“Was it the Johanssons?”
Immediately I straightened up again. “How do you know
that? Did you go through my email?”
He shook his head. “Timmy Johansson is my friend. He’s
been telling me there was a demon in his closet for months.”
Something sparked in my brain and I did recall him
mentioning it months ago. “Oh.”
Now his eyes looked almost wistful. “I didn’t believe him. I
thought he was just trying to get attention.”
As I gazed at my brother, I clearly saw the weight across his
little shoulders for the first time. When I was his age, my biggest
concern was that Kelly Armstrong kept stealing the cookies out of
my lunch box. But after Mom had left, Gunner had quickly morphed
from a little boy into a young adult. His dad and big sister, the only
role models he had left, were never around anymore because we
were always working. We might have had good intentions, but our
consistent absence forced him to look out for himself more often
than not. He was a fifth-grader who got out of bed at 3am because
he could tell by the sound of the door slamming that his sister might
be upset. And that thoughtful, regretful glaze over his eyes went far
138