This was it. D-day. Or E-day, I should have called it.

I’d been so tired after dinner, I knew I’d never make it without a nap. I told my mother I was going upstairs to do homework, and then I’d lain down with the intention of sacking out for a few hours. Back in our old place in Brooklyn, this wouldn’t have been a problem. My mom would have left me alone like I asked. But in the Ackerman household, the words I want to be alone were apparently completely meaningless. And not because the place is crawling with ghosts, either. No, it was the living who kept on bugging me for a change.

First it was Dopey. When I’d sat down to another gourmet dinner, immaculately prepared by my new stepfather, an interrogation of sorts had begun because I had ended up not getting home until after six. There was the usual ‘Where were you?’ from my mother (even though I’d so conscientiously left her that explanatory message). Then a ‘Did you have fun?’ from Andy. And then there was a ‘Who’d you go with?’ from, of all people, Doc. And when I said, ‘Adam McTavish and Cee Cee Webb,’ Dopey actually snorted disgustedly and, chewing on a meatball, said, ‘Christ. The class freaks.’

Andy said, ‘Hey Watch it.’

‘Well, jeez, Dad,’ Dopey said. ‘One’s a freakin’ albino and the other’s a fag.’

This earned him a very hard wallop on the head from his father, who also grounded him for a week. Meaning, I couldn’t help pointing out to Dopey later as we were clearing our plates from the table, that he would be unable to attend Kelly Prescott’s pool party, which, by the way, I – Queen of the Freaks – had gotten him invited to.

‘Too bad, bubby’ I said, giving Dopey a sympathetic pat on the cheek.

He slapped my hand away. ‘Yeah?’ he said. ‘Well, at least nobody’ll be callin’ me a fag hag tomorrow.’

‘Oh, sweetie,’ I said. I reached out and tweaked the cheek I’d just patted. ‘You’ll never have to worry about people calling you that. They call you much worse things.’

He hit my hand again, his fury apparently so great, it rendered him temporarily speechless.

‘Promise me you’ll never change,’ I begged him. ‘You’re so adorable just the way you are.’

Dopey called me a very bad name just as his father entered the kitchen with the remains of the salad.

Andy grounded him for another week, and then sent him to his room. To show his unhappiness with this turn of events, Dopey put on the Beastie Boys and played them at such high decibels that sleep was impossible for me . . . at least until Andy came up and took away Dopey’s speakers. Then everything got very quiet, and I was just about to doze off when someone tapped at my door. It was Doc.

‘Um,’ he said, glancing nervously past me, into the darkness of my room – the ‘haunted’ room of the house. ‘Is this a good time to, um, talk about the things I found out? About the house, I mean? And the people who died here?’