Chapter 8
Harlow’s Rest Community Center is an old church.
Because of course it is.
I swear this town is trying to win the award for Most Obviously Haunted.
The large clapboard church looms over Mom and me as we cross the grass from the parking lot, and I spot the shadow of a now-missing cross in the white paint over the entrance.
Though it’s still light out, the warm glow of indoor lamps spills out from the black double doors propped open in front of us.
I was surprised my mother still wanted to come tonight after all the work she did while I was at the library.
Not only did she redo the paint in the living room and kitchen like she promised, but she replaced the hardware on the cabinets and attached a new faucet to the kitchen sink.
And yet, somehow, she still has an energetic bounce to her step as she jogs up the church stairs and through the front door.
I hope this is not a sign of how quick a pace she plans to keep on this renovation project.
It’s summer. I expect to have an abundance of rest and couch-rotting time mixed in with the honing of my newfound hammer and drill skills.
I follow her (much less jauntily) into the foyer.
The entrance is full of honey-golden oak paneling lit by sconces in the shape of lanterns.
Tables flanking the doors hold programs for the evening’s event and free drinks and snacks, while above them bulletin boards announce more community activities.
At the edges hang flyers looking for roommates, bandmates, tutors, writing partners, and anything else you could think of.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mother snatch one for a home improvement company off the corkboard.
We make our way into the church proper, where a wine-colored carpet herds everyone toward long pews crafted from the same honey-gold wood.
All the crosses have been taken down, and the pulpit has been renovated into a stage, where I see Loretta and a tall, gangly redhead setting up a mic system and projector.
Otherwise, everything about this space screams church.
The windows are still stained glass images of biblical scenes, and candles fill every empty space.
But instead of flames, they’re lit by LEDs, with small artificial wicks that wave back and forth.
My mom is a sit-in-the-front-row kind of person, so despite all the perfectly empty pews we pass, she keeps striding forward, her shoulders back confidently like she belongs. The best I can do is refrain from hunching or hiding behind my barely shoulder-length hair.
As we pass the fourth row, I slip onto the bench before Mom can march us farther ahead. No one is sitting in the rows between it and the pulpit, so it’s technically the front.
Plus, Theo is here somewhere. He can’t see me front and center.
The last thing I need is for Ghost Boy to think I came for him or something.
I came merely to debunk with fervor. And receipts.
(Why, yes, I did spend most of my post–library interview nap time finding peer-reviewed academic studies that disprove the existence of the paranormal.
I was broadening my mind. Learning. I was not at all thinking about specific ways I could argue with this guy I’ve talked to twice.)
I crack open the can of ginger ale I grabbed from the free snack table, only to cringe when the high ceilings amplify the sound.
Should I be drinking this here? I don’t know the rules for what you can and cannot consume in the house of God.
My family has never been religious. When Grandma Callaway was still alive, we’d join her at her parish on Christmas and Easter, but she’s been gone for almost ten years now, and I barely remember anything about those few visits, besides a lot of standing up and sitting down.
And dreading that part where you have to say hi to people and shake their hands.
Theo steps onto the stage just as I take a sip, and I choke. Literally. Ginger ale burning the interior of my lungs.
Ghost Boy looks good.
Rudely good. To the point that I have to deliberately remind myself that this fool is trying to convince the town that my house is haunted.
He’s wearing a fitted pair of dark jeans and a white shirt with thin blue stripes, untucked and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His brown hair is a messy thatch of waves that he keeps trying to tame with his hands, and those sun-kissed moss-green eyes practically glow in the overhead lighting.
He beams when he sees me (damn my mother’s residual star-student tendencies). Then he lifts his chin in greeting. Totally casual and nonchalant. And confident in this way that makes me feel like the universe has slammed on its brakes and I’ve just whacked my head on the proverbial dashboard.
My heart is legitimately pounding. And why? Because he recognized me?
Get it together, Amity, I chastise myself.
Remember that this guy thinks invisible souls float around us and somehow only some people can see them.
Sometimes. It’s like believing in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy (who, honestly, are much creepier than ghosts because they’re basically home invaders)—only worse, because at least with those, a whole lot of adults band together to try to convince you they’re real.
Believing in supernatural shit is an active choice you make all on your own.
No way am I letting myself develop the hots for a guy that irrational.
Mom sees me shaking my head at myself and nudges me. “What’s up?” she asks.
I would not tell my mother about my fleeting attraction to Ghost Boy for a million dollars, so I hold up my can of soda. “Just wondering if I’m going to get smote for drinking this in church?”
Mom pulls a bag of M&M’s out of her pocket, tears open the side, and pops a handful in her mouth. “Then we shall be smote together.”
A second later, Loretta steps up to the podium. “Good evening, friends,” she says into the mic.
I glance over my shoulder to see maybe fifteen or twenty people sitting in the pews behind us. Not the crowd Theo was hoping for, I suspect. I hate that the thought summons a twinge of sympathy in me.
“Most of you already know me,” Loretta goes on. Her dark eyes scan the room. She smiles when she sees me, and I give her a small wave. Then I immediately feel Theo’s gaze on me too.
Its presence is physical. Something solid pressed to my cheek.
Do not look, do not look, do not look, I command myself. Meeting his stare will only resurrect those flutters in my stomach. Theo does not get butterflies just because he’s gone and dressed himself well. More like moths. Something easy to pulverize to dust.
My eyes cut to him anyway.
Because they are traitorous villains. Benedict Arnolds, as the locals would say.
Creatures with huge, heavy wings flap about my insides as I take him in again. Then I decide to just own it and lock eyes with him.
I honestly don’t know what has made me so bold.
Usually, I can barely look people in the face when I talk to them.
But something about Theo, and his batty ghost theories, and the fact that he feels the need to project them on my new house, has overridden my social anxiety.
All I can focus on is making him blink first.
Which he does. Finally. After so long, I’m light-headed from the drive of my pulse.
Still. I will take any victory I can get.
I’ve missed a good chunk of Loretta’s introduction.
When I tune back in, she’s explaining how Theo and Matt, the gangly redhead sitting in one of the two chairs at the side of the stage, are the “backbone” of the Harlow’s Rest Historical Society.
“The two of them,” she goes on, “have taken a marked interest in some of the town’s legends, and tonight, Theo Hargrave will share with us some new theories from his research on that infamous week in August of 1698.
” Matt taps a few keys on the laptop he’s holding, and the projector behind Loretta comes to life, displaying a PowerPoint presentation.
The title page reads What Really Happened at Harlow Homestead?
Below the words is a drawing of our house as it must have looked in the 1600s.
Mom taps my shoulder with hers and gives me a little grin. I roll my eyes, and she has to swallow back a laugh.
Loretta beckons Theo to the podium. After handing off her mic to him, she steps down and seats herself in the first row of pews.
Her hands fold tightly in her lap. It reminds me of how my mom used to look whenever she came to my clarinet concerts in elementary school.
Like she was terrified of how many notes I’d miss.
(It turned out to be pretty much all of them. Every time. A musician I am not.)
Theo’s a pretty big guy, all shoulders and arms and chest and a soft middle, and he seems to fill the stage.
His face is calm as he watches a new image click onto the projection screen: This one is a family portrait from the era—a father and mother sitting at an old kitchen table, with three children, two girls and one boy, standing behind them.
But I notice that Theo’s hand without the mic is trembling the slightest bit.
He’s nervous. Something warm tugs at my stomach at the realization. I like that he’s not quite as sure of himself as he tries to come across.
He clears his throat, then brings the microphone closer to his mouth. “We all know the story of what happened to the Harlow family in their home in the first week of August in 1698.”
Mom leans over and whispers, “I don’t.”
I wave her off as Theo goes on. “And we all know the ‘official’ explanation. How the Harlows saved our town by quarantining in their own home to keep the TB from spreading. How they spent a whole week locked behind those shuttered doors and windows, until August seventh, when the last member of the family is believed to have finally succumbed to the disease.”