FIVE
Tim Truman?” I repeat nervously.
“Yes! The man they found dead downtown the other day. That’s his ghost!”
I gasp, remembering how upset Lena was about the death of her friend. How we saw his story on the news, and that the police were still searching for his nephew.
“How … do you even know that’s him?” I ask Myah. “They said they found his body in an alleyway or something. Not at this house.”
“Some of his family came to this shop to print flyers for his missing nephew Jabari,” Myah says. “Hang on.” She whips around the counter, shuffling through a stack of papers until she pulls out a yellow sheet. “Look.”
I stare at the missing person flyer. It’s a picture of a young boy in a red shirt, an orange life vest hugging his neck.
He’s holding up a fish nearly the size of him that’s dangling off the line and cheesing like he’s about to eat for weeks off his catch.
Grandma would say he has chipmunk cheeks.
With his big brown eyes behind glasses, he looks a little like Robby.
“That’s … terrible,” I say, thinking of how sad the family must be.
“I know,” Myah says. “When the family was here, they were talking about how Tim kept going by that old house in Calhoun Square right before he died. No one knew why, he just kept saying he was ‘researching.’ ”
Robby frowns. “Okay. So?”
“Look, I know all about ghosts,” Myah says firmly. “And a spirit always lingers near a place that means something to them.” She studies the photo of the orbs again. “So that’s gotta be him!”
Hmm. From what I know, ghosts do stay close to the place they last inhabited or where they died. Does that mean Tim Truman could have DIED in that house? If so, then how did his body end up in the alleyway?
“Well … actually,” I start off slow. “It might not be Tim Truman’s ghost. This is the Myers House.”
“The who?” Myah snaps.
“On the tour, the guide told us about this woman who died by that window, a really long time ago. So. It might actually be her ghost, not Mr. Truman’s.”
Myah shakes her head. “No. It’s him. He’s calling from the beyond.”
Dread fills my stomach. Am I really about to argue with some girl over a ghost?
Robby chuckles.
Myah shoots him a glare that could burn the eyebrows off his forehead.
“What?” she asks Robby.
“Come on! So what if there’s some white lights in the pic. That don’t mean it’s a ghost.”
“And you just gonna ignore the shadow standing behind those lights.”
“That could be anything.”
“And how you gonna ignore what … Wait, what’s your name again?” Myah asks me.
“Harmony. And this is Robby.”
Robby puffs his chest out with a hard nod to make himself look big and bad.
Myah snorts. “Right. How you gonna ignore what Harmony is saying? She thinks it’s a ghost too.”
“ ’Cause kids think and do all kinds of weird stuff.” Robby shrugs, then stares directly at me. “Like go on ghost tours when ghosts aren’t even real.”
“Shots fired,” I grumble with a chuckle.
“Well, it’s true!” Robby says.
Myah isn’t paying attention to us. She prints out the full photo for me, then prints another copy of the zoomed-in window. She hands me back my memory card, and I pay for the two printouts.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll keep this copy,” Myah says, studying the zoomed-in picture again. She frowns, concentrating on the photo.
“You good?” I ask her.
“We have to go see this house,” Myah says. “Right now!”
“What?” Robby gasps, turning to me.
But Myah is already grabbing my arm and dragging me out the door. “Come on!”
Next thing you know, we’re out in the hot sun as she quickly locks up the store, hangs a CLOSED sign, and speed walks away.
“This is a bad idea,” Robby insists as he jogs behind us. “You know this is a bad idea, right?”
I don’t know what to think. Too blown away by the idea, the possibility that I took a photo of a man who’d just died. Not some person from hundreds of years ago, someone who was ALIVE a few days ago.
But is it even really Tim Truman’s ghost in that house?
Besides a few old ladies walking their goldendoodles, Calhoun Square is deserted. As if people know this place is haunted and can feel it in the air.
“This is nuts,” Robby grumbles behind me.
“Yeah, you’ve said that about ten thousand times,” I shoot back, trying to keep up with Myah.
Myah walks up the brick path, her eyes tracking the house.
“That’s it?” she asks.
“Yup.”
She gives it a sharp nod, as if introducing herself.
“Let’s get closer,” she says, marching directly toward it.
“I’m staying right here,” Robby huffs, stomping his foot.
I gulp and follow Myah. In the light of day, the house is taller, gloomier, and raggedy-er than I remember. Chipping white paint scatters the ground as if the house is shedding skin.
Two iron staircases on either side lead up to a small porch landing with a rotting front door. A red-and-black NO TRESPASSING sign is hammered in the middle of the door. The iron stairwell is rusted orange. I doubt it could even support my weight.
I take out my camera and snap a photo of each window. Half are boarded up, but the other half are wide open, glass panes missing. I wonder if any ghosts will show up now.
“I gotta get closer,” Myah says.
“Wait! Myah!”
She races around to the back of the house, where there is a tall chain-link fence, gate closed with a heavy bike chain and a rusted padlock.
Myah inspects the lock. “Looks like this hasn’t been opened in a while.”
My ears perk up at the sound of snapping like a branch, or maybe wood, coming from the window above my head.
As I stretch on my tiptoes to peek inside, I hear jingling.
Myah has pushed the gate open enough to slip under the bike chain and into the backyard, walking through the tall weeds like she’s wading into water.
“Yo, what are you—”
“Shhh! There’s another door back here. Come on.”
I look around the empty block, checking to see if anyone is watching. ’Cause this is definitely breaking and entering.
Back in the square Robby watches us in horror, waving me over and shaking his head. But I creep under the chain and follow Myah, stepping over trash that must have blown into the yard somehow.
Myah is right. There’s a back door that leads to the lower part of the house. The basement maybe?
Myah suddenly whips around. “Did you hear that?” she hisses.
“No, what?” I gasp, my heart racing.
“It sounded like a can rolling across the floor. Something is in there.”
My stomach knots up. SomeTHING and someONE are two totally different things. I watch Myah inch closer, leaning an ear toward the door. I have to stop myself from telling her to run.
“What is it?” I whisper.
“Shh. Come here.”
I gulp and join her, leaning toward the warped gray plywood that looks like it’s been ripped off, not as secured as the front door.
A cramp hits my right side, and I lean over with an oof.
“You okay?” Myah asks.
“Um, yeah,” I say as the pain fades. Must have been something I ate.
Inside, it sounds like a whirling storm, wind whistling through the cracks. But it’s not windy out here. It’s swamp-humid, not a breeze in sight.
Myah closes her eyes and holds a hand on the door, breathing in deep.
That’s when I notice her necklace dangling on her shirt, made of a long, dark rope twisted into a little leather pouch.
“Cool necklace,” I say. “Did you make it yourself?”
Myah grips the pouch, pushing her shoulders back with a raised eyebrow. “No. My grandmama made it. It’s a mojo bag. Do you know what it means?”
“Yeah. It’s for protection from evil spirits and stuff, right?”
Her lips twitch into a small smirk. “Yeah. How you know that?”
“I saw it on a lady in New Orleans, at a voodoo shop.”
Myah’s eyes light up. “Was it on another ghost tour?”
I start to respond when she suddenly bolts upright, her eyes wide.
“Did you hear that?” she whispers. “It sounds like someone’s screaming.”
I don’t hear a thing.
She shakes her head. “Something bad happened here.”
“How do you know?”
“I can just … feel it.” She shrugs with a shiver. “I know about these kinds of things.”
This is the part in the horror movie where a Black person would/should say, “Nahhhhh. Nope!” and head home to mind their Black business. But something about this house doesn’t feel scary. More like … sad.
“So what are you picking up on?” I ask Myah.
“Mr. Truman’s spirit is in this house, for sure,” she mumbles, studying the windows.
I stare at the door, shivering. If Mr. Truman’s ghost is in this house, he would be the freshest ghost in Calhoun Square.
“He’s probably watching us right now.” She sighs. “I wonder what he would say.”
I huff. “I’d hope he’d tell us what happened to him.”
Myah whips her head my way. “You’re right! He could tell us who murdered him! He probably knows what happened to Jabari too!”
“Oh, wait. I didn’t mean we should try to communicate with—”
“Psst!”
We spin around and find Robby standing by the gate, waving us over.
“Cops just drove by,” he whisper-shouts.
Myah moves quick. I take one last look at the door and follow her. We wade through the weeds, stoop under the chain, and walk to the middle of square as if we’re all thinking the same thing: Get as far away from this house as possible.
But as Robby and I stop to catch our breath, Myah keeps walking.
“Hey, where are you going?” I call after her.
“Back to the shop before my daddy figures out that I left,” she says. “Not like we booming with business or nothing.”
Robby shakes his head. “Well, it was nice meeting you!”