SEVENTEEN
Myah is waiting at Calhoun Square, holding a can of paint and a brush, her book bag slung over her shoulder.
“What’s that?” I ask, lugging the equipment bag, sweat dripping down my back. The sun has set, but with the humidity, it feels like ninety degrees out.
She shrugs. “Haint blue. Daddy had some in his toolshed. No one’s gonna notice if we paint anything since the place is coming down tomorrow.”
“Okay. And what’s in the bag?”
“Backup,” she says quick. “Where’s Robby?”
“Not coming,” I say. “It’s just us two.”
She nods and heads for the house. “Let’s get inside before all the tours start and someone spots us.”
We’ve been talking about this very moment for almost a week, and now that it’s here, my lungs don’t feel like they’re working right and I have trouble walking.
The place looks as scary as I don’t know what. It almost feels like the house is watching us the way we’ve been watching it. My stomach fills with hot dread, skin growing tight like my muscles are trying to run away.
You can do this, girl. You got this.
Just as we reach the back fence, my phone buzzes in my pocket and I jump with a yelp.
“What? What?” Myah gasps, spinning around.
A FaceTime from Kiki and Truth.
“I have to take this,” I say, rushing away to answer the call. Kiki is in her room, music playing out of an iPad. Truth looks like she’s walking from the corner store. Their faces light up.
“Ayeee, girl, what you doing?” Truth asks.
I take a deep breath. “I’m … going in a haunted house.”
“Ooooh, I didn’t know they had parks down there?” Kiki says.
“Nah, y’all. A real haunted house.”
The girls stare for so long I think the phone is frozen.
“Yo, what?” Truth shouts. “NAHHHH! This ain’t a good look.”
“Y’all don’t get it,” I say, my voice cracking. “If I get this proof about ghosts, then everyone will believe me about what I saw that day and y’all will stop thinking I’m being weird.”
“Girl, we believe you! Who cares about everybody else?” Kiki says.
“And so what if you being weird?” Truth adds. “People be weird every day, don’t mean we don’t call your weird butt every day.”
They’re just trying to talk me out of this. I shake my head.
“I have to do this, y’all. If I can’t help Grandma get out of our apartment, after everything I’ve learned, then maybe I can help this ghost go to heaven.”
Kiki gasps. “Is that what you’ve been doing all this for?”
I realize it’s the first time I’ve said this aloud to them or anyone.
Truth stops walking, staring into the phone with a long sigh. “Yo, just … be careful. Like your grandma would say, ‘Trust your instincts.’ ”
I smile. Grandma would say that.
Kiki shakes her head. “Aight. Fine. But if you don’t call us back in thirty minutes, I’m calling my moms to call Ms. Peggy to call your daddy to come and get you!”
“Aight. Call you in an hour.”
“Nah, I said—”
I click off the phone before I lose my nerve and turn back around, finding Myah staring at me.
“Okay,” I say, tipping up my chin. “Let’s go.”
She looks like she wants to say something but stops herself.
We slip under the chain, wade through the tall weeds, and make it to the back door. The plywood is loose enough to tilt it to the side. I take a flashlight out of my bag and hand it to Myah. We both step inside and immediately fall into darkness.
Myah clicks the flashlight, scanning the space. The basement is made of old stones with a dirt floor. It smells moist and moldy. I take a step forward and kick a can at my foot.
“Ah! What is that?”
Myah whips the light to the floor, where there’s a bunch of candy wrappers, empty takeout boxes, and soda cans. I crouch down to examine the cans.
“These are kinda new,” I say, noticing there’s no sign of rust or rotting. “Someone may be in here. Like a homeless person. We need to be careful.”
Myah bites her lips like she’s holding in a scream and nods. “The … the stairs should be this way. Come on.”
We shuffle farther through the basement, keeping close together.
Above us are small random pockets of light, where you can look up through the floorboards into the rooms. My heart is pounding as we reach the stairs.
Myah stumbles with a shriek, reaching her hand out to grab me and stop herself from tripping over the first step.
We’ve got to get it together. If we jump at every little thing, we’ll be here all night.
At the top of the basement stairs, we can see the door is cracked open, with a little light leaking in, probably from the streetlights outside. I tap my foot on the first step, giving it a test, then the second.
“Seem sturdy enough,” I whisper. Not sure why I’m whispering.
“Let’s go one at a time anyways. You first. But don’t go too fast.”
I nod, ready myself, and rush up the stairs, pushing the heavy door open with my shoulder, falling right into the kitchen. Or what used to be a kitchen. You can tell by the counters and burnt bricks where a stove may have been.
I pan the flashlight around the giant room and up to the high ceilings.
The place is a disaster area. Chips of white paint cover the rotting wood floors like snow.
More garbage, empty chip bags and candy wrappers.
The room smells stale, like the old antiques stores Grandma liked to shop for furniture in.
I take a step and the floor creaks so loud that I gasp. The ground is covered in dust, but I can make out some footprints of random sizes. Lots of them. As if someone was walking in a circle.
Oh no. Would a ghost have made those footprints?
Myah runs up the basement stairs, breathing heavy. She must not have liked being down there alone.
“I told you not to go too fast—”
I shoot my hand out, stopping her, and shake my head. “Wait,” I whisper to her, and call out to the house. “Hello? Anyone here? Hello!”
I point to the footprints, and Myah’s eyes widen.
Silence. Nothing but creaks and echoes.
“Maybe it was a mouse,” Myah whispers.
We tiptoe out of the kitchen and peer down the long hall in shock. There’s a giant hole in the ceiling and an old-school claw-foot bathtub blocking the front door.
“Dang,” Myah mumbles. “That must be where the ceiling caved in.”
“What was over there?” I ask, pointing to the corner, relying on her memory of the blueprint.
“That was the breakfast nook,” Myah says, then tips her head down the hall. “Mr. Truman should have been in that first room on the right, called the formal sitting room.”
If it was Mr. Truman, I want to correct her.
There are a lot of doors. A lot of rooms he could be in. I think for a moment and pull out the EMF reader. “Let’s use this.” I click it on, and it lets out a loud zipping static and a pop.
The meter light runs from green, meaning everything is clear, to yellow, meaning proceed with caution, to red, meaning there’s definitely activity.
I hold the meter out in front of us like a wand, take a deep breath, and start walking slow. We tiptoe around the thin floor, creaking with every step down the hall. Myah lets out a tiny gasp as I open the first door.
A bathroom, judging by the moldy tiles and piss smell.
I wave the meter, nothing clicks. The next room, maybe a bedroom.
I wave the meter, nothing clicks. To our left is a large dining room, the table still there but faded a light gray, tilted on its sides, the chairs thrown about, missing legs and cushions.
I wave the meter and it clicks up to yellow.
I freeze. Something is nearby.
“Try this room,” Myah says, opening the door, and out runs a rat the size of Dad’s sneaker.
“AHHHH!” we scream, hopping around. We run down the hall, the floor squeaking.
Or was that the rat?!
Breathing heavy, we stand by the bathtub, swinging the flashlight across the floor. Beside us is a staircase with a moldy green rug runner, the banister missing. Glad I wore the sneakers I don’t care about tonight.
The meter in my hand clicks up to red.
“Harmony,” Myah whispers, touching my arm.
I hold out the meter with shaking hands and move closer to the room right before the last room that faces the square. It’s pitch-black inside. No windows. Just some old chairs and piles of wood.
The meter shrieks red.
Nope. Not going in there. I’m brave but not stupid. And if there’s one rat, there’s gotta be more.
“Let’s check the next room,” I say finally.
It’s the room that faces Calhoun Square, where I took the picture, where most of the windowpanes are missing.
“This was where I saw the ghost,” I say, staring out into the dark empty square, the large trees blocking most of the streetlights.
Everything looks covered in shadows. I think of all the ancestors buried underneath the brick walkways, benches, and lawns, wondering if they’re watching us. Are they mad or do they need our help?
The meter whistles a sound at yellow.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I say, breaking out of my trance and pulling out my camera.
Myah grabs the dowsing rods, holding one in each hand. She straightens her back and takes a deep breath, mumbling some words, like a prayer.
I set my phone down to voice record. “We might not hear him, but this might pick up something. Whatever sounds we catch will help.”
“Got it,” she says, turning off her flashlight.
“Okay. You call to him and I’ll start taking pictures.”
Myah agrees, seeming nervous, but rolls her shoulders back and starts.
“Spirits, hear me,” she says in a dramatic voice. “Spirits, hear me!”
I stare at her and she frowns.
“What?”
“Girl. Be so for real right now.”
She sighs. “Okay, okay. Ummm … is there anyone with us right now?”
The rods don’t move.
“Is anyone with us?” Myah asks again. And again. Nothing.
“These things ain’t working,” she grumbles.
“Keep trying. Or … maybe just talk to Mr. Truman.”
Myah swallows hard and nods. “Okay. Mr. Truman, are you with us? Tim Truman?”
I hold my breath, waiting. No answer.
I grab Robby’s robot tank and the controller monitor. Robby had hooked up the thermal meter so it could sense temperature spots in the room. The monitor clicks to life, but the robot doesn’t move. I tap a few buttons and suck my teeth.