Chapter 5
“Hey!” I holler, stepping out of the house.
Theo Hargrave bends to grab his phone. Then, glancing back at me, his face blanched with panic, he runs—yes, runs—in the direction of the woods. Like he’s a criminal fleeing the cops or something.
Without thinking, I take off after him.
What the hell is he doing? Recording my house? People live here. I live here. This is a crime.
And it’s super creepy.
I’m almost at the tree line that marks the end of our backyard before I think to question whether it is wise to keep following this guy I don’t know. What exactly do I plan to do if I catch him? Make a citizen’s arrest? Chew him out for trespassing? Confiscate his phone?
And what if he goes into the woods? That can’t be safe. I could too easily get lost.
Thankfully he skids to a stop a few feet from the first copse of maples. He braces his hands on his knees as he takes a deep breath. “Why are you chasing me?” he huffs out.
My hands fall open at my sides. “Why are you running?”
He straightens up, his eyebrows arched. The incredulous expression stretches at soft auburn freckles that dot his nose and forehead. “Why did you yell at me?”
“Why were you filming my house?”
He clears his throat. “I…umm…didn’t realize anyone was living here.” His full lips press together, and his eyes widen sheepishly. The expression is so cute I can’t help but laugh. That makes him laugh too. As if we’re recognizing at the same time how ridiculous this situation is.
A second later, we both fall quiet. An earthy scent envelops us, and all around, nocturnal animals and insects have begun their evening lullabies. The muggy night air makes my skin itch.
Our silence is having a similar impact on my brain. At least when we were arguing, I didn’t have time to think about what I was saying, if it sounded weird, what impression I’d leave when this exchange was over. Now that’s the only thing in my head.
Why did I chase him, like some old man with a shotgun demanding he get off my lawn? Why can’t I just be normal?
My hand drifts to my right upper arm, and my fingers brush over the small tattoo of a mirror on my inner bicep.
It’s maybe three inches long, done in black and gray ink.
The top and bottom of the mirror have ornate designs that look like something out of the Victorian era, and the glass is empty.
A reminder that I get to decide what I see in the mirror.
Not anyone else. Mom took me to get it as a graduation gift a few weeks ago, and ever since, it has become a kind of touchstone for my frantic brain.
Theo’s eyes are intense this close up, a vibrant moss color, and having them so keenly focused on me is making my stomach do somersaults. I fold my arms over my chest. “You didn’t see the Sold sign on the lawn?”
His broad shoulders shift under his T-shirt as he shuffles his feet against the grass. “The bank sometimes puts a sign out even though no one’s bought the place. To keep kids from breaking in.”
My eyebrows fly up my forehead.
He raises his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t going to break in. I was just going to check the door. See if it was open.”
“That’s trespassing.” It’s bad enough that my mom bought this disaster of a house. I don’t need Theo filming me here. Connecting me to this place. “I could have walked by a window naked.” I choke when the words escape my brain and come flying off my tongue.
This is exactly why people think I’m weird.
Theo chokes too, but probably for different reasons. Like the fact that we hardly know each other and I just forced the image of me naked into his head.
“I would never post that. I’d get flagged for porn.”
“That’s the only reason you wouldn’t post it?” I arch an eyebrow.
His shoulders pull straight and he stutters, “Ob-obviously not. You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know you, so how could I possibly know what you mean?
” My tone slips from playful to irritated, but I can’t rein it in.
The more I dwell on it, the more the idea of being Harlow’s Rest’s haunted-house girl makes me feel sick.
I’m not Taylor. I don’t have an infectious charm to overcome that kind of reputation.
I will one hundred percent end up the weirdo here too, this time before anyone even talks to me.
And Theo and his videos? They are doing absolutely nothing to help.
He coughs. “Okay, right. Fair. I’m Theo—”
“Hargrave, I know. I’ve seen all your ‘videos.’ ” It’s right there waiting on the tip of my tongue, but I manage to resist the urge to call him Ghost Boy. I do throw air quotes around videos to make sure he knows how silly I think they are.
He seems to miss that part altogether. “You’ve watched my stuff?” He swallows hard, but his eyes are bright as rays of summer sun. “I’m trying not to get too caught up in the analytics and focus on improving my skills, but it’s hard not to wonder if I’m getting any reach.”
I survey him stonily. The boy is practically vibrating with excitement. “You are entirely missing the point.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Right. Right. I’ll be careful what I record from now on. Keep you out of it.”
I snort. Has he lost his mind? Does he really think Mom and I are going to be okay with him doing his ghost hunting nonsense now that we live here? “How about if you stop filming my house completely?”
He startles like I’ve slapped him. “I’m not done with my investigation. Mercy’s spirit is still in that house.”
I shake my head. “I have been in that house for hours and I can promise you there is nothing in it but dust, spiders, and a squirrel that I had to relocate.”
“It’s haunted.”
“It’s old.” Something buzzes at my ear, and a second later, I feel a sting on my bare shoulder. I slap it more roughly than I need to.
At this point, the sun has truly set and the only thing besides the moon breaking up the darkness is the flashlight on Theo’s phone.
“I’m sorry,” I say to him, “but I can’t have you filming me or my house, whether I’m home or not. And you don’t want to run into my mom. She’ll have the cops here so fast. Peeping Toms are one of her irrational fears.”
“I’m not a Peeping—”
I shrug at him. “She’s not going to give you the time to explain your ghost theories.”
He scrubs at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “What if you let me in? You could help with the investigation. Give me access to the house.”
I stare at him, aghast. “Are you out of your gourd?”
“Out of my what?”
“Gourd?” I tap my temple.
He narrows his eyes, confused.
“Pumpkin?”
He maintains his empty stare.
“Head. Out of your head.” I practically whack myself in the face getting my point across.
A smile creeps across his mouth. This boy clearly thinks he’s Oliver Cray from Sunspark, all roguish charm and swagger—and maybe tween Amity would have fallen for it. But practically eighteen-year-old Amity is immune to his adorable face. And his obnoxiously cute confidence.
He believes in ghosts, for crying out loud. Deeply enough that he thinks trespassing and other crimes are worth committing in his pursuit of them.
Try again, Ghost Boy. This isn’t happening. “Why would I ever let you in my house? We’re strangers,” I remind him.
He sighs. “Okay. Sure. We can change that. I’m Theo.” He points a finger at himself. Then he arches an eyebrow at me. “And you’re—”
“Going back inside,” I interrupt. “You should leave. My mom will be home soon.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but I turn and jog up the lawn and back to the house.
My insides warm as I realize that I just spent fifteen minutes talking to Theo, and at some point, I forgot to worry about what I was saying.
Maybe the key to my social anxiety is interacting with more people who frustrate me.
I freeze a few steps away from the back stairs. I can’t seem to stop myself from spinning around to see if he’s still there.
He hasn’t moved an inch, his phone’s flashlight trained on me. Like he’s making sure I get back to the house okay. My stomach does a really annoying somersault at the thought.
“Amity,” I call out to him. “I’m Amity.”
He smiles. Like he’s won or something.
I shoot him a glare, then hurry the rest of the way to the stoop, ignoring how my knees feel a little less solid than they should.
As soon as I’m inside, I lock the door behind me. Theo doesn’t seem like he’d actually come in the house without permission—not after how white his face got when I accused him of trespassing—but precautions are precautions and all.
A shiver dances up my spine from the cold air in the house, and the shadows in the kitchen feel thicker now that the sun is gone.
Rubbing at my arms, I grumble to myself as I stomp back to my room.
This guy needs to get a clue. But then again, he believes in ghosts.
And not for fun like Taylor does. He thinks they are actually out there, trying to possess our bodies or steal our souls.
Why would I expect him to understand that it’s not cool to go around asking random people to let him in their house so he can do séances or throw salt at the walls or whatever ghost hunters do?
I’ve just dropped myself back into the beanbag chair when I hear the front door open and Mom call out, “Come and get it while it’s hot.” The smells of starchy fries and freshly grilled burgers follow her voice, breaking through the mustiness I’ve been breathing in for the last few hours.
My stomach growls.
As I stand up, I hear the snick of a door closing, and then Mom pops her head into my room. “Let’s try not to leave the back door open, okay?”
She’s gone a second later. I can hear her rummaging through our boxes in the living room, probably looking for plates and stuff.
I stare at the empty doorway, confused.
Because I closed the back door, and locked it, not even ten minutes ago.