Page 17 of Ghost in the Night

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 aCLOSEDsign, 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-blackNO TRESPASSINGsign is hammered in the middle of thedoor. 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.”