Page 57 of Ghost in the Night

“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 somefootprints 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 herhead down the hall. “Mr. Truman should have been in that first room on the right, called the formal sitting room.”

Ifit 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.