“Actually, I found out it used to be a funeral parlor.” Gage smiled, glancing at Ashley.
Ashley shuddered. “I bet there’s tons of creepy stories about that !”
“And a lotta other buildings maybe you wouldn’t expect.” Without breaking stride, Etienne pointed out a charming yellow house on the opposite side of the street. “Mama said a Dr. Fuller used to have his office in that place. Who knows who might’ve been sick or died there.”
“Ewww!” Ashley stopped in her tracks. Gage promptly plowed into her from behind.
“We should do some research on voodoo, too,” Roo reminded them. “Lots of people around here practiced secret voodoo rituals.”
“How do you know that?”
“Why wouldn’t she know that?” Parker returned. “She of the Deep Underworld who keeps decomposing mice and many other dead things in her locker.”
Roo’s stare was calm disdain. “One mouse.”
“We still don’t know how it got in Roo’s locker,” Ashley explained, looking distressed at the memory. “But she threw her books in and squashed it.”
“It was hiding. How was I supposed to know it was there.”
“Maybe if you cleaned out your locker once in a while?”
“Hey!” Snapping his fingers, Parker gave an exaggerated gasp of excitement. “I think we should put Roo’s locker on our tour! The mummy of the murdered mouse!”
Gage held back a smile. “Why don’t we just put Roo on our tour?”
“No, no, mon Dieu, way too scary.” With one smooth motion, Etienne crooked his arm around Roo’s neck and pulled her sideways against him. Roo tried to elbow him, but he expertly dodged the blow. "Okay, I think we got it, yeah? What information we have now, that’s where we’re gonna start. And once we get into all that research, we’ll probably be finding even more ideas.”
He seemed to be waiting for Miranda’s confirmation. Realizing the others were staring at her, she quickly nodded. “Anything dark, mysterious, unsolved, or unexplained. As long as you don’t make it up. The Ghost Walk’s all about having fun and giving people a good scare. But it’s also about factual events, the real history of the town.”
“Well done,” Gage murmured.
Doing her best to pay attention, Miranda wiped a hand across her brow. The morning had started out hot and humid, but she hadn’t expected the temperature to rise so quickly. No one else looked uncomfortable, she noted. Maybe I’m just tired from last night.
“This fancy house?” Ashley still had Miranda firmly in tow. “Can you believe it started out as a one-room feed store? The family that built it had a little boy who died. I don’t remember the exact details, but there’s a newspaper article about it in this stuff from Parker’s mom.”
Miranda gave Ashley a puzzled frown. It suddenly occurred to her that she’d scarcely heard anything the girl was saying.
“What about that building over there?” Miranda asked.
“That one? Oh, that’s the bank.”
“Not the bank.” Halting abruptly, Miranda spun Ashley halfway around. “That one.”
Ashley caught her balance at the last possible second. Bewildered, she followed the point of Miranda’s finger. “You mean Magnolia Gallery?”
“It’s not a gallery,” Miranda murmured.
Coming up beside them, Gage shot her a quizzical glance. “Yes, it is . . . an art gallery. Not just paintings though. We have a lot of local—”
“No.” Her voice had gone stubborn. She realized the others had gathered close, watching her in quiet dismay. “Before that.”
Gage glanced from Parker to Roo to Etienne. “Hasn’t it always been a gallery?” Receiving only shrugs, he skimmed the list of research he’d done.
“No, that’s not it!” Out of patience now, Miranda’s tone sharpened.
God, it was so hot out here! Why were they all staring at her again? And why did she suddenly have such an overwhelming urge to go over and look at that building?
“Miranda?” Ashley asked worriedly, but Miranda didn’t answer.
Pushing Ashley and Gage aside, she hurried across the street to the old building set back behind magnolia trees. Stately white facade; high, round columns; tall French shutters; upper-floor balconies—all the details rushed over her, familiar somehow, as if she’d seen them all before. She took the wide front steps two at a time and shoved open the massive doors. She paused expectantly on the threshold.
Music?
Her body grew even warmer, curiously detached. A strange but not unpleasant sensation of being removed to some different place—some close but hidden place where she could watch herself frozen there in the doorway. She could feel her mind opening, her heart searching, her senses reaching out . . .
Yes, definitely music. The tragic refrains of a finely tuned orchestra.
And a voice—such a voice!
An angel’s voice!
Soaring to heaven and back again in sweetly pure soprano . . .
Again Miranda felt the pull. The pull to give in and go farther, the urge to completely let go.
The swishing of skirts and handheld fans, the clinking of crystal glasses, flow of fine wine, heady sweetness of roses . . .
The final fall of a curtain . . .
And one voice.
“Nathan . . . why?”
The angel’s voice, sad and alone . . .
Sobbing . . .
Now silent.
Miranda whirled around. She was here, right here on the threshold of the gallery, and she could see the others gathered in behind her on the steps. Parker and Ashley, Roo and Gage and Etienne—all of them just standing there, watching her with half-stunned expressions. After what seemed an eternity, Etienne started toward her, but Gage got to her first.
“It was an opera house,” she mumbled. Letting the doors swing shut, she peered up into Gage’s startled eyes. “And something terrible happened here.”
11
THE RUSH, THE HEAT, THE EERIE DETACHMENT WERE GONE.
No roses now, no ghostly sounds.
Instead, Miranda felt as though a raging fever had broken, leaving her weak and shaky, but remarkably clearheaded. She remembered every detail—every sight and scent and sound. She recalled her senses heightening to almost painful intensity before fading back again to normal.
And she was positive that time had come to a standstill, even while passing her by.
Oh my God . . . did I really say that out loud?
Etienne had stopped midstride. She could see the way he was looking at her—beyond curious, beyond surprise, almost as if he’d suddenly recognized who—or what—she truly was. The others, exchanging wary glances, hadn’t moved.
It was Parker who finally broke the silence. Slapping both hands on his knees, he doubled over in forced laughter.
“Man! That was great! You really had me going there for a second!”
But Ashley’s voice held a slight tremor as she snapped at him. “Parker, have you completely lost your mind? What is wrong with you?”
“Well, don’t you get it? The way she set us up like that? It was brilliant!” Straightening, he grinned from ear to ear. “Hey, Miranda, did you take acting lessons at your old school? I think you should be the guide on this Ghost Walk thing—I mean, you were convincing as hell!”
“Um . . . excuse me?” Roo’s stare was as condescending as her tone. “Reality check here. I don’t think she was acting.”
“Well, sure she was. She—” Parker broke off. Realizing he was the only one laughing, he glanced at Miranda’s blank face, at Gage standing uncertainly beside her, at Etienne’s fixed expression. Then he laughed again, though not as loud as before. "Y’all aren’t buying this, are you? She’s just screwing with us.”
“Were you?” Ashley murmured, her wide-eyed gaze on Miranda. “Is that supposed to be part of the tour?”
Roo pulled a cigarette from one pocket, matches from another. She lit up, crossed her arms over her chest, and blew out a long cu
rl of smoke.
Avoiding Etienne’s stare, Miranda forced an amused smile. “Come on, you guys, how would I know anything about an opera house?” Could I have read it somewhere? “How would I know anything about any of these buildings?” Could I have heard it from Aunt Teeta?
Ashley immediately looked relieved. “So you were acting! Oh, Miranda, that was so good—you really have it down! I totally believed you!”
“She wasn’t acting,” Roo said again.
But Miranda couldn’t listen to any more. Etienne was standing next to her now, and Gage was on her other side, and she was beginning to feel trapped. She had to get away from here.
“Sorry.” Faking a look at Etienne’s watch, she bolted down the steps and past the others. “I didn’t realize how late it was—I promised Aunt Teeta I’d help her with something. See you later!”
She hurried along the route they’d taken, knowing full well how lame her excuse had been. She thought she heard someone call her name, but she didn’t stop, and she didn’t look over her shoulder. Had she managed to convince them that she’d been making everything up? For what else could she have done at the mercy of an event so totally unexpected and unforeseen? She could hardly believe it herself—how could she ever expect them to?
Yet she did believe it. Because this time was different.
This time she hadn’t been afraid or alone or confused like she’d been before, when the voice had spoken, when the screams had come. This time she hadn’t been lost in some nightmare. There had been a real opera house, a real tragedy within its walls, and though she wasn’t sure how or why she could have known this, she was certain about it now. She just knew.
I have to go home. She had to escape before it—whatever it was—happened to her again. As she picked up speed, it dawned on her that there was one person who would understand.
I have to talk to Grandpa.
Miranda walked even faster. She prayed no one had followed, but there were footsteps behind her, gaining steadily.
“Miranda! Wait up!”
She pretended not to hear. When Etienne grabbed her arm, she gasped as he swung her around to face him.
“Come on, cher, where you going?”
“It’s a mistake!” Miranda insisted. “What I said at the gallery. I don’t know anything about it—I made it up!”
“You know you didn’t.”
She tried to shake him off, but he only held her tighter. “Etienne, please—I need to talk to my grandfather. I need him to explain. I need to understand what this is—what’s happening to me!”
“He already told you. You can communicate in ways the rest of us can’t. With people the rest of us can’t.”
“Dead people.” Miranda could barely choke out the words. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? That suddenly I’ve got this— this horrible power . . .”
“Gift, cher.”
As his eyes fixed on hers with calm intensity, she found it impossible to look away. She wondered if those eyes had ever shown the slightest trace of fear. She wondered why her own fears seemed to be calming inside her, leaving only a quiet resentment in their place.
“So I’m supposed to believe that. And accept that. Like it’s perfectly normal.”
“Yes. Your grand-père, he always helped them. When they had secrets they needed to share. When they were in pain. He was the only one they could turn to.”
Miranda’s heart was an icy knot. “Please don’t tell me this.”
“You need to hear the truth. And I promised him.”
“This is crazy. You know that, right? Things like this don’t happen to normal people.” Biting her lip, she fought back sudden tears. “Why did that hurricane ever have to hit? Why did I ever have to come here in the first place?”
“Because,” Etienne said gently, “maybe this is the place you’re supposed to be.”
His solemn words struck deep. With a puzzled frown, she gazed into his night-black stare.
“I heard what Jonas said to you yesterday,” Etienne reminded her. “He asked you not to turn them away.”
Thinking back to that strange conversation, Miranda gave a reluctant nod. “I have heard things. Voices. Sounds. And those screams Grandpa told you about. And something happened last night, too—I couldn’t be sure what was real and what wasn’t.” She paused, her brow furrowing. “And now today. No warning, no time to think. What if it happens again?”
“It will happen again.”
“I don’t like being surprised. I don’t want people staring and laughing at me.”
Etienne sounded thoughtful. “There’s only one person I know of who was laughing back there just now. And some people, they laugh just to hide how scared they are.”
She knew he was referring to Parker, but it didn’t ease the sting. “Parker can’t be half as scared as I am.”
“Listen to me, cher.” Sliding his fingers beneath her chin, Etienne tilted her face toward his. “You got a lot on your shoulders right now—a lotta thoughts, a lotta questions, a whole lotta things to get used to. It doesn’t seem real to you—and it probably won’t for a while. But you better accept it. ’Cause, if you’re anything like your grand-père, it won’t be going away.”
His honesty did little to reassure her. She noticed the rest of the group approaching now, and the urge to escape grew stronger.
“Aunt Teeta’s waiting for me,” she mumbled.
Twisting free, she took off once more, determined to put as much distance between herself and the others as she could. Thank God she didn’t have far to go. She rounded the last corner and could finally see Hayes House ahead of her. She saw the neatly lettered sign on the curb stating PRIVATE HOME—NO TRESPASSING. And she saw a mass of people crowded along the driveway and across the lawn.
That’s weird . . .
As Miranda started to run, neighbors continued to gather, all talking somberly to one another while they watched the house. For the first time she spotted several police cars and an ambulance. With rising dread, she forced her way through curious onlookers and up the front steps.
It was Mom who met her at the door. Mom with an expression much too serious, and a hint of tears glistening in her eyes.
“Mom?”
“It’s your grandpa,” Mom said quietly. “He’s gone, honey. Teeta found him about half an hour ago . . . dead in his room.”
12
THE AWFUL REALITY WAS SLOW TO SINK IN.
It seemed forever that Miranda stood there, regarding her mother in stunned disbelief.
She felt Mom take her arm and steer her gently inside the house, then close the door behind them. She heard Aunt Teeta crying. She could hear the hushed voices of police and paramedics, the creaking of footsteps on the second floor, the muffled maneuvers on the stairs as a stretcher was carried down.
Mom coaxed her into the nearest room—what Miranda had guessed to be the living room on her first visit here.
Yesterday. It was just yesterday.
How could that be? She’d finally found her grandfather. After all these years, all her dreams and imaginings, she’d met him at last. She’d talked with him, held his hand, touched his face. She’d been happy and disappointed; she’d been hopeful and had her hopes dashed. She’d been angry and yearning and horrified and confused, and she’d been given a shocking, secret revelation that she couldn’t comprehend and certainly didn’t want.
There would be no understanding now.
No answers, no explanations, nothing.
"It always skips a generation . . . that’s why your mama will never understand . . .”
“Maybe this is the place you’re supposed to be . . .”
Words pounded in her head. Grandpa’s words, Etienne’s words, useless words, meaningless words. She’d been afraid of her grandfather—she’d been embarrassed and ashamed. But now she was all mixed up. Now she didn’t know how she felt.
I know I loved him. Tears filled her eyes at the realization. And I really wanted to love hi
m. Had he known? Had he been able to see beneath her resentment and defenses? Had he been able to see that love in her heart?
Miranda looked down at the glass of water Mom was putting in her hand. The two of them were side by side on the couch, though she didn’t remember sitting. She wondered about her mother; she searched Mom’s face for telltale signs of emotion. But what she saw were features like stone, a dazed expression, and movements strangely mechanical.
Miranda waited till her grandfather had been taken away. Should she comfort Mom? Strong, stoic Mom who never asked or even liked to be comforted? Mom hadn’t shed a tear when they’d left Florida, their friends, the empty rubble of their old life. Mom had been in total control, and she’d taken total control. Does she feel guilt? Sadness? Pain? Regret?
Miranda didn’t know. And there were no clues to tell her.
“I need to check on Teeta,” Mom said softly. “I guess you and I will be moving into the house now. I’m sure she’s going to need us.”
Miranda could only nod. Mom sounded so calm and practical, already making plans. Just like when Dad died. Setting her glass on the coffee table, Miranda stood on shaky legs.
“I think I’ll go outside for a while.”
“Not where people can stare, honey. They’re like a pack of vultures out there, wanting to know every detail.”
How could she be like that? Miranda wondered. Even now, in the midst of another tragedy, Mom was obsessed with what people thought. Fighting down a wave of anger, she slipped out the side door that Etienne had shown her. The trees hid her from view, and without hesitating, she hurried along the back wall and away from the house.
She hadn’t intended on going to the park.
She just suddenly found herself at the entrance.
Swept inside by the crowd, Miranda was immediately assailed by a carnival-like atmosphere. Oh, right. The Rebel Rouser today. The air was filled with laughter; rich smells of barbecue, boiled shrimp, fried fish, and grilled burgers; the pounding, earsplitting rhythm of a zydeco band. From a petting zoo, goats and sheep bleated nervously as squealing kids chased them with handfuls of food. Bells clanged for lucky prizewinners at dozens of game booths. Flags flew, men in Civil War uniforms flirted with hoop-skirted ladies, and from somewhere in the distance came the boom of a cannon and the muffled discharge of guns . . .
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