Weird, Davie realized. We feel the water, but it doesn’t splash when we walk.
The water only splashed for the ghosts.
SPLASH SPLASH SPLASHSPLASHSPLASH
The splashing sound was faster, from more than one direction. It sounded like several people, or dogs, splashing at once. It sounded like . . . running.
Suddenly, water spattered to Davie’s chest from the splashing. He felt something bump against his arm, knocking him off-balance for a step, and it was gone. Not a dog, then. Too big for a dog. Something as tall as him.
“Who are you?” a stranger’s adult-sounding voice said. “I’m Davie Stephens.”
It was only him. But his mouth was doing all the work, because Davie’s mind was frozen shut. Sure, he’d seen a salt shaker fall, and he’d seen water dripping backward and a mirror suddenly askew, but he’d never felt a ghost touch him before. In movies, ghosts always walked through people, weightless.
But that one had pushed up against him. That one could have knocked him on his ass.
“Run!” a child’s husky voice said in the dark, up ahead.
Not him. Not Neema. Someone else. A boy he didn’t know.
From somewhere very far away, Davie thought he heard the sound of barking.
Davie realized only then that he was struggling to breathe, because fear and surprise had clotted his throat. Warm liquid seeped through his pajamas now; he had wet himself for the first time since he was Neema’s age.
“He said, ‘Run,’ ” Neema said.
Davie’s lips only bobbed.
The boy’s voice came again, from the kitchen doorway: “Follow me!”
“He said ‘Follow me’!” Neema said, an urgent whisper.
Davie’s body had forgotten how to move. Neema tugged on his hand, pulling him ahead toward the kitchen. One or two steps were enough to freeze Davie again, because the water felt higher now, up to his shins.
From his new vantage point in the center of the living room, Davie saw that the back door was wide open in the kitchen. Grandma and Grandpa Walter would never leave their back door open, especially with the mosquitoes in summer. The door definitely had not been open before.
Davie remembered his camera. Somehow, he had let it drop to his side, but he raised it. In night vision, the doorway looked like it was bathed in a spotlight.
And Davie saw a silhouette framed there—a boy turning to look at Davie over his shoulder. He was wiry, like Davie. He reminded Davie of the oldest boy he’d seen burying the dog. The fuzzy black silhouette in the light motioned his hand toward Davie.
“Hurry!” His voice was fainter.
“I heard something else,” Neema said. “Something . . . ”
Davie raised his eyes to peek at the doorway—but it was all empty dark. He could only see the ghostly figure when he raised the camera to his eye again. Still there!
Davie’s instincts were at war. One part of him wanted to run back to his bedroom as fast as he could. The other part of him wanted to follow the boy calling to him from the doorway. Neema tugged on his hand, toward the kitchen. Neema wasn’t just a ghost-hunter—Neema, it turned out, was a kamikaze.
Davie allowed himself to be pulled for two more steps, but then they both stopped.
Davie felt water above his knees now, and had to be higher to Neema. He took a startled step back. Walking in ghost water was one thing—but swimming was something else. Neema was a good swimmer because Mom made her take lessons at the Y every summer, but Davie’s lessons hadn’t stuck. Davie never liked water above his knees, and the way this water steepened, it would be above his waist soon.
“No,” Davie told Neema, holding fast. “Stay here.”
The dark image framed against the doorway’s light hesitated. Turned his head to look outside, then back toward Davie. Then back outside again.
Then, he ran. And he was gone. As the boy ran, the splashing sound faded to nothing.
It took Davie a minute to realize there were tears running down his face.
It would take Davie Stephens several hours, until almost daylight, to realize why he had cried in that moment, standing with Neema in the living room. He wasn’t crying because the ghost had sounded so scared—even though he surely had, and the ghost was just a kid, like him. And Davie wasn’t crying because he knew that only his fear had held him back from following, and maybe the water wouldn’t have gotten any deeper.
No, Davie was crying for one simple reason: For all the summers he had come to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, with the strange noises in the hall and objects falling down, he had never actually seen a ghost. He had never seen a human being who had come to visit from somewhere far away; actual proof that dying wasn’t forever.
That ghost was the most beautiful sight of his life.
When a sight like that crosses your eyes, Davie learned, there is nothing to do but cry.
“Yeah, I see the dark spot, Davie. What I don’t see is a little boy.” From Dad’s voice, Davie knew that was the last time Dad would look into the viewfinder to see last night’s footage. “And I’ve told you about staying up late. Look at you: Did you get any sleep?” Dad swiped at the camera as if to knock it from the kitchen table. Davie pulled it out of his reach just in time.
“What you got there, Davie?” Grandpa said. “Show me.”
Neema was bouncing in her seat, dying to say what she’d seen, but Davie had made her promise that she wouldn’t tell anyone she’d been up late with him. If Dad knew that, Davie would be locked in his room all night the rest of the summer.
The water didn’t show in the camera, of course. Davie hadn’t expected it to. Anyone knew that even infrared cameras couldn’t pick up manifestations with any reliability; the energy field was too fragile. But he’d lucked out and captured actual evidence—the image in the doorway, silhouetted by the light. He could see it! There was no denying the shadow.
Davie leaned close to Grandpa while he gazed into the tiny viewfinder. Grandpa smelled like after-shave. Old Spice. An old man’s smell.
“So . . . that’s your ghost?” Grandpa said.
“I heard him, Grandpa. He said ‘Run!’ and ‘Come on!’ There was a splashing sound when he ran across the floor.”
“Lots of splashing,” Neema broke in. “And water up to here.” She motioned up to her belly button. Then she caught herself, remembering her promise. “Davie told me.”
“Well, that’s a strange story, all right,” Grandpa said, and turned his attention to his coffee cup. At least Grandpa pretended to be interested, which was more than Dad had done, but who wants to drink coffee when they believe they’ve seen a ghost?
What was wrong with grown-up eyes? Will I go blind like them too?
Grandma looked at Davie over her shoulder from the stove. “Well, there’s no sign of water now, thank goodness. One time the A.C. broke, and our bedroom was flooded. Those floorboards warped and cracked—”
“But it wasn’t real water, Grandma. It’s like . . . old. Like ghosts.”
Grandpa chuckled. “Well . . . you know what, Doris?”
Grandma shook her head. “Don’t encourage him, Walt. He needs his rest at night.”
“What’s the harm?” Grandpa put his coffee cup back down and leaned over to look Davie in the eye. What he said sent a bolt of lightning through Davie’s spine: “You know . . . All this land out here, before the developers came, it was nothing but swamp. Water all around.”
Davie’s heart was pounding as hard as when the ghost called out to him, beckoning.
Dad got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen. Probably to take a nap, Davie guessed, even though he’d just gotten out of bed.
“Swamp?” Davie said, remembering the smell of the water; almost a living smell.
“Shoot, yeah. They had to drain it. There’s still some swampy patches out back, probably a hundred yards beyond the gate. “
Grandma set a plate of pancakes down in front of Davie loudly enough to stop the conversati
on. “All these crazy stories about Gracetown in summer. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Walt,” she said. Then she took up the conversation in her own way: “They’re trying to build back there now. You can bet they wouldn’t tell anyone who buys those houses it’s only swampland underneath. Just like they won’t tell them there’s no hospital for thirty miles. The land’s not fit! And where’s the sewage gonna go?”
Grandma could have gone on, but luckily the phone rang then. It was Imani, so her call was a big production. Everyone wanted their turn to talk to her. Even Dad came back to grab the portable kitchen phone to say hello.
Davie waited last to take his turn. Talking to Imani might mean lying, and he didn’t like to start out any day with a lie. If she asked How is everything? he’d be lying right from the start.
When it was Davie’s turn on the phone, he took it in his own room to tell her about his adventure with the ghost. For a while, Imani seemed interested, especially the part about the water. She talked to him like a real person, not her little brother, for a change. She didn’t try to rush him off the phone to be with her friends, or to watch her favorite anime, Death Note, or to do her work. She said things like “Wow” and “Cool!” She said she couldn’t wait to see his video. Couldn’t wait, she said.
But then she asked a question that had nothing to do with ghosts: “How’s Dad?”
Davie’s stomach, suddenly, was a knot.
“Sleeps a lot,” Davie said. “All the time.”
“People sleep when they’re depressed,” Imani said.
She knows, Davie realized. She wants to know if I know too.
“Well,” Davie said, heart pounding again—but this time from a deeper place, a more dangerous place, “I guess he’s got a lot to be depressed about.”
For a long time, neither of them said anything.
Then Imani said, “Did he tell you?”
And Davie said, “I heard him talking to Grandma.”
And they were quiet for a while again. Davie’s hand with the phone was trembling.
“It may not be for sure,” Imani said finally. “You know how Mom is. Dramatic. She calls me every other day. I’m trying to talk her out of it. And Dad’s stubborn, as usual. I know you don’t want to live in Ghana. Neema either.”
“No.” Davie could barely speak over the lump in his throat. He’d been to Ghana once, when he was little, and all he remembered about that trip was heat and a man with no teeth his grandmother had haggled with at an open-air market. Africa didn’t feel familiar to him, with too many differences—and it would be too far away from Dad. Too far away from his whole world.
“But if you do end up in Ghana, it wouldn’t be all the time,” Imani went on. “You’d go back and forth. And remember: Her dad worked for the government, so they have a nice house with a swimming pool. And there’s an American school nearby, like where diplomats and people send their kids. You wouldn’t be out in some village somewhere. You can’t blame Mom, Davie. Yeah, she’s dramatic, but look at Dad too. He works all the time. Mom says he used to laugh and have more faith in life. She feels isolated. When they got married, he promised her they could live in Ghana for a while—and it’s been almost twenty years. He always says no. What’s she supposed to do? ”
Davie had no idea what Imani was talking about, but the details of his life had already been decided. All he knew was that it felt wrong for Mom to talk to Imani like one of her girlfriends, not like her mother. Imani was on Mom’s side, Davie realized. So that was how it would line up: Mom and Imani against Dad, Grandma, Grandpa Walter, him, and Neema. Those would be the camps.
Davie blinked. His eyes stung, but they were dry. Tears weren’t enough for the feeling.
He suddenly hated his sister for her breeziness and her dorm room that felt safe to her, a haven she had claimed for herself. No wonder she’d been in such a good mood at the airport—she was escaping just in time, and she knew it. She had left him and Neema to fend for themselves.
“Anyway . . . ” Imani went on. “Like I said, I’m trying to talk her out of it. A month’s a good break for them. It’ll all be okay. Don’t worry. You’ll see.”
A sudden, loud knock on Davie’s door ended their conversation.
“Davie—unlock this door!” It was Dad.
Davie hadn’t realized he’d locked his door, thereby breaking the number-one house rule. He told Imani he had to go, clicked off the phone, and bounded from his bed to let Dad in. He hoped his unshed tears wouldn’t show too much. He didn’t want Dad to start talking to him about Mom and how dramatic she was (“Don’t you agree, ol’ buddy?”), patting Davie’s knee and asking him to see things from his side. Davie already felt like he might puke.
Dad looked like he had aged ten years in two days. He hadn’t shaved, and his stubble was more white than black.
“Did you leave this in my room?” Dad said. “Under my pillow?”
Davie looked at the object in his father’s palm for at least five seconds before his brain allowed him to understand what he was seeing: a gummy-looking dog biscuit.
Gnawed at both ends.
Davie wanted to go outside to the woods and find the place where the kids had buried the dog. That was his whole afternoon’s plan, a no-brainer. But as soon as he got outside, he saw his father standing at the back fence, near the broken log, almost like he was guarding it. Dad’s foot rested on the surviving lower log rail as he stared into the woods.
Davie walked beside him and stared, too, wondering if he would see the boys from there. He would enjoy a long conversation with them, all right. At first, Dad didn’t hear Davie beside him. There were too many crickets and bugs of endless varieties singing up a storm. But when Davie’s foot snapped a twig with a sharp crack, Dad turned around.
“I should fix this,” Dad said, squeezing the broken log, which crossed the next fencepost like an X instead of lying down flat. The break was a tangle of wire and splinters.
“Why?” Davie said. “It lets the deer come in.”
And maybe the ghosts too. Davie didn’t know why he thought so, but he did.
Besides, if the fence was fixed, he’d have to find another way to get back there. He couldn’t let the opportunity pass him by.
But if he couldn’t find the kids, or the place they buried their dog, he could cross the street to look for the construction site where the bodies had been found. He didn’t know if it was marked or anything—Grandma said the bodies had been dug up for weeks already—but it might be. There might be yellow tape strung up, like a police crime scene.
Dad sighed. “They expect me to fix it.” He was probably talking about the fence, but his voice had sounded so faraway that suddenly David wasn’t sure.
“Do you know how?” Davie said. He could answer that question either way. Dad could organize a whole documentary crew, but at home he could barely change a light bulb. That’s what Mom said.
Dad’s face snapped to look down at Davie, surprise in his eyes. Maybe he’d sounded too much like Mom. Or maybe he wondered what they were talking about, too.
“Neema’s shopping with Grandma,” Dad said. “We should go somewhere. Us two.”
Davie didn’t want to go anywhere with his father, but Dad needed him.
“How ’bout the library?” Davie said.
That time, his father even smiled.
“Kid, you’re a genius,” Dad whispered, setting up his laptop on the long library table. “I’m a week behind on this grant proposal, but there’s something about a library, right? Makes you want to work. You gonna be all right?”
To Dad, “doing something together” meant being in the same room at the same time. Davie had figured he would be able to peel off on his own if he brought Dad to a library, so he could kill two birds with one stone. The library in Gracetown was hardly bigger than the library in Davie’s elementary school, without the fun posters on the walls.
Dad was way too excited to be in a library. His knees bounced beneath the table, his
eyes flitting around like every shelf was sprinkled with fairy dust. Davie wanted to ask his father if he was all right, but what was the point? Or course he wasn’t.
“I’ll go see what’s in the sci-fi section,” Davie said.
Dad winked at him. “Good man.” He clapped his hands, ready to work. “Good man.”
Davie made an appearance in Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror, noting that with the entire Harry Potter series was checked out except for Chamber of Secrets. Lame. A quick peek at Dad, who was typing like a fiend, and Davie hustled over to the Research desk. The woman who sat there was old, of course, but weren’t all librarians old? Maybe it was a job requirement. She was a black woman with silver hair she had cut very short, and her face was dotted with what looked like freckles from a distance, but were really big moles. If the woman’s eyes weren’t so bright, it would have been hard not to stare at her moles.
“Help you, young man?” she said.
“Uh . . . ” Davie tried to think about the best way to put it. He had learned that mentioning the word ghost was a sure way to lose an adult’s attention. He didn’t discuss his hunts with strangers. “I live near the place where those bodies were found.”
“You do, huh?” She was instantly interested, taking off her reading glasses. Her eyes were suddenly intense. “How do you feel about that?”
Davie was confused by the question. “Okay . . . I guess.”
“What I mean is . . . does it upset you that so many people were buried there?”
“Nah. It’s kinda’ cool. I just wonder who they were. Did they live in the swamp?”
The librarian looked at him with a smile, as if he’d said the magic words. “So you want to know the history of the area?”
Davie nodded. “Right.”
Apparently, librarians get excited when kids come up to them and ask about history. The librarian even called her boss over, a reedy white man, and he recommended a book too. Before Davie knew it, she had a stack in her hands.
“By the way,” the librarian said, “my name is Mrs. Mabel Trawley. I’m from the Trawleys who live here in Gracetown, out near Trawley Hill. My great-grandfather was born on a tobacco plantation not far from the Stephenses. Are you their grandson?”
Ghost Summer, Stories Page 8