Daisy frowns, gives a single shake of her head. “Not a dream.”
“You said there was a man,” her brother says. “I heard you. Who was the man?”
“Not a dream.”
I cover her small hand with mine. “You know nothing in the dream can hurt you, don’t you, Daisy? It’s not real; it can’t ever get you.”
“Wasn’t though.”
“OK, so what made you—”
“Was a ghost,” she says firmly. “In my room. Behind my door.”
I put my cup of coffee down slowly, a strange chill traveling over my skin as I remember her words from last night.Don’t let the man get me. She’s never said anything like this before.A ghost. She occasionally has bad dreams about monsters and went through a phase of being terrified of statues—after Callum goaded her into watching a particularly scary old episode ofDr. Whowith him—but she’s never been so specific before.
“A ghost,” I repeat, keeping my voice light. “Gosh. But you know that ghosts can’t hurt you, Daze.”
Callum has stopped shoveling cereal into his mouth, his large brown eyes flicking between me and his younger sibling.
“I heard some funny noises too,” he says. “In the night.”
“It’s just the house, Callum. Every house makes different noises at night; it might take a little while to get used to.”
“Sounded like someone walking around in the night,” he says quietly.
“There wasn’t anyone walking around apart from me, matey. I promise you. This is our house now—no one else here. Just us.”
“And the ghost,” Daisy mutters through a mouthful of toast.
Leah emerges into the kitchen, navy school uniform on, both hands cradled to her chest. A small pair of dark beady eyes peeps out above her fingers, pink nose twitching at the smells of breakfast.
“Look whoIfound,” she says.
Callum drops the spoon into his bowl in a splash of milk.
“Mr. Stay Puft!” He stands up, holding his hands out. “Where was he?”
Leah passes the small brown hamster—named for the character in the originalGhostbustersmovie—carefully to her brother.
“Found him halfway down the stairs, just now. Heading for the front door like he was trying to make a break for freedom.” She goes to the sink to wash her hands. “You shouldn’t leave his cage open, Cal. You need to keep an eye on him.”
“Didn’t leave it open though,” Callum says in a high voice. “I swear.”
I lean back against the kitchen counter. “Perhaps that’s what you heard last night, Callum.”
But he’s not listening to me anymore. His breakfast forgotten, he heads for the stairs, cradling the hamster, and talking to it in soft tones. Daisy slides off the stool and scampers after her brother, insisting that she wants to help, to see the cage, to hold Mr. Stay Puft as well. To beinvolved.
Jess sweeps in, refilling her mug from the coffee pot. She’s dressed in her decorating clothes, faded jeans and an old gray sweatshirt, her short dark hair still wet from the shower. Over the last few years she’s come to dislike her job—she’s an account manager for a large insurance company—to the extent that she relishes every single day of leave, even if she spends it unpacking and assembling furniture.
“What was all that about?” she says.
I give her a brief recap of Daisy’s dream and the hamster’s escape.
My wife sips her coffee. “We knew the move was going to be unsettling for her—new room, new house. New everything. And she’s got a very vivid imagination.”
“I know.” I reach for another piece of toast from the rack.
She gives me a quizzical look. “But?”
