I didn’t understand at first.
“The low road,” she whispered. “The one the ghosties travel.” She waited, watched my face, let it sink in. Then burst into peals of laughter when it did.
I never let her sing it again after that.
And now it’s back in my head, spooking me. “Relax,” I say, extra loud, and shattering the silence makes me feel better.
I’m just overtired. It’s making me dramatic.
I toss my phone onto the side table and drop onto the bed. The mattress is thin and feels almost slightly damp, but I’m too beat to care. Maybe I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes before figuring out dinner. I don’t even bother changing. I just kick off my shoes, crawl under the yellowed sheets, pull the scratchy wool blanket to my chin, and pass out.
My eyes flick open into darkness.
Something has woken me.
I fumble for my phone on the nightstand. It lights up at my touch. 2:19 a.m.
There’s a voicemail from Poppa. I tap it.
And the battery dies. Because of course.
With a groan, I stretch over the edge of the bed, flailing my arm blindly until my fingers graze my backpack. I drag it closer. Dig around. And it hits me: I must’ve left my power adapter at the hostel in Edinburgh. I raced out of there so fast when I got the call about Janet.
I grab the cord instead and wriggle it into the USB outlet on the lamp, and why does that never work until the third try? I finally get it, and…nothing. I wait a minute, but the little charging symbol never appears. No surprise, this ancient building probably has sketchy wiring to go with its creaky stairs.
I flop back onto the mattress and try to make my body relax, but it’s no good. I’m wide awake.
With a sigh, I swing my feet onto the floor. I didn’t shut the curtains before passing out, and the glassy black rectangle of window draws me toward it.
Pressing my forehead to the cool glass, I peer outside. The night is still. Heavy. It wraps around the inn, thick and silent. Somehow, it comforts me. Reminds me of home.
This land, as lush and remote as Poppa’s farm, fills me with a deep, familiar peace. The similarities steady me. Make me feel less alone.
Outside, the moon hangs pale in the darkness.
A new moon.
I learned about them in astronomy class. It’s when yousee the side of the moon that’s not lit by the sun. Faint and gray, it hovers in the sky like the ghost of itself.
A knot in my chest begins to loosen. I take a deep breath. Exhale slowly. It feels so good, I do it again. Deeper. Slower.
Cheek pressing against the glass, I crane my neck, searching till I find Loch Lomond. It gleams in the distance like a bead of mercury. I pull back, soothed.
And then—a man. In the window.
I shriek, stumble back. He’s young, maybe a few years older than me, his silhouette stark against the night sky. But I’m on the second floor.
He can’t be outside. Which means it’s his reflection.He’s behind me.
Pulse slamming, I spin and stumble back, knocking my head on the glass as my eyes dart around the room. It’s empty. Holding my breath, I brace a hand on the sill and force myself to look back at the window.
He’s still there.
Impossible.
Outside, there’s nothing but a two-story drop.
Which means…a ghost?No. That’s ridiculous. Right? But hefeelslike a ghost. And he’s looking at me. Watching me.
