Who would have thoughtI’dbe sharing a haunted house with a ghost, or thatI’dbe one too.
I explore the first floor of the home, finding a small foyer with a copper coat rackthat’scorrodedto a shade of green. A moth-eatennewsboycap hangs from one of the hooks, and at the base is a stack ofTIMEMagazines. The one on top features an illustration of senator Robert Kennedy on the cover and is dated September 16th, 1966. Pages have been dogeared inalmost allthe issues. I pick up the copy with Bobby’s face and thumb to one of the marked pages, but something loose falls onto the floor.It’sa painting of a city skyline. IfI’mnot mistaken, it lookslike New York City, and it matches perfectly with a photo in the magazine.
Someone in this house was a painter, and they used these magazines as inspiration. Ifight with the urgeto flip through more of the issues to see if I can findothertreasures hidden between the pages, but I need to find Theodore.
I continue into the kitchen.It’sminimal but spacious. AntiqueBoneChinais displayed along shelves on the wall, cast iron pots and pansdangle above the pot-belly stove, and a small island in the middle of the room holds a dirtytea-cupand saucer.
Around the corner is a large wooden staircase with decorative spindles and intricate detailing. Though the wood is far from pristine,it’snot in bad condition. Remnants of blue carpet cover the stepsleading to the rounded wallof the first landing.Asingular window,the glassopaquein grime,allows zero visibility, but the bright white glare of the sunreflectingthe snow outside provides ample lighting.
I creep further up the stairwell,and itcreaksunder myweight. Wind continues to blow fiercely against the house, causing the old foundation to shift and groan.I’dbe worried the place would collapse around me if Iweren’talready dead.
The second floor is much like the first—peeling wallpaper and wainscoting covered in mold. The floor feels surprisingly sturdier, which is reassuring, and makes less noise as I walk across it than the one below.
“Theodore?” I whisper this time.
Being in this part of the house feels invasive of his space. He clearly disappeared because he was uncomfortable—whateverwas betweenhimandCalliopemust be a sore subject—but I find itrather rudethathe’djust dip on me after inviting me to stay in his home. No tour, no proper introductions, nothing.
Ifindthe masterbedroom butdismissthe urge to enter it. If he is in there,I’llgive him a minute to collect himself. On the other side of the hall is another set of stairs, these spiraling straight up to the next level.Blinding sunlight beams down from above as I peer upward, and I have to shield my eyes.
Can ghosts go blind?
I climb to the top as dust mites float around me like fairy dust, andI’mawestruck by what I find.“Whoa…”
It’sa library—a stunning, multi-level librarywith rows uponrows of old tomes. An actual rolling ladder is propped against the far wall next to a massivefloor toceiling bay window. This room is so much more vibrant than the rest of the house, either because of the amount of light orwhat’sheldwithin.
I’mabout to climb the rest of the way up the steps when a gust of wind blows my hair back. If my heart still worked,it’dbe beating rapidly inside my chest.
Theodore is right in front of me, appearing as he did before in what could only be described as a spectral, smoky version ofa man.
“Why are you up here?” he demands, voice low and firm.
“I-uh…”
Hedoesn’twait for me to form a sentence.Instead,he glides even closer, narrowing his eyes. “I allowed you to use this house as a tether. I did not invite you to explore and intrude on my business.”
I take one step down, lowering myself soI’ma few inches away from his glare, but I refuse to cower under his threat. “Oh, so youdidn’tsign up to be mybabysitter?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from my tone. “So glad we cleared that up.”
One browlifts, disappearing beneath his shaggy black hair. “No. I was coerced by a friend to open my house to a bunch of supernatural spectators and ended up with a housemate.”
Ican’thelp but chuckle at how ridiculous it sounds. Lo and behold,I’mnot alone, because the tiniest hint of a smirk grows on Theodore’s lips.
I take in the warped shelves, barely holding the weight of what looks like hundreds ofyears' worthof literature. Most of the titles look too obscure for my taste, but myeyecatchessomething that looks like a leather-bound journal. I go to snatch it up, but Theodore is there first.He’ssomehow managed to shift his hand into a physical state while the rest of himremainstransparent, and our fingers brush against each other. A tiny tingling sensation flutters across the top of my hand before Ipullaway.
Theodore doesn’t seem to react. Did he not feel that?
“That’s personal,” he says, gesturing to the journal. “I’d rather you not.”
I shrug. “No worries.”
He looks odd hovering there with just an incorporeal hand floating in front of him. “How do you do that?” I ask bluntly.
He glances down at his ghostly feet thenbackup at me. “Do what?”
“Change the way you appear.”
“It takes practice, and a lot of concentration—even more to become fully corporeal as you are now.”
I rub my hands along my arms, savoring the feeling. “I don’t know how I’m doing it.”
