Extraits

"Hello?" Darcy says.

My eyes open and I'm back in the basement. The stairs shake and Darcy is mumbling something to himself. "Are you still down here?"

I move closer to the light switch, flicking it off and on. He goes stiff, only moving his eyes. "Shit," he says and slowly sticks his hand out. I tangle my fingers with his, wishing he could feel me, and then he sucks in a breath, taking a step back. "I… What was that?"

He grips onto the railing, his hot pink nails digging into the wood. He's wearing another colorful outfit and his hair is styled upward, holding perfectly in place. "I don't believe in ghosts."

I didn't either. Doesn't matter what we believe. The truth catches up to us all eventually. He doesn't move for a while, his chest heavily rising and falling. "How did you even get down here?"

He doesn't believe in ghosts and yet he continues talking to one anyway. I'm glad he doesn't make any more sense than I do. If only he realized I can't respond. At least not with words.

He rubs his face over his hand. "Great, now I'm talking to myself. I'm going crazy."

With the need to reassure him that he's not losing his mind, I search for something I can use to help me communicate better. There isn't anything down here but a bunch of junk.

My eyes rake over every corner of the room and finally stop when they land on a pocketknife on a wooden stool. I smile and pick it up. He turns around, shaking his head, walking back toward the house. I rush up the steps behind him and start carving words into the wooden boards lining the wall beside him. He stops and slowly turns around once the knife stops moving.

"What th—"

His face is expressionless and he takes a step down, moving his face closer, his eyes squinting.

"I'm here. You're not crazy," he reads out loud and then laughs. His hands grab at his hair. "I'm not so sure I agree with you," he says, his eyes circling the room.

"There really is someone here. You're actually real."

I move the knife against the wall again and his eyes light up. "Yes," I write. "We both are."

He laughs again. "Yeah. Apparently so. Shit. This can't really be happening."

"It is."

He sucks on his bottom lip. “What’s your name?"

I respond again. "Caleb."

"Caleb," he repeats. "How did you… Why are you down here?"

I know that's not what he originally wanted to ask, but how do you ask a person how they died without it sounding so morbid? Like, hey, nice to meet you, what killed you? Not the kind of conversations I thought I'd ever have. It's not every day you're a ghost haunting a basement.

It takes me longer to carve in the next few words and he stands there patiently waiting for every letter to show up. "I don't know."