"I don't know who broke the door," she said. "But I know there are other people here. I don't know if something bad happened here or what, but there's at least two up there and I thought they were gone, but they're not.

"You've probably heard them, too, but the way you are, you convince yourself it's something else."

He shrugged.

"Like at night, when you're lying in bed and you wake up and you can hear them upstairs, or sometimes out here in the hall. They seem to like going up and down the stairs, that's for sure."

"And when was the first time you noticed these . . . other people?"

"Don't patronize me. Unlike talking to you, Jack, you can say 'ghosts' and I won't think you're stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid. You know better than that. But there's--"

"There's no such thing, right?"

He didn't reply.

Liz took another sip from her tea. It had cooled a little, but she still had to blow on it first.

"The first time I noticed them, now that I think about it, was our first day here. You'd gone to the store and Joey was asleep in here. I laid down in the bedroom and fell asleep, too. A little bit later, I woke up when I felt someone climb onto the bed with me. I a.s.sumed it was you or Joey, so I went back to sleep. But when I woke up, you were just coming home with the groceries, and Joey was still in here."

"And you didn't think that maybe he'd just come back here again after going in there?"

"No, I did think that. That's what I a.s.sumed for a long time. But in retrospect, I don't believe for a second now that's what it was. It was someone else."

Jack got a c.o.ke from the kitchen and sat on the arm of the couch, holding the can in his lap. "And that's it?" he asked. "That's your big proof there's . . . ghosts . . . in the house? Because you felt someone climb onto the bed while you were, as you said, asleep? Yeah, they call those dreams in the real world."

"f.u.c.k off," she shot back. "I've seen them. I've seen the man walk past me. I've seen them in the bathroom, and upstairs in the middle room, two different ones. I've heard their voices. I've felt them. Whether you buy it or not, that's who broke your precious f.u.c.king door, and, unfortunately, not believing in them isn't going to be enough to get rid of them."

He stared at her, took a drink, and asked, "So you're the expert. How do you get rid of them?"

"I don't know," she said. "I had the house blessed a couple weeks ago, and I thought they were gone. I didn't hear them or anything for a long time. But the other day, there was a phone call--"

"Oh no, not a phone call. Well that cements it for me. I'm convinced."

"Forget it," she said. Liz went into the kitchen, away from Jack.

He sat for a second, then got up and followed her.

"I'm sorry, okay? I know, I said I wouldn't interrupt. I'm not trying to make light of what you're saying, but you know I can't buy any of this without actual proof."

"I'm not saying you should buy anything. I'm just telling you what I've seen and heard."

"All right. Go on. I'm sorry. Please."

She set her cup on the counter and turned to him, but she kept her eyes down.

"The other day, the phone rang and I answered and it was this little girl's voice. She was yelling something like, 'Why did my daddy kill me?' Now, whether it was for real or just some kids playing around, I don't know, but it freaked me out and it fits, I guess, with the house. I mean if there's ghosts here, that means someone died here, right?"

Jack didn't answer. He was thinking about the story Charley Clark told him about the house. And then he understood.

"I get it," he said, smiling. "You read the book, didn't you?"

"What?"

"Yeah, you read the book and now, because I didn't tell you about it in the first place, you're coming up with this c.r.a.p about ghosts. I know, I learned my lesson. I'm sorry. I should have told you in the first place."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

Jack was looking at her, trying to gauge her reaction. Maybe she hadn't found the book.

"The Outsider's Guide to Angel Hill," he said. "The chapter in there about the house?"

She shook her head. Then she remembered the book.

"Wait," she said, "I do remember a book. It's under your side of the mattress. What is that? Angel Hill p.o.r.n, and that's why you hid it?"

"No," he said. "I didn't hide it. I just hadn't gotten around to showing it to you yet."

Liz dumped the rest of her tea into the sink, rinsed it, and set it on top of the dirty pile of dishes.

"And why not?"

"Because of the house," he said. He was beginning to regret mentioning the book. It didn't seem Liz had read that chapter, after all.

"What about the house?" she asked.

He turned back to the living room and leaned back on the couch. Liz followed and stood in front of him, staring at him, almost daring him to answer.

"The house," he said. "The book is all about weird c.r.a.p that's happened in Angel Hill since the town was founded. There's a chapter in there about our house. Apparently some guy a few years back killed his kids and himself up on the third floor."

Liz's mouth dropped.

"Oh, my G.o.d," she said. "You mean you knew about that and we moved here anyway?"

"No," he said, leaning toward her. "I swear, I didn't know a thing about it. I didn't find out until we moved here. Then Charley mentioned this book to me and, honestly, I didn't have any intention of getting it. I don't even know why I did. But I didn't find out about the house until weeks after we'd been living here."

"And you didn't think this information was the least bit important to the person who's stuck here all day by herself?"

"No," he said. "It's not that. But I knew it would freak you out. I mean, come on, Liz, people die all the time. You think every house that anyone has ever died in is haunted? That'd be almost every house anywhere. There was no point in getting you all freaked out--like you're getting now, I'd like to add--over something that happened years ago."

Liz sat in the chair across from him, listening, but not looking at him.

"You should read about some of the c.r.a.p that's gone on in this town. It's so crazy, I can't even accept most of it. I keep arguing the logic behind it all with Charley at work, but he insists it's all true. But true or not that someone killed himself in our house, that doesn't make it haunted."

"You're right," she said. "That doesn't make it haunted. But the footsteps, and the voices, and all the other s.h.i.t I've heard around this place, that does make it haunted."

"Houses make noise," he said.

"f.u.c.k you, all right? I think I know the difference between a house settling and a voice calling my name." She stopped, closed her eyes, and took a breath. After a second, she continued. "You don't have to believe me--I never thought you would anyway. I only told you now because you think I broke your stupid door and I know I didn't. You need an explanation for it, and that's the one I'm giving you because that's the only one I've got."

"Fine," he said, "you didn't break the door. Okay. But it didn't break by itself, and ghosts didn't break it either."

Liz turned on the television and flipped through the channels. Jack watched her for a few seconds before asking, "So what, we're done talking?"

"I guess," she said. "I've given you my side. Believe it or don't, I'm tired of arguing with you."

"Hey, I don't want to argue either. I just want to find out how the door got broken, that's all."

"And I told you." She went through the channels again. She wasn't really looking for anything to watch, but she needed the distraction.

"And that's one possibility. And when we've exhausted all other possibilities, and then come up with a few new ones, we'll maybe go back to that one. But you know I can't take that one out of the blue like that."

She shut off the television, stood up, and tossed the remote on the chair.

"If you paid attention around here once in a while, you'd realize it's not out of the blue."

She left the room and Jack heard the bathroom door close, then water running.

Guess that's it, then.

He grabbed the chunk of broken door and carried it back upstairs. No point leaving it laying around to clutter up downstairs. He'd do something with it this weekend.

Upstairs, he leaned it against the wall, placing it horizontal to keep it from falling. He stood up, stretched his back, and sighed.

"Ghosts, just because some guy kills himself years ago," he mumbled. "Whatever, man."

And before the sound of his voice had faded, he saw a man standing across from him, staring back at him. His arms twitched and his heartbeat jumped once, then he realized it was his reflection in the window across the room.

Thanks a lot, Liz, he thought.

He walked to the window and stared at himself. He was going over in his mind any explanation he could conceive for the broken door. He knew Joey couldn't have done it. And that only left Liz. But she insisted. And he wanted to believe her. But her explanation was c.r.a.p.

His mind was elsewhere, his eyes were focused on the Jack Kitch staring back at him, but when the shadow past behind him, he was right back in the third floor room, twirling, looking for whoever was up here with him.

The room appeared empty. And he wanted to think it really was empty.

But empty rooms don't cast shadows by themselves. Certainly not moving shadows. Who was up here?

"Liz?"

No boards creaked, nor windows rattled.

He went to the door leading to the center room, looked out and around, down the stairs. There was no one. The shadow had been in the room, so she couldn't be out here anyway. He turned back in, went into the corner room, then looked into the third room at the side of the house. When he turned back into the corner room, he stopped, staring at the chunk of broken door, still leaning against the wall, but standing vertical.

Jack took a deep breath, listened to the room again, and knew someone was here.

It was Joey. He heard him giggling.

He checked the rooms again, in the closets, then went into the bathroom. He turned on the light, looked behind the tub, and opened the door to the storage room. Cool, stale air wafted out and Jack ducked his head in, looked around, listening, but didn't see Joey.

He could still hear him giggling. He'd heard him giggling the entire time he'd been looking, but he had looked everywhere. If Joey was up here, he'd picked one h.e.l.l of a good hiding place.

Screw it, he thought. If Joey's up here, he can stay up here. I'm going downstairs. We'll see how funny it is when he's all by himself up here.

He made a show of turning off the bathroom light, clicking it off loudly, and then going down the stairs with heavy feet.

At the second floor, he went down a few steps, quieting his footsteps to make them sound as if he were still going down. Then he backed up onto the second floor and moved away from the stairs, into the shadows, waiting for Joey to cry or come down.

His wait seemed to drag on for a while, but Joey never came down, nor did Jack hear any whining. After a few minutes, Jack edged out toward the steps, head c.o.c.ked and listening.

He heard a creak on the stairs and when he moved to step back into the shadows, there was another giggle. This one seemed higher, more childlike than Joey, louder, and right behind him.

He turned around, expecting Joey, but was confronted with the empty room, shadows and stillness covering everything.

And now Liz's words came back. The house is haunted. There are ghosts upstairs.

No, he thought. That's not the truth.

"Joe? Come on out, it's past bedtime."

He waited again, keeping an eye on the stairs, one on the room in front of him, but nothing moved in either direction. He heard Liz downstairs open the bathroom door, click off the light, and walk down the hall. There's nothing up here, he thought. But another giggle, this time directly in front of him, said otherwise.

The uneasy part of him said there was someone in front of him, a child. But the rational part of him said if there was, he'd see it. And since he didn't see anything, there was nothing there. And since Jack spent most of his time listening to the rational part, he told himself he was right and there was nothing there. He didn't know where that noise that sounded like giggling was coming from, but it was not ghosts.

As he went downstairs, the uneasy part of him said it could feel something breathing down his neck, but the rational side said shut up, I'm going to bed, I'm just really tired, that's all.

Jack slid into bed, turned over, and closed his eyes. A few seconds later, he found himself wishing Liz had come to bed instead of staying up to watch television. At least then he could let himself feel that weight that seemed to rest on the other side of the bed, the weight that he would know was Liz. But since there was no one there, he told himself he didn't feel anything across from him. No, he didn't feel that shift. No, he didn't feel that tug of the sheet. And no, he didn't feel anything pa.s.s in front of the fan.

Liz flipped through the channels, knowing nothing was on, but not wanting to go to bed just yet. Wait until Jack falls asleep, then go, but not right now, not while he's still probably awake in there being so smug and superior because he knows everything and if it's not something he can hold in his hands or put in his mouth, then it must not be real. She'd rather spend the next two hours going through every channel conceived than deal with him again right now.

She soon realized she wasn't thinking about Jack, but Alex.

This isn't Alex she told herself. That was totally different. He was an a.s.shole.

Jack's not winning any points right now, either.

Yes, but this is different. Jack's not Alex. This is just an argument. It'll blow over.

What if it doesn't? Here you are how many hundreds of miles from everything you've known and what if it happens again? Can you start over again, and so far from home?

This is home. What happened with Alex isn't going to happen again. I'll see to that, no matter what.

Even if that means telling him you were wrong about the ghosts?

It won't come to that. They're real and if he doesn't want to deal with it, fine. I'll have to handle him and the ghosts.

Can you?