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Authors: Phoebe Kitanidis
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‘the drop’?”
“Just a silly slogan.” Liz gestures toward a framed poster on the kitchen door depicting a powerful waterfall. “Summer Falls, 1,600 feet.” And below that: “Feel your tensions drop away. ”
“Is it true?” I ask. “Do people really relax that much when they come here?”
Liz shakes her head. “Only because they expect to. It’s a good sales technique, and with the mill closing we need the revenue from tourism.”
Same thing the sheriff said. “Why did the mill close?” I ask.
Liz preheats the oven to 350 degrees. “Some machines malfunctioned,” she says vaguely. Either she had no idea what happened or there was a grisly disaster with tons of casualties. Either way she’s not talking about it.
Elyse and I decide to head downtown. On the walk we catch each other up. She tells me about the missing photos in the album, and Liz’s weird reaction to seeing pics of her own mother, Elyse’s grandmother. I tell her about the fainting, fighting couple—her eyes widen—and my theory that I can turn invisible just by not speaking when I first enter a room.
“You’re not invisible.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re just good at blending in. Besides I saw you, this morning in—um, in bed. You definitely hadn’t said anything. You were asleep.”
“That doesn’t fit the pattern,” I admit. “But I think it’s more likely that there’s something weird about you.” I tell her about the ghost description of Tomoko. “You were right, okay?”
“So that’s who she was.” She stares at the surface of the lake, thoughtful. “So weird that you couldn’t see her.”
“You think that’s the weird part? How about the fact that ghosts exist and haunt your hometown?”
She tilts her head toward me in surprise. “The idea of ghosts is perfectly natural. They’re just spirits of the dead.”
“Right,” I deadpan, “spirits of the dead. It’s all so very natural and normal. Not like crazy, crazy magic, which you don’t believe in.” She shoves me playfully, and I grab her hand before she can pull it back. She gasps.
“I just want to know, how come you’re down with ghosts but not magic?”
She fixes her eyes on me. “How come you’re down with magic but not ghosts?”
I let go of her hand. I don’t have an answer.
“Maybe I’m used to ghosts,” she says, shrugging. “Growing up in a haunted town and all.”
“Maybe,” I say, “except . . . that brochure was very hokey. Like whoever wrote it didn’t seriously believe in ghosts but just thought it would be cheesy, good fun for the tourists. A sales technique, like your mother was saying. Elyse, don’t tell anybody else what you saw. Not even your parents.”
She shudders. “You’re worried they’d put me in the asylum, aren’t you?”
“They would literally have to kill me first.” But yes.
—
When we hit Main Street we decide to split up, checking out stores on opposite ends of the street and meeting at the fair in an hour, in time for the picnic.
I cross the street to Hinklebeck’s Antiques and note the smaller writing under the main signage. “Thousands of Secondhand Goods and Antiques Within . . . and One Relic.”
I’d been expecting a bell to announce every customer, but the door makes no sound as I open it. Maybe the door sensed my broke status and knew I wasn’t important enough to warrant a staff welcome.
From behind the counter, an older woman is talking to a slightly built young man.
“And what do we have here, Bette?” The man has a British accent. “A fresh catch from the sea of eBay?”
“1923,” Bette brags. She plays with her wooden beaded necklace and grins, the over-sixty version of the hair-flip-giggle combo. “That there’s an original Dorian Coffer, seller’s great-grandma had it down in her basement . . . souvenir from her honeymoon.”
I tiptoe forward and lean closer to see what they’re looking at. The woman still doesn’t notice my
“Just a silly slogan.” Liz gestures toward a framed poster on the kitchen door depicting a powerful waterfall. “Summer Falls, 1,600 feet.” And below that: “Feel your tensions drop away. ”
“Is it true?” I ask. “Do people really relax that much when they come here?”
Liz shakes her head. “Only because they expect to. It’s a good sales technique, and with the mill closing we need the revenue from tourism.”
Same thing the sheriff said. “Why did the mill close?” I ask.
Liz preheats the oven to 350 degrees. “Some machines malfunctioned,” she says vaguely. Either she had no idea what happened or there was a grisly disaster with tons of casualties. Either way she’s not talking about it.
Elyse and I decide to head downtown. On the walk we catch each other up. She tells me about the missing photos in the album, and Liz’s weird reaction to seeing pics of her own mother, Elyse’s grandmother. I tell her about the fainting, fighting couple—her eyes widen—and my theory that I can turn invisible just by not speaking when I first enter a room.
“You’re not invisible.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re just good at blending in. Besides I saw you, this morning in—um, in bed. You definitely hadn’t said anything. You were asleep.”
“That doesn’t fit the pattern,” I admit. “But I think it’s more likely that there’s something weird about you.” I tell her about the ghost description of Tomoko. “You were right, okay?”
“So that’s who she was.” She stares at the surface of the lake, thoughtful. “So weird that you couldn’t see her.”
“You think that’s the weird part? How about the fact that ghosts exist and haunt your hometown?”
She tilts her head toward me in surprise. “The idea of ghosts is perfectly natural. They’re just spirits of the dead.”
“Right,” I deadpan, “spirits of the dead. It’s all so very natural and normal. Not like crazy, crazy magic, which you don’t believe in.” She shoves me playfully, and I grab her hand before she can pull it back. She gasps.
“I just want to know, how come you’re down with ghosts but not magic?”
She fixes her eyes on me. “How come you’re down with magic but not ghosts?”
I let go of her hand. I don’t have an answer.
“Maybe I’m used to ghosts,” she says, shrugging. “Growing up in a haunted town and all.”
“Maybe,” I say, “except . . . that brochure was very hokey. Like whoever wrote it didn’t seriously believe in ghosts but just thought it would be cheesy, good fun for the tourists. A sales technique, like your mother was saying. Elyse, don’t tell anybody else what you saw. Not even your parents.”
She shudders. “You’re worried they’d put me in the asylum, aren’t you?”
“They would literally have to kill me first.” But yes.
—
When we hit Main Street we decide to split up, checking out stores on opposite ends of the street and meeting at the fair in an hour, in time for the picnic.
I cross the street to Hinklebeck’s Antiques and note the smaller writing under the main signage. “Thousands of Secondhand Goods and Antiques Within . . . and One Relic.”
I’d been expecting a bell to announce every customer, but the door makes no sound as I open it. Maybe the door sensed my broke status and knew I wasn’t important enough to warrant a staff welcome.
From behind the counter, an older woman is talking to a slightly built young man.
“And what do we have here, Bette?” The man has a British accent. “A fresh catch from the sea of eBay?”
“1923,” Bette brags. She plays with her wooden beaded necklace and grins, the over-sixty version of the hair-flip-giggle combo. “That there’s an original Dorian Coffer, seller’s great-grandma had it down in her basement . . . souvenir from her honeymoon.”
I tiptoe forward and lean closer to see what they’re looking at. The woman still doesn’t notice my
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