Chapter 10

Ten

D ahlia

So, I think, as I smirk to myself while unlocking the front door of Milton House. He also wants to talk about “things.” Things that happened in the past? Things that I sense are happening between us now? I can’t tell for sure.

Don’t get too excited, Dahlia. He might just want talk about “keeping things casual and seeing where they go.”

Just like the day before I transferred out of state.

When I twist the key in the lock, the heavy oak door creaks open and we step inside.

I switch on the lantern to guide our way, and it illuminates the front room with a soft white glow. Something feels off inside the house, like somebody has been here. It makes no sense, though, as I’m the only one with a key and I changed the locks as soon as the tourism bureau took possession of the house. I examine the door for any signs of forced entry but there are none.

And then I realize it’s not the presence of someone, but the opposite, as if someone is missing and the house is unsettled. I don’t really believe anything specific about the afterlife, but something weird is going on here.

“What’s wrong?” Blake asks, stepping close to me.

“I don’t know. Probably just Halloween excitement playing tricks on me.”

Blake towers over me. “If you want to get out of here, just say the word.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What, you think I’m scared already?”

“No, you just looked a little spaced out for a minute there. If you’re tired…”

I stand up on my toes for emphasis but my eyes can only manage to be level with his Adam’s apple. “I’m not tired. I’m not scared. But I am curious what things you wanted to talk about.”

He blinks down at me for a moment then shakes his head. “Listen. I know you did a lot of preparation for this ghost tour, so let’s have it. I want to hear everything.”

I try to be the cool, low maintenance chick. “It’s fine,” I say. “We don’t have to…I mean, I know you think this ghost stuff is baloney, so we can just skip it if you want.”

“D, give me the story. And then we’ll talk.” He sees right through me. And I like it.

I switch off the lantern, then pull out my flashlight and shine it up my face from under my chin. “But be prepared to have the bejeezus scared out of you.”

He chuckles. “You know you’re the only person on earth who still looks cute when you do that dorky flashlight thing on your face?”

He’s trying to charm me. And it’s working. Before I let him distract me any further, I start my speech and lead him through the front parlor, putting my flashlight away and re-lighting the lantern.

“There’s no electricity; it was shut off shortly after Esther passed. I decided to wait to turn it back on until I can have everything inspected. So watch your step, please.” I switch to my tour guide voice. “The Milton House was built by Captain James Milton in 1899 and was passed down through the generations.” I continue on with the entire history of the house, leading Blake through the front hall, the parlor, and dining room, making note of all the changes and minor upgrades, fun trivia and the Milton family history.

In the dark, I can feel Blake’s eyes on me. The thought of it makes me feel a little shaky. I put out a hand on the wall to steady my tired ankles when I hear something crash to the floor.

I gasp and shine my light toward the sound of tinkling glass. Bending over to get a closer look, I see it’s a picture of the late John Milton, Esther’s husband, that had been on a shelf nearby.

“That’s so odd,” I say, picking it up, careful not to cut myself.

“You totally knocked that off with your hand, D.”

“No, I swear I did not,” I breathe.

Blake scoffs. We make our way to the kitchen while I continue with the tour. “It was back here in the kitchen where Esther Milton first reported unusual activity in the house. She had come downstairs for a midnight snack and, according to her police report, a figure was standing outside the window, perfectly still, watching her. Police responded, but they found nothing. When it happened again a few weeks later and the police again found nothing, she called the newspaper to come and investigate. According to the newspaper archives I’ve read through, the reporters also found nothing amiss. At that point, she decided it was the ghost of her late husband, and she started calling psychics, ghost hunters, and just about anybody else who would listen to her.

“Soon afterward, she began to report more and more mysterious incidents at the house…”

We’re headed up the stairs to the bedrooms as I list off all the evidence of haunting. “Flickering lights,” I say.

“Probably just old wiring,” Blake mutters.

“…Kitchen drawers found open that weren’t left open…”

“Forgetfulness.”

“Sounds of footsteps on the stairs when she was alone…”

Blake grunts behind me. “Foundation settling.”

I shake my head but I can’t help but smile; I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince me or convince himself.