City of Ghosts

by Victoria Schwab

  Despite the way he looks on my parents’ book, in real life, Grim lacks what Mom calls basic feline dignity. Right now, for instance, he’s sprawled on his back, paws up in the air like a dog playing dead. When I drop my book bag on the floor, he doesn’t even twitch. I scratch the cat behind the ears, just to make sure he’s still alive, then beeline for the room that used to be my closet.

  Dad helped me convert it. We spent a weekend pulling out all the shelves, transforming the small space into a perfect darkroom. There’s a table with reels, a developing canister, an enlarger, photo paper, and pans for the chemicals. There’s even a steel cable with little clips to hold the drying photos. Everything a photographer needs.

  Jacob is already there, because he has no respect for things like doors and stairs.

  He shrugs, leaning back against the wall. “Ghost perk—shortcuts.”

  I lift the camera and crank the film, then thumb open the catch on the back, tipping the canister out into my hand.

  And then I close the door, plunging the closet—and us—into total darkness.

  Well, it would be total, if Jacob didn’t kind of … shine. It’s not so bright; more like moonlight. It doesn’t hurt the film, but it doesn’t help me see anything, either, so I still have to trust my hands to do the work.

  I pop open the canister and dump the film into my palm. Spool it onto the little metal reel and drop the reel into a developing tank, which is like a short thermos.

  Then I flip a switch, and the little closet fills with low red light. It casts both of us in an eerie glow, like something out of a horror movie. (Jacob wiggles his fingers and makes spooky sounds.)

  I add water to rinse the film thermos, then developer, swirling the container. While I work, Jacob rambles about whether to pack Thor #57 instead of #62. When the negatives are prepped, I hang them to dry. They won’t be ready for a few days.

  I pick a negative strip that is ready—this one from another recent excursion Jacob and I took, to an abandoned house a few blocks over. The house had been empty for years, but as Jacob and I discovered, it wasn’t truly empty. I feed the strip into the enlarger (a kind of projector designed to transfer pictures onto photo paper). Then it’s on to the printing.

  There’s a kind of magic to exposing film. It’s right there in the word expose—to reveal. I feel like a mad scientist as I move the photo paper through trays of developer, stop baths, rinse. And as I poke the paper with the tongs, the first picture finally begins to surface.

  My camera may be special, but it’s not as strange as I am. I can take it with me into the Veil, but it can’t see the way I do. Most of the time, the photos that show up are ordinary: a black-and-white translation of my full-color world.

  But now and then, I get lucky.

  Now and then, the camera catches a shadow against a wall, the lines like smoke around a body, a door to someplace that’s no longer there.

  Jacob hovers at my shoulder.

  “You’re breathing on me,” I whisper.

  “Am not,” he says.

  “Are too.”

  His breath is cold, a chill in the stuffy room, but my attention drifts back to the trays.

  One by one, the photos come into focus.

  There’s a shot of the abandoned house from the outside, sunlight cutting through warped wood.

  And one from inside, a straight shot down a darkened hall.

  And then—

  A winner.

  It’s a photo taken from the other side of the Veil—I can tell by the faint gray sheen. And there, at the top of the stairs, the smudge of a ghostly girl in a nightgown.

  Jacob whistles softly.

  If I showed this picture to anyone, they’d just assume it was photoshopped. And even if they believed me, the truth is, I wouldn’t want this on display. I don’t want to be like those TV mediums who stand onstage and pretend to communicate with the dead. And it’s not as if the dead really speak to me (Jacob aside).

  “I could be your interpreter,” he offers.

  I snort. “No thanks.”

  I glance back at my fresh negatives from today, and wonder if I caught a glimpse of the boy in his cape and crown, ghosted on the curtain.

  I’m stiff from hunching over the equipment, and I kill the red light and step out into the bedroom, blinking at the sudden brightness.

  Jacob throws himself down on the bed next to Grim. There’s no bounce, no dent in the comforter, but Grim’s ear twitches, and a few moments later, he paws at the air around Jacob. We’ve never been able to figure out if Grim actually sees him or just kind of senses a disturbance in the force.

  Cats are weird like that.

  I decide to start packing for the beach, and drag my suitcase out from under my bed. I sort through my summer clothes while Jacob pretends to rub a smudge of dirt from the hem of his T-shirt. I can’t imagine having to wear the same clothes for the rest of my li—um, existence.

  Jacob shrugs. “I’m just glad I was in a Captain America mood that day.”

  That day. What happened that day? I wonder if he’ll ever tell me.

  Jacob doesn’t acknowledge the thought. He just rolls onto his stomach and starts reading whatever comic I left open on the bed.

  He spends a few seconds trying to will the page to turn before I reach over and do it for him.

  “One of these days,” he mumbles.

  Downstairs, I hear the front door open and close. A few seconds later, Dad calls up.

  “Family meeting!”

  Family meeting.

  Words, much like we have to talk, that never bring good news.

  There’s a fresh pasta-pizza on the table, which is another bad sign. Pasta-pizza—also known as marinara sauce, meatballs, and cheese on a garlic bread crust—is my favorite food, and Mom and Dad only order it from Dino’s on special occasions, or when something really bad has happened. It’s confusing, the way parents do that—there should be good news food and bad news food, so you know what you’re in for.

  Mom’s pulling down plates and Dad’s setting the table when I walk in, both of them making a lot of noise without saying much.

  “… oh, I took that interview with Channel Five …”

  “How did it go?”

  “Fine, fine … Did you print out that contract?”

  Jacob hops up on the counter, legs swinging silently against the cupboards as I load a slab of pizza onto my plate. He considers the concoction of cheese and sauce and meatball goodness.

  “That’s disgusting.”

  You mean amazing, I think, lifting it to my mouth.

  I take a massive bite. Cheese burns the roof of my mouth, and Mom snaps her fingers, a wordless reprimand for eating before everyone is at the table. Dad catches me around the shoulders in a one-arm hug. He smells like clean shirts and old books.

  When we’re all sitting, I notice another red flag: Mom and Dad aren’t eating. They’re not even pretending to eat. I force myself to put the pasta-pizza down.

  “So,” I say, aiming for casual, “what’s up?”

  Mom draws a purple pen from her bun, puts it back. “Oh, not much …” she says. Dad shoots her a look, as if she’s abandoned him.

  “Cassidy …” he starts, breaking out my full name. “We have some news.”

  Oh god, I think, I’m going to be a big sister.

  Jacob crinkles his nose in disgust, and I’m so convinced this is the news that I’m totally caught off guard when Dad says, “We’re going to have a TV show.”

  I stare dumbly. “What?”

  “Do you remember when the first Inspecters book came out,” says Mom, “and there was quite a bit of press? And some people thought it would make a good show? There was a production company that bought the rights …”

  “Yeah,” I say slowly. “But I also remember you telling me that it would never actually happen.”

  Mom fidgets.

  Dad rubs his neck.

  “Well,” he says simply. “There have been some deve
lopments in the last few weeks. We didn’t want to tell you in case it all fell through, but …” He looks to Mom as if for help.

  She takes over, flashing a high-wattage smile. “It’s really happening!”

  My mind goes blank. I don’t know what this means. For them. For us. For me.

  “Okay,” I say, unsure what the catch is. I mean, it’s big news, but I don’t see why they were so nervous to tell me. “That’s great! Who’s going to play you?”

  Dad chuckles. “No one,” he says. “That is, we’re going to play ourselves.”

  I frown. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not a show show,” Dad explains. “It’s more like a documentary.”

  Mom can’t hide her enthusiasm now. “It’ll be just like the books, your dad with the facts and me with the legends,” she says, talking a mile a minute. “Every episode will focus on a different city, a different set of sites and stories …”

  My head spins, and I’m trying to figure out if I’m excited or horrified or a bit of both. All I can think of are those ghost TV shows. You know, where people stand in pitch-black rooms lit only by night-vision cameras, and whisper into mics? Is that what my parents’ show will be like?

  “And you won’t have to be on camera,” Mom is saying to me, “not unless you really want to be, but you’ll be with us every step of the way, and we can go to the beach another time—”

  “Wait, what?” I shake my head, my summer plans falling apart. “When does this start?”

  Dad frowns. “Well, the thing is, the schedule’s kind of been fast-tracked. They want us at the first location next week.”

  Next week. When we’re supposed to be at the beach.

  “Um. That’s really soon,” I say, trying to keep the panic from my voice. “Where are we going?”

  “All over,” says Mom, producing a folder with The Inspecters printed across the front. “ ‘The Most Haunted Cities in the World,’ that’s the show’s theme.”

  The world, I think, is a very big place.

  “I’m more concerned about the most haunted cities part,” says Jacob.

  For a ghost, he really isn’t a fan of scary things, or haunted places, or anything to do with the Veil.

  For a long time, I didn’t understand why. I wondered a lot, but I didn’t want to ask. And then, one day, he must have gotten tired of my thinking it, because he came out and told me.

  “It’s … cold,” he said. “Like, if you walk out into the snow, but you’re warm, you don’t start shivering right away. You’ve got all that heat to lose. But I feel like I just came in, and going back out there, into the cold, I feel like I’ll never get warm again.”

  I wish I could slip my hand into his.

  Give him some of my warmth.

  But all I can do is promise that I won’t let him freeze.

  That I’ll never leave him behind.

  Where you go, I go, I think.

  “Well, Cass?” asks Dad, the light catching on his glasses so it looks like he’s winking at me.

  So much for a ghost-free summer.

  “What do you think?” presses Mom.

  Which isn’t a fair question. Not at all. Parents love to ask that when you don’t really have a choice. I think it sounds crazy, and scary. I think I’d rather go to the beach.

  But Mom and Dad look so excited, and I don’t want to ruin that. Plus—I shoot a look at Jacob—it could be fun.

  He groans.

  Mom opens the folder, and my eyes track across the first page.

  THE INSPECTERS

  EPISODE ONE

  LOCATION: Edinburgh, Scotland

  What do I know about Scotland? It’s north of England, which is an ocean away. It has people in kilts, and … that’s about it.

  I keep reading, and come to the episode’s title:

  CITY OF GHOSTS

  “Well, that’s not ominous,” snipes Jacob as a thrill runs through me, half nerves and half anticipation.

  I thought my life was already pretty weird.

  Apparently, it’s about to get weirder.

  Cassidy! The cab’s here!”

  I shove the last of my things into my suitcase and sit on the lid to make it close. I was supposed to be packing for the beach. Bathing suits and shorts and sunscreen and a summer without hauntings. Instead, I’ve shoveled sweaters and boots into my bag. According to the weather app on my phone, Scotland’s definition of summer is cold and rainy with a chance of hail.

  Jacob perches on the edge of the bed in his usual T-shirt and jeans, because ghosts don’t need raincoats.

  “You have the comics, right?” he asks.

  “They’re in my backpack.”

  “Do you have room for one more, because I was thinking, we don’t have any Justice—”

  “No,” I say, double-checking my camera bag for film. “I’m cutting you off.”

  Dad appears in the doorway, a suitcase in one hand and the cat carrier in the other. Grim glowers from the depths of his cage.

  “Who are you talking to?” Dad asks.

  “Just Jacob,” I say.

  Dad looks around in an exaggerated way so I can tell he’s just humoring me. “And is Jacob ready to go?”

  “Negative,” answers Jacob from the bed. “This is a terrible idea.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say emphatically. “He’s dying to see all the haunted houses, and haunted caves, and haunted castles.”

  Jacob glares. “Traitor.”

  “I’m glad,” says Dad brightly. “I can’t promise any ghosts, but there certainly is a wealth of history.”

  Grim hisses in protest.

  I zip up my suitcase and haul it down the stairs with a stubborn thud thud thud, through the open door, and down the steps to the waiting cab. I look back at our house, feeling a pang of nerves as Dad locks the front door.

  “It’ll still be here when we get back,” says Mom, reading my face. “This is just a change of setting, a new storyline, a fresh chapter. We have a whole book to write,” she says, squeezing me around the shoulders, “and how do we write it?”

  “One page at a time,” I say automatically.

  It’s Mom’s favorite saying, and ever since my dip in the river, I’ve tried to hold on to it like a rope. Every time I get nervous or scared, I remind myself that every good story needs twists and turns. Every heroine needs an adventure.

  So we pile into the cab, two parents, one girl, a ghost, and a ticked-off cat, and we head for the airport.

  Mom and Dad spend most of the drive talking about the upcoming schedule. The show has hired a local film crew and guide, and given us one week to shoot whatever we need. Dad is holding a folder with the history of the locations, and Mom has a notebook full of scribbles that no one else can read. The more I listen to them talking about the logistics, the more I realize this show has been in the works for months, even if it just came together.

  Nothing happens until it happens, and then it’s already happening. That’s one of Dad’s sayings.

  The cab pulls up to the airport. But when we climb out, we’re no longer two parents, one girl, a ghost, and a ticked-off cat.

  Because Jacob’s gone.

  He does this sometimes. Vanishes. I don’t know if he’s sulking or just taking a shortcut. The first time he disappeared, we were driving down the East Coast in search of haunted lighthouses for my parents’ most recent book. One minute he was there, and the next, he was gone. I freaked out, afraid he was somehow bound to the river, that he’d hit some invisible boundary ten or twenty miles out of town and gotten stuck.

  But when we arrived at the first lighthouse, there he was, sitting on the steps.

  “What?” he said defensively. “I get carsick.”

  Such a Jacob answer.

  I wonder where he really goes, what he does without me; I wonder if ghosts need sleep, if he has to return to the Veil to recharge, or if he’s just being ornery.

  But as my parents and I check our luggage, go through secur
ity, and board the airplane, there’s still no sign of him. And as I sit in my window seat and watch the ground fall away during takeoff, I really wish he’d stayed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the seat belt sign is now on …”

  The sun’s just coming up as I open my eyes and press my face to the window. It’s hard to imagine that there is a literal ocean beneath us. A new world waiting on the other side. A world full of secrets, and mysteries, and ghosts.

  The strangest thing is that way up here, thirty-five thousand feet in the air, wrapped inside this metal bird, I can’t feel the Veil. There’s no other side tickling my senses, no gray cloth at the edge of my sight, and it leaves me feeling like I’m missing a piece of myself. Peter Pan severed from his shadow.

  It doesn’t help that Jacob’s not here.

  I try not to worry. He always shows back up eventually.

  The plane gives a small rattle, a turbulent shake, and Grim glares at me from the crate under the seat in front of me. He doesn’t make a sound, but his green eyes narrow as if I’m personally responsible for his current imprisonment.

  Dad’s out cold, but Mom’s awake and skimming a book called Spirits, Specters, Scotland. It looks pretty cheesy—the cover shows a castle under a full moon, and tendrils of fog that turn to badly photoshopped spirits. But I find myself reading over her shoulder, and I notice there’s a section on Edinburgh.

  The city—which, it turns out, is pronounced Eh-din-bur-uh and not Eh-din-berg—is more than nine hundred years old. There’s an illustrated map, complete with parks and bridges, churches, and even a castle. Still, the city is smaller than I expected, only a few miles across, and split into an Old Town and a New Town.

  “New Town is relative,” Mom explains when she catches me reading. “It’s still more than two hundred years old. Old Town,” she adds giddily, “is where all the best ghosts are.”

  “And where are we staying?” I ask. I know the answer before her finger lands on the map, right in the middle of Old Town.

  Great, I imagine Jacob saying as I lean back in my seat.

  I stare out the window as daylight creeps into the sky. I think about Jacob again, and start to worry about ghosts not being able to cross running water. As the plane descends, the worry weighs on my chest. By the time we land, I’m starting to panic.