City of Ghosts

by Victoria Schwab

  There’s no Jacob on the jet bridge.

  No Jacob in the terminal.

  No Jacob on the escalator or at the baggage claim.

  And then the luggage starts tumbling out onto the carousel, and the first thing I see isn’t the red and yellow stripes of my suitcase (yes, I’m a Gryffindor), but the boy riding cross-legged on top of it. He loves making an entrance.

  I sag with relief. Jacob hops down, shoves his hands in his pockets, and flashes me a crooked smile.

  “Ghost perk,” he says, and I can’t decide if I want to throw my arms around him or slug him in the shoulder. Lucky for him, I can’t do either.

  We pile into a black cab, and Grim pancakes himself on the bottom of his carrier and glowers at Jacob, who makes faces back as Mom gives the driver the address of the place we’re staying.

  We drive for a few minutes through ordinary-looking streets lined with grocery stores and hair salons and banks. And then, out of nowhere, the road changes beneath us, shifting from pavement to cobblestones, as if we’re moving back in time. The car rattles over the uneven road. Grim looks venomous, and Jacob looks queasy.

  The cab driver says something, but his accent is so thick that it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to us instead of singing a song to himself. Dad starts nodding absently, pretending to understand. But I manage to pick apart the driver’s melodic voice into words. A question.

  “What brings you to bonnie Scotland?”

  Mom must have caught it, too, because she sits forward and says, “Ghosts.”

  Back home, that one word would be enough to kill the conversation, but the cabbie doesn’t even seem fazed.

  “Ah,” he says casually. “Saw a ghost up north once.”

  Mom brightens. “Really?”

  “Och, aye,” he says with a nod. “The wife and I went to the Highlands for a day, and having taken the air and seen all there was to see, we made our way to a nearby castle in search of some refreshment.”

  Nothing strange about that, I think.

  “Now, the kitchens in this castle had been turned into a tavern, all stone and glass and blazing hearth, and three low chairs were set round the fire,” the cab driver goes on. “Two of the chairs were empty, and there was a man sitting in the third, watching the fire. A gentlemanly sort. My wife had her eye on a table in the back, and I had the drinks in my hands, so I was following behind, and the space was narrow and I’m not so small, and I knocked into the chair with the man sitting in it. Nearly spilled my beer on him. I said sorry, and my wife, she turned back and asked me who I was talking to.

  “And wouldn’t you know …” He hesitates, the air in the cab as tight as a breath held in too long. “There was no one there. All three chairs were empty.”

  Dad looks deep in thought, as if it’s a riddle, but Mom’s eyes shine like a little kid’s at a campfire. Jacob and I shoot each other a wary look. It’s one thing for a ghost to nudge an object or fog a bathroom mirror. But to show up in our world like that, as if they’re flesh and blood? Only Jacob does that, and only for me, and only because we’re tangled. So chances are, the cabbie’s pulling our leg, or his eyes were playing tricks on him. There’s a reason people think they see ghosts in the dark, when lights and shadows can mess with your sight.

  The cabbie’s gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror. “Don’t believe me, lass?” he asks with a smile. “That’s all right. Stay in Scotland long enough, and you’ll have stories of your own.”

  Little does he know, I have plenty.

  The cab rounds a corner, and we’re suddenly face-to-face with the castle from Mom’s map. Only it’s not a tiny illustration. It’s a real-life castle. On a cliff. I stare, wide-eyed. Dad lets out a small, appreciative whistle. Mom beams. Even Jacob looks impressed. It seems painted on the sky, postcard-perfect.

  “Stunning, innit?” says the cabbie.

  I remember from the map that the castle is in Old Town, and sure enough we drive over a bridge (there’s no water beneath, just a train station and a large green park) and into the older part of the city.

  The cabbie turns off the bustling streets and down a slope.

  “Here we are,” he says, stopping in front of an old stone building with a bright red door. “The Lane’s End.”

  The Lane’s End reminds me of that scene in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, where Harry arrives at the Order’s headquarters—which is actually Sirius Black’s house—but it’s hidden by a spell. One of the wizards taps on the stones out front, and the buildings slide apart to reveal the headquarters sandwiched between.

  The Lane’s End is like that, a gray building tucked between two other gray buildings. Together they sit like books on a shelf, their stone spines running along without any gaps between, their rooftops dotted by chimneys.

  When we ring the bell on the bright red door, an older woman answers. She has rosy cheeks and fair skin, and a fat white cat twining between her ankles.

  “Oh, hello,” says the woman. “You must be the Blakes. I’m Mrs. Weathershire. I run the Lane’s End. Come in.”

  The foyer walls are covered in old-fashioned portraits, faces that stare off into space. An arched doorway on the right leads into a sitting room, and at the end of the hall, a steep wooden staircase rises up like a tree. As Mrs. Weathershire rattles off details about our stay, I wander toward the stairs.

  Jacob falls into step beside me. “I bet it’s haunted.”

  He thinks everything is haunted. With the Lane’s End, it’s hard to tell. It’s old, sure, but old doesn’t always mean—

  A pipe rattles in the walls, and footsteps sound overhead.

  Jacob raises his eyebrows.

  Well, maybe.

  At the base of the stairs, I let my eyes trail up to the landing, only to find a girl staring down at me.

  She’s about my age, dressed in a crisp white button-down and a pleated skirt. She has light-brown skin, and glossy black hair pulled back into a neat braid. She stares at me, unblinking, and I stare back, because there’s something strange about her. Familiar. I can’t shake the feeling I’ve seen her before, even though I know I haven’t.

  “Cassidy!” calls Dad.

  I tear my gaze away and backtrack, passing Grim’s crate. Mrs. Weathershire’s fluffy white cat is sticking a curious paw through the bars. Grim shoots me a look that is half pleading, half murder, and I scoop up the crate and take it with me into the sitting room.

  The ceiling is high, the walls lined with books, and there’s a fireplace flanked by a pair of couches and capped by a chair. The layout reminds me of the three seats in the cab driver’s story, but there’s no gentleman ghost, just Mom and Dad and Mrs. Weathershire.

  I set down Grim’s cage and sink onto one of the sofas, then yelp when I keep sinking, the cushion folding around me like quicksand.

  Mom offers her hand and hauls me out as Mrs. Weathershire sets a teapot and a tray on the table. My stomach rumbles—no matter how much food you eat on a plane, you never feel satisfied.

  “Biscuits?” Mrs. Weathershire offers, passing me a plate of what are definitely cookies. She can call them whatever she wants, so long as I can help myself.

  I’m just reaching for the plate when the footsteps sound again overhead.

  This time, we all look up.

  “Oh, don’t mind that,” says Mrs. Weathershire. “It’s probably just my husband.”

  “Will we be meeting him?” asks Dad.

  Our host gives a small laugh. “I shouldn’t think so. Mr. Weathershire’s been dead for nigh on eight years.” Her smile never even wavers. “Tea?”

  Jacob gives me a long look, and I don’t need to be able to read his mind to know what he’s thinking.

  Definitely haunted.

  He may be right, but I’m not about to find out. I have a rule about crossing the Veil in places where I have to sleep—I don’t do it. Sometimes it really is better not to know.

  “Now,” says Mrs. Weathershire, pouring tea, �
�what brings you to our fair city?”

  “As a matter of fact,” says Mom, “we’re filming a show about ghosts.”

  “Oh,” says our host, taking up her cup. “Well, you won’t have to look far. My Reginald was quite fond of Edinburgh’s dead. Bit of an obsession, really.” She nods at the bookshelves that line the sitting room wall. “Went around collecting stories from locals for years, kept them in those logs there.”

  Mom perks up at the mention of stories, while Dad brightens at the mention of something with a written record. “Really?” Dad says, already halfway to his feet. “May I?”

  “Help yourself.”

  When Dad’s collected a stack of journals and Mom’s finished her tea and I’ve eaten enough cookies to feel vaguely sick, Mrs. Weathershire rises from her seat.

  “Well, then,” she says, “I’ll show you to your flat …”

  A flat is apparently the British word for an apartment, even though there’s nothing flat about the three flights of stairs we have to climb to get there. When we reach the first landing, there’s no sign of the black-haired girl, or anyone else.

  Mom informs me that in Scotland, an elevator is called a lift, which would actually make sense, if the building had one. Mom also explains that the Lane’s End is a lodging house, which is apparently like a small hotel full of apartments—I mean flats—instead of regular hotel rooms. There are two flats per floor, and when we reach the third landing, Mrs. Weathershire finally stops before a door with a brass 3B and produces an old-fashioned key.

  “Here we are …”

  The door groans open with a noise like a scary movie sound effect, but the space beyond is cozy and clean. There are two bedrooms, and a living room with an old hearth fire, a sofa that looks less likely to eat me, and a writing desk beneath a large window.

  Mom and Dad linger on the landing, chatting with Mrs. Weathershire.

  “If you need anything,” she’s saying, “I’m just down on the first floor …”

  Meanwhile, I free Grim from his travel crate. He darts under the sofa, and I wander over to the window above the desk. The glass is fogged up, but when I run my hand across the cool surface, I’m startled to find the castle waiting on the other side. It looms over a landscape of peaked rooftops and stone chimneys, and I’m struck all over again by the view: more fairy tale than ghost story.

  “Jacob,” I say softly, “you’ve really got to see this.”

  But Jacob doesn’t answer.

  I turn around. He’s not there. I check the bathroom, and find a claw-foot tub. (It literally has monstrous talons for feet, like the bottom half of a gargoyle that’s been hollowed out.) But no Jacob.

  “Jacob?” I hiss, checking the first bedroom. Nothing.

  I enter the second one and find him standing at the foot of the bed, his eyes trained on something hidden behind the door.

  “Jacob?”

  He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move.

  As I slip behind him into the room, I see what he’s staring at: a mirror.

  A large mirror in a gilt frame propped against the wall.

  At first I think he has seen something strange in the reflection, but then I realize it’s the reflection itself that’s snagged his attention. I follow his gaze and go still, the hair on my arms standing on end.

  There are two Jacobs, the one beside me and the one in the mirror, but they’re not the same. The Jacob beside me is the one I know. But the one in the mirror is grayed out and gaunt, his shirt and jeans soaked, river water pooling at his feet. I’m not easily spooked these days, but seeing him like that, it scares me. The Jacob in the mirror looks dea—I stop. I don’t let myself think the word.

  “Jacob,” I say, but my voice doesn’t seem to register. His eyes are focused and empty at the same time, and I reach out to shake his shoulders, but of course my hands go straight through. In the end I have to step between him and his reflection, breaking his line of sight. “Jacob.”

  He blinks, taking a small, shuffling step back.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  His words are slow, sluggish. “I … don’t know …”

  He shivers, as if cold, and turns away, drifting out of the room without another word. I turn back to the mirror, half expecting to see the other Jacob still standing there.

  But it’s just me.

  I head into the living room, where Dad is charging his phone and Mom is unpacking. Jacob is perched on the sofa, his gaze still strange and distant.

  Are you okay? I think, collapsing onto the couch beside him.

  He nods absently.

  Outside, the sun vanishes behind clouds, and the room suddenly darkens. It’s like stepping through the Veil—everything goes gray, ominous.

  Mom puts her hands on her hips and looks around. “This is delightful,” she says, without even a hint of sarcasm. She turns to me. “Any sign of our resident ghost?”

  I assume she means Mr. Weathershire and not Jacob, so I shake my head.

  “Probably just a large cat and some old pipes,” says Dad.

  Mom winds her hair into a messy bun. “You’re no fun,” she says, kissing his cheek.

  “You’re twice as much,” he retorts, cleaning his glasses.

  I stifle a yawn. A second later, Dad yawns, too.

  “Don’t you dare!” chirps Mom. “We have to stay awake. It’s the only way to fight jet lag.”

  Jet lag is apparently what happens when you fly overseas at night, and your body hasn’t had time to catch up with the clocks.

  I curl up against the couch while Dad calls the producers to let them know we’ve arrived. The crew is flying in tomorrow from London, and they’ll come to meet us, as will our local guide. Dad wanders into the bedroom, talking logistics (but I suspect he really just wants to take a nap). I yawn again and close my eyes, but Mom grabs my shoulder.

  “Come on,” she says, dragging me to my feet. “It’s such a nice day.”

  I glance out the window. “It looks like rain.”

  But Mom’s not having it. She tosses a raincoat into my arms. “Good thing we came prepared.”

  I glance back at the couch, but Jacob is gone, and before I can go looking for him, Mom hooks her arm through mine, hauling me toward the door. I only manage to get free long enough to grab my camera.

  As we step out into the gray day, a fine mist fills the street, turning people to shadows. Gulls screech by. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rings.

  So this is Scotland, I think.

  How haunted can it be?

  Torture! Murder! Mayhem!”

  A man in a top hat and tattered suit spreads his arms wide.

  “Learn the city’s darkest secrets in the Edinburgh Dungeon!”

  Bagpipes echo on the air and a woman in a dark dress leans against a pole with a lantern on top.

  “Ghost tours, every night,” she says, “starting at dusk. Look for the lantern.”

  “Come to Mary King’s Close!” announces another man in an old-fashioned cloak.

  “Learn the tale of Burke and Hare!”

  “Follow in the steps of the city’s dead!”

  Mom and I are walking down the Royal Mile. It’s a broad and busy road that runs from the castle all the way down to the base of a giant hill called Arthur’s Seat. They stand like bookends, the castle and the hill, on either end of the city.

  Mom is giddy, caught up in all the hustle and noise. But I feel like I’m losing my mind, because underneath the bustle, I can hear the nagging tap-tap-tap of ghosts, some faint and others close, and all of it coming from every side, a low, steady beat like the city has a pulse.

  I keep my hand on Mom’s arm as we weave through the crowd. Most parents have to keep an eye on their children, to keep them from wandering off, but I’ve always had to keep an eye on her. Dad’s the sort to memorize directions, but Mom prefers to get lost.

  How else will you find anything new? she always says.

  Mom ducks into a tourist shop to grab us bottles
of water, and I hang back on the curb, snapping photos of the street performers and the crowds. I photograph the woman in white who stands on top of a pillar and wails an eerie song, her voice rising and falling. The old man clutching a bouquet of black paper roses with words written on the petals. A man wearing a kilt and playing the bagpipes: a haunting, wind-like tune.

  It’s all for show, of course, meant to fill the streets with an eerie air. But beyond the act, I can feel the ghostly pull of the Veil. It’s usually a thing I have to reach for, but here, now, amid the chaos of the Royal Mile, it reaches for me. Puts a hand on my shoulder, pulls me close. Gray threads dance in my sight, but I don’t lean in. Instead, I pull my raincoat tight around me and scan the street, taking in shops and pubs, churches and liquor stores, and—

  My eyes snag on a row of cameras in a window, and my heart quickens. It’s a photo store. BELLAMY’S, reads the curling script across the large glass window. I take a mental picture of where we are so I can find my way back when I’ve finished the roll of film.

  Mom reappears with bottles of water, a candy bar, and a sightseeing booklet.

  “Come on, Cass. I’ve found something you’ll love.”

  I brace myself for something creepy or ghoulish, but Mom leads me down the road to a place called the Elephant House, a bright red café with a banner that proudly announces:

  Birthplace of Harry Potter

  “No way,” I say, following her inside.

  I’m in awe as Mom and I explore the café.

  Apparently, it was here at the Elephant House where author J. K. Rowling—the J. K. Rowling—dreamed up Harry, and Hermione, and Ron.

  Here, she sat at one of the wooden tables and created Hogwarts, and Azkaban, and Diagon Alley.

  Here, she invented Quidditch, and the Triwizard Tournament, and the Deathly Hallows.

  Even the tiny bathrooms tell a story. They are covered in thank-you notes. So many languages and handwritings that they all blur into a tapestry of love: a permanent monument to a legendary series of books.

  By the time we step back out onto the street, I am beaming. Edinburgh is officially my favorite place.