The Ghost of Molly Holt

by Amy Cross

“So why do you hang out with him?” she adds. “I mean, you're not an idiot.”

  “I don't know. Sometimes I just don't have anything else to do.”

  “Shame.” She pauses, keeping her eyes fixed on me. “So, Molly Holt... She was that girl who got kidnapped back in the 2000's, right?”

  “2007.”

  “And they never found her body?”

  “Never.”

  “But they did find a gross home movie showing her getting tortured and killed?”

  I nod. “It's on the internet.”

  “I know. People are sick. But are they absolutely sure it's her in the video?”

  “They are. Something to do with some kind of birthmark.”

  “And it's not staged? Did they check for special effects?”

  “Apparently. The cops are convinced it's real.”

  “That's gotta suck,” she points out, as more banging sounds come from the basement beneath our feet. “So how come the pigs never figured out where this Molly girl was murdered? If they had a video, couldn't they narrow things down and at least go pick up what was left of her? You know, scrape her bloodied and bruised body off the ground and stick her in a bunch of bin bags?”

  “I don't know why they never found her,” I reply. “Freddie's the expert.”

  “Expert?”

  “It's his latest obsession. He's been reading up on the case for a few months now, ever since he got some bee in his bonnet about Molly having been brought to this area for the video. Sorry, he goes on so much, I tend not to listen all the time.”

  “And now he thinks he's found the house where she was killed.”

  I nod.

  “And what do you think, Timothy?”

  “I think...”

  I pause, worried that Becky will make fun of me when I give an answer. Regardless of what that answer might be. Besides, did she just call me Timothy instead of Tim? Is she making fun?

  “I think I agreed to come out here with him tonight to check the place out,” I say cautiously, “but it turns out he's wrong.”

  “He is, is he?” She bites her bottom lip.

  Why?

  Why did she do that? What does it mean?

  “I guess so,” I stammer, trying to seem cool and relaxed. “I mean... Don't you?”

  “When I bumped into you guys earlier at the mall,” she replies, “you said you were going to a haunted house.”

  “Freddie said that.”

  “Whatever. That's why I decided to tag along with you pair of dorks. And now it looks like there's nothing haunted about it.” She shines the flashlight around, and the beam flashes across old pots and pans, dusty old windows, and even some broken glass in the door of a cabinet on the far wall. “You'd think if there was a ghost here,” she adds, “it would've made its move by now.”

  “Its move?”

  She turns to me and smiles.

  “Rattled its chains,” she continues. “Tapped one of us on the shoulder. Isn't that what ghosts do?”

  “I -”

  “Oh, that's right. You don't believe in ghosts.”

  “No, I -”

  Pausing for a moment, I can't help thinking that she's trying to trip me up.

  “I just think there'd be proof by now,” I say finally, hoping that she'll respect me for taking a scientific, logical approach to the matter. “You couldn't have a ghost in a house without anyone seeing it, could you? And why would a ghost only appear to one or two people? It just doesn't make sense.”

  “Doesn't it?”

  I swallow hard. “Do you think it makes sense?”

  I wait for a reply, but she's staring at me with an inscrutable expression on her face. I can't tell whether she thinks I'm an idiot or a genius.

  “Let's go upstairs,” she says suddenly, stepping past me and heading to the hallway.

  “Why?” I ask, my voice squeaking slightly in the process.

  The beam from the flashlight swings wildly as she goes, and I'm quickly left alone in the dark kitchen.

  “Wait!” I call out. “Hey, why do you want to go upstairs? Becky?”

  I open my mouth to tell her we should be careful, but she's already bounding up to check out the rooms on the floor above.

  “That's my flashlight,” I point out, before hurrying after her. “Hey! Becky! You've got my flashlight! Why do you wanna go upstairs?”

  Chapter Five

  “So why did you come back?” I ask, looking over Becky's shoulder as she pushes one of the upstairs doors open.

  The hinges creak, and then the handle on the other side bumps against the wall.

  “You mean,” she says after a moment, “why is someone cool like me, hanging out with two dorks like you and Freddie?”

  “We're not dorks,” I reply as she steps into the room and shines the flashlight around. “Why are you still here? You said you were leaving.”

  “I was leaving. You pissed me off, Tim.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “By offering me your jacket.”

  “I only -”

  “I don't like that kind of thing. It makes me uncomfortable.”

  I pause for a moment. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.” She swings the flashlight's beam over to the far wall, picking out thick cracks in the plaster and chunks that have been pulled away. In some places, it's as if the wall has been almost entirely smashed through, with pieces of broken brick in full view. “I started walking back into town,” she continues, stepping over and running a hand against the broken wall, “and then I realized maybe the forest wouldn't be much fun all by myself. Especially not after the sole of my shoe came off.”

  She raises her right leg, showing me a flapping sole hanging from the bottom.

  “Damn it,” she mutters, taking both her shoes off. “Cheap skanky things.”

  “You can't walk around barefoot,” I point out. “This whole place is filthy.”

  “Germs never hurt anyone,” she replies. “Anyway, it still looks cleaner than the condo I share with my dear mother and my two bratty brothers.”

  She checks the sole of her bare left foot, which is already covered in dust and dirt.

  “Plus,” she adds, turning to me with a smile, “I figured that while I was out here, it might be fun to take a look around this place. Even if Molly Holt wasn't murdered here, maybe someone's haunting it.”

  “I don't -”

  “You don't believe in ghosts. I know, Tim. You only had to say it once. You're being logical about the whole thing.”

  “And you do believe in them?”

  “I told you, I'm open-minded. I believe in the possibility.”

  “Freddie's convinced,” I explain, watching as she wanders along the far side of the room and drags her fingertips against the damaged bricks. Why's she doing that? “He thinks we're going to single-handedly solve the mystery of Molly Holt's disappearance, and see her ghost. I dunno, I think he thinks we can be heroes.”

  “He's ambitious. I'll give him that.”

  “He's annoying. And childish.”

  “And you're not?”

  I stand up straight, trying to show good posture.

  “I think I'm pretty mature for my age,” I tell her. “Considering.”

  “Everyone thinks they're mature for their age,” she stays, stopping and running a fingertip along a particularly large edge of broken bricks. “This house has seen some days. You've noticed all the damage, right?”

  “It looks pretty smashed up,” I reply.

  “Pretty smashed up? It's like someone was trying to completely trash the place. I mean, who took a sledgehammer to this wall? 'Cause that's what it looks like. It looks like someone was trying to break through.” She peers closer at the broken bricks, before turning to me and smiling. “Do you think someone was trying to smash their way out?”

  “Of the house?”

  “Well?”

  “We're upstairs,” I point out. “Trying to smash out through the wall would be pretty cr
azy.”

  “Of course it would. Which makes me wonder why someone would be so desperate that this would be their best plan. 'Cause even if they'd broken through, they'd have had to jump.”

  “I don't -”

  “Try it!”

  Hurrying over to me, she grabs my arm and pulls me into the room while simultaneously slamming the door shut. Still holding me firmly, she leads me to the middle of the room and then turns me around until we're both looking at the door.

  She's still holding my hand.

  “Imagine someone's out there,” she continues, “and you either can't or won't try to go past them. For some reason the window's not an option, and you can't call for help. But you have a sledgehammer or something similar, and you decide to smash your way out. You're going to literally smash your way out through the wall.”

  She heads to the window and tries to slide it open, while still holding my hand.

  “Nailed shut,” she adds.

  “I think you're making a lot of assumptions,” I point out. “Besides, if something like that had happened, we'd know about it. Or the police would, at least.”

  “Why?”

  “Because someone would've reported it.”

  I look down at our hands, which are still clutched together. She's warm.

  “Well, now you're the one making assumptions,” she replies with a faint smile, “because if someone did take a sledgehammer to the wall, they didn't get very far. They sure didn't break through, which means they stayed trapped in the room until whatever was on the other side of that door eventually got in.”

  She stares at me for a moment longer, before turning to look at the door.

  She's still holding my hand.

  “Did you notice as we came in?” she adds. “The handle's bust. I think someone forced their way through at some point.”

  “So what are you trying to say?”

  “I'm saying that regardless of whether or not Molly Holt was killed here, something pretty crazy obviously went down in this house. You've just got to pick up on the subtle signs.”

  She turns to me.

  “You can read subtle signs, can't you?”

  I look over at the smashed wall for a moment, and I can't deny that she might have a point. After all, someone pretty obviously tried to break through the wall, which only makes sense if they were either being held captive or they were being pursued. For a moment, in my mind's eye I imagine Molly Holt desperately trying to break out while her captors struggled to force their way into the room.

  “What's wrong, Tim?” Becky asks, squeezing my hand. “Am I freaking you out?”

  “No!” I reply quickly.

  Too quickly, maybe.

  I wait, but she's simply staring at me.

  “What?” I ask after a moment.

  No reply.

  “Becky? Is something wrong?”

  She pauses, seemingly lost in thought, before finally she slips her fingers free of mine. At the same time, a slightly sad smile crosses her lips.

  “No,” she says finally. “Nothing's wrong.”

  “Are you upset by something?”

  She laughs as she heads across the room, and then she pulls the door open.

  “Actually, I'm glad I came back,” she says after a moment, before heading out into the corridor and then disappearing from view. A moment later, I hear another door creaking open. “Whoa!” she exclaims. “Check this out!”

  “What?” I ask, but she doesn't reply.

  Sighing, I head out of the room and along to the next door, and then I look inside just in time to see that Becky is shining the flashlight at something on the floor.

  “What?” I ask again. “What did you find?”

  Chapter Six

  “It's just junk,” I point out as Becky sits cross-legged on the dusty, bare wooden floor and holds up another necklace. “If it was worth anything, it wouldn't have just been left here.”

  “Unless someone didn't have a choice.”

  She tilts the flashlight, and the beam catches on the necklace's sparkly edges.

  “Pretty,” Becky purrs. “I'm not a jewelry fan, but this stuff is definitely pretty.”

  She slips it around her neck and takes a moment to set it in place.

  “Do you think it looks pretty, Tim?”

  “Sure,” I reply. “I mean, it's very silver.”

  She smiles. “That's your takeaway from the whole thing, is it?”

  “Who do you think it belongs to?”

  “Are you kidding?” She slips the necklace into her pocket, before taking another from the little wooden box. “It belongs to me. Now it does, at least.”

  “You can't just take it!”

  “Who's gonna stop me The ghost of Molly Holt??”

  “Someone might come back for it!”

  “As if! It's all dusty as hell, which means it's been here for years. Face it, Tim, nobody's coming back to get anything from this place. Whoever lived here before, they took off in a hurry.” She examines another necklace, before slipping this too into her pocket. “I'm not gonna sell it. I'm gonna wear it. I'm sure whoever it belongs to, they'd like someone to be using it instead of leaving it sitting around in dusty old boxes.”

  “You still shouldn't steal all that stuff.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You know I'm right!”

  Rolling her eyes, she turns and looks around the room.

  “If anyone here,” she announces loudly, “has a problem with me taking anything, then feel free to appear and give us a whole load of shit, okay? Otherwise, if you don't say anything before we leave, I'll take that as implied permission for me to assume ownership of any items I fancy within these four walls. Blah blah blah, so help me God, amen and all that shit.”

  She pauses, as if she's leaving a gap for somebody else to speak.

  “No?” she adds, before turning to me. “Alright, then. Seems we have an understanding.”

  “Becky -”

  “Nobody's using this stuff,” she continues, as she scoops more items of jewelry from the box and stuffs them into her pockets. “That's how the world works, Tim. People die and other people get their things. Even the air you breathe has been in somebody else's lungs at some point in the past. You don't have written permission for that, do you?”

  “I'm not sure you're making much sense.”

  “Might as well get something out of this night,” she adds. “In fact -”

  Before she can finish, there's a loud bump from downstairs. The sound is over quickly enough, but for a few seconds Becky simply stares at me with a hint of fear in her eyes.

  “Freddie,” I remind her.

  “I know that!” she snaps, quickly getting to her feet. “Whatever your idiot friend's up to in the basement, I hope he doesn't take too much longer. Shouldn't he have figured out by now that he's on a hiding to nothing?”

  “I don't even know what he's up to, exactly.”

  “I guarantee it's stupid,” she replies, heading over to an old dresser in the corner and starting to pull the drawers open. “Whoever moved out of here,” she continues, “it looks like they took their clothes. Either that, or their clothes were dumped once they were gone. I'm actually getting a bit of a murder house vibe from the place, like maybe something bad really did happen here. Then again, maybe I'm just letting the atmosphere get to me.”

  Heading over to the door in the corner of the room, I lean through and find a cord dangling from the ceiling. I give the cord a pull, but of course no light comes on.

  “Hey,” I say to Becky, “give me my flashlight for a moment.”

  “I need it.”

  I turn and see that she's still searching through the drawers.

  “Get your own,” she adds.

  “That is mine.”

  “It is?”

  “It is. Can I borrow it, at least?”

  “Stop bugging me.” She pulls one of the drawers all the way out and lets it fall to the floor, where it cracks at
one end and the front section falls off. “Can't you see I'm busy?”

  I turn and peer into the small, dark room, and as my eyes adjust to the darkness I realize I can just about make out a bath and a toilet. Turning and heading back over to the dresser, I crouch down and start gathering the parts of the broken drawer back together.

  “Leave it,” Becky mutters.

  Ignoring her, I try slotting the front section back into place, but then suddenly Becky takes the entire drawer from my hand and tosses it onto the bed, where it lands and causes a cloud of dust to burst up into the air.

  “I said, leave it,” Becky continues, and now she sounds a little more agitated than before. “This place is really freaking me out,” she adds, rubbing her hands against her upper arms as if she's trying to warm herself up. “Don't you feel it?”

  “It's pretty cold.”

  “That's not what I'm talking about!”

  “It's freaky,” I add, although I can't help thinking that she's overreacting a little. “I mean, it's almost midnight, so it's not that weird if the house is cold.”

  I wait for her to reply, but now she's simply staring at me as if she doesn't like what I just said.

  “What?” I ask finally.

  “Nothing,” she mutters, as she shines the flashlight around the room again. “I guess it's just been a while since I hung around with kids.”

  “You're almost the same age as me and Freddie,” I point out.

  “Physically, yes. Mentally and emotionally?” She sighs. “Never mind, Tim. I guess it's true what they say. Girls always develop slightly faster than boys.”

  “I don't think that's true,” I tell her.

  She smiles. “You wouldn't. You're just not like the guys I usually spend time with.”

  “Maybe I should go and see what Freddie's doing,” I reply, as I hear more faint, distant bumping sounds coming from downstairs. “Hopefully once he's figured out that there's nothing here, he'll be ready to leave.”

  “Cool. I'll be up here for a while. I wanna check to see whether or not any more cool loot got left around.”

  “You want to steal more stuff?”

  “It's not stealing if I'm not taking it from anyone,” she replies, “and I don't see anyone around here. Do you? It's just an empty house with some stuff that got left abandoned in some of the rooms. Nobody gives a damn. If I don't take this stuff, it'll just rot.”