Now Entering Addamsville

by Francesca Zappia

  “There she is!”

  A truck roared down the street, barreling toward me. I sprinted around the side of the house as the lights inside came on, then leaped over the back fence. I didn’t stop until I was four streets away. I ducked down by a culvert at the end of a driveway as the roar of the truck and the hoots of the men riding in it faded away.

  I knew that truck. Gargantuan, fire-engine red, with a massive steel grille guard. It was Buster Gates’s truck, and I’d bet anything the guys riding in it were part of his usual crew of gun-toting vigilantes.

  I’d starting doing nice things for people at night because they wouldn’t let me do them during the day. I’d hoped raking and trimming and cleaning and fixing enough mailboxes would even out the Novaks’ bad karma, even though no one knew who was doing the work. I’d hoped that the hatred toward us might lessen. A Novak doing good things and not taking credit for it? It had to count to someone, somewhere.

  But no. Instead of some kind of understanding, I got Buster Gates in a truck, trying to run me down.

  The first night of filming was the next day. The DMW crew was scheduled to visit the Hillcroft coal mine, not far from the bluffs, to investigate rumors of strange voices in the old tunnels, traces of demonic activity, and sightings of Salem Hillcroft, the son of the man who’d built this town. The mine opened up somewhere far below into a series of caves, and Salem was said to have died in a tragic fall into the depths when he was my age.

  In my explorations of the mine, I’d never seen Salem, but I’d seen plenty of other ghosts. Usually miners. The mines went deep, and the ghosts seemed to follow them all the way down.

  Every entrance had been closed off except the north one, the one the DMW crew would use. I’d found a second entrance down south when I was in middle school, boarded up and grown over with weeds and underbrush. The boards had rotted enough to pry them off with a crowbar. It was a creepy old place—chains hanging from the ceiling, water dripping somewhere, and the occasional dead miner—but I’d scared the bats out and peeked around. After a bit of walking, it connected to the other entrance, and by my best estimates, also to the cave system below. I explored enough times to get a feel for the upper layout, but after that I mostly hung around in the mouth of my secret entrance, burned whatever twigs and trash I could find, and complained about the lack of mine carts.

  The second entrance would make it easy to fake the crew out. Noises echoed. Voices sounded spooky no matter what was said. And I knew the tunnels they would be using.

  Filming started at ten. No one at school that day would shut up about it; it had beat out this weekend’s homecoming as the topic of choice, a difficult feat in a town where homecoming was a headliner in every possible news outlet, including the barbershop and the drugstore. The information about the filming had not been released by the Dead Men Walking crew themselves, but, I was almost sure, by the kid of someone in close with the town council.

  Artemis came close to talking to me a few times throughout the day, only changing course when I dialed my expression up to code red. If Artemis was seen talking to me at school, it would eventually get back to Greta, and I didn’t need Greta getting up in my business again. Greta could not be allowed to interfere, and she would definitely try. I still didn’t understand what she was doing, pretending like she didn’t know about firestarters. If Artemis needed to say something to me, I did have a functioning cell phone capable of receiving text messages, and she knew the number for it.

  I hadn’t been joking when I’d suggested Bach to Artemis for our outing in the mines. He had motivation to join us on the hunt, he knew more about firestarters than any of us, and he was capable of the special type of shit-eating grin that said he was well versed in screwing with people.

  Every Tuesday and Thursday, Bach hung out on a bench beneath a big maple tree in the park, listening to music and watching people play with their dogs. I knew this because I also spent a lot of time watching people play with dogs at the park. He was there when I arrived, a slash of black against the brown and orange. There were only a few ghosts here, and they stuck to the edges of the field where the dogs played, far from Bach. Five, six. Usually there were ten or more. They were running in the advent of another firestarter’s arrival. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jacket and sidled up to the bench.

  Bach looked up through his sunglasses and tugged out one earbud. “Hey, Zora.”

  I liked that he called me Zora when other people weren’t around. Some days it was hard to remember he was a murderer, even if it had been against his will.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Usual,” he said. “Burger’s not bringing the ball back, and Gracie and Tater are fighting over their Frisbee. Want to sit?”

  I sat next to him. He offered me his other earbud. He was listening to something slow and chill, with a lot of guitar. A fluffy brown dog went galloping after a bright red ball that squeaked when it hit the ground.

  Dogs are better than people. This is a complete and true verified fact. Dogs don’t care what you look like. Dogs don’t care what skeletons hide in your closet. They don’t care what color you are, or what weight, or how rich, or how guilty. They don’t care about your gender or your sexual orientation. They don’t care if you have deformities or illnesses. They care about being fed and played with and petted. They’ll lick your face because it’s your face.

  “I love dogs,” I said.

  “I’ll agree with that,” Bach said. He rested his elbows up on the back of the bench. “It must be nice, having such a simple life.”

  “Life with Hermit Forester getting you down?”

  He smiled. “It’s not bad. Definitely more chill than it used to be.”

  “How long have you worked for him?”

  “Oh.” He thought. “Awhile now.”

  I had no idea how old Bach was. I wasn’t even sure firestarters had ages. The person whose body he wore was young, about my age, and his cover story was that he went to high school in Harrisburg. But firestarters essentially made their human bodies immortal; they hollowed out the insides and paraded them around as long as they liked. Bach could have looked like this for a very long time.

  Bach’s smile widened as he tilted his head toward me. He had killer cheekbones and a nose that could be used as a straightedge. “Did you come here to talk about dogs and ask how long I’ve been working?”

  I took the earbud out. He took his out, too. “Fine, no. I came to ask if you wanted to help with the DMW crew.”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re filming at the mine. Masrell pointed me there yesterday. This new firestarter is down there, and Artemis and I are going into the mine tonight to try to get them out of there before it hurts them. Nothing illegal.”

  Bach’s eyebrow lifted as I spoke. He slid his sunglasses off and hung them on his shirt collar. The shade from the trees and his brow made his eyes look as dark as mine. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why are you really starting again? Hunting? You said before that you were done.”

  I blinked. “Oh. I thought you were going to ask me something like, ‘Why are you doing something so stupid, Zora?’ or ‘Zora, aren’t you worried about getting caught after being accused of killing a man?’”

  “You told me why you were doing it,” Bach said. “To keep people safe, which is the right answer. But I want to know if it’s your actual answer—is that what you really feel? I’ve spent enough time around humans to know you’re smart enough to give the right answer without really believing it, and I saw you after the last firestarter. You were so sure you’d never do any of this again. What changed?”

  “People change their minds.”

  “Did you feel guilty?”

  “What does it matter?”

  He looked back out over the field. Gracie and Tater flew after their Frisbee. “Guilt is still new to me. I’ve been in a human body a long time, and it’s the one thing
I can’t get used to. It’s like the harder you try to throw it off, the heavier it becomes.”

  I looked sideways at him. “You feel guilty?”

  He smiled sadly. “If I could release those ghosts, I would. If I could wiggle my way out of Sammy’s control, I would. But I haven’t tried very hard to do those things, either, because it’s my duty to protect Sammy. Not doing it would mean betraying my mother. Hildegard. I know you think we’re all animals, but we have our own sets of emotions and loyalties, and that’s one I don’t know if I can shake.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Bach was usually friendly, but rarely so candid. “Moms, right?”

  The smile curled up sharper. “Guilt tripping no matter where they are.”

  “So that’s a no on the mine?”

  Bach squinted into the bright day and the dogs in the field. “Sammy really wants to lie low. If I’m found anywhere near that filming, his reaction isn’t going to be good. You said Artemis is going with you?”

  “She never lost that hunting spirit.”

  “Good. Watch each other’s backs.” He flipped his sunglasses out to cover his eyes. “And if something really bad happens, let me know. Sam wants to lie low, but he also wants to keep other firestarters out of this town. If you’re in trouble, I can help, and we’ll deal with him later.”

  9

  Sadie had a habit of falling asleep at nine thirty on the dot, but only if she was at home. If she was already out, she became a creature of the night, hyperaware and strung out, the way she’d once been in high school with the Birdies. She’d been an insomniac then; only since becoming an adult, with the exhaustion of a full workday, did she find the release of sleep. She said sleep was possible at home because the bluffs were so peaceful and quiet. There were no cars driving by, but peaceful was an interesting description for howling wind and the constant grinding of the generator.

  That night she fell asleep watching Cheers with me and Grim, with the generator still chugging out back. When she started snoring, Grim looked at his watch, said, “Oh,” and carefully rearranged her so he could crawl out from beneath her sleeping form. We’d moved the TV out of the kitchen nook and onto a box of Dad’s clothes for nighttime viewing, and Grim had to be careful not to knock it off its perch with his gangly limbs. Instead of leaving Sadie where she was, drooling into a pillow with one leg hanging off the cushion, Grim wedged his arms underneath her and picked her up. He was a brave man, lifting her. Sadie hated it when people tried to pick her up. He carried her back to her room, a snoring princess.

  Grim and Sadie had begun going out in high school. Back then Sadie still wore ripped jeans and combat boots, and Grim was a sweet gloomy string bean with too much hair. Sadie was the kind of girl who got the nickname “Grand Slam Sadie” from the irony that she allowed no human to touch her, and from leading the Birdies on an all-night rampage smashing mailboxes with baseball bats. Grim was the kind of boy who would pick a handful of dandelions and hold them under Sadie’s chin to see her smile when her throat glowed yellow. She said he made everything quieter; she rarely went out without him.

  I liked Grim a lot, but sometimes the sight of them together was painful. Like someone jabbing me in the chest, over and over. It had taken me a long time to figure out why. I was alone. They weren’t. I didn’t have someone who believed me unconditionally. I didn’t have someone who would pick me over everyone else. I had thought once that that person was Mom, but even she picked the firestarters over me, in the end.

  “You staying over again?” I asked when Grim emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later.

  He shook his head and smiled a little, then scooped hair out of his eyes. “No, not tonight. I will this weekend, though, if that’s okay.”

  “You buy me cereal. Of course it’s okay.”

  He picked up his door-stopper fantasy book and his shoes and said, “Don’t forget, we need to get some funnel cakes at the homecoming parade. My treat.”

  “You’re the best, Grimmie.”

  He bent his head to get out the front door. I waited for his car to start and gravel to crunch beneath the tires before getting up to peer through the blinds. He disappeared down the road that led back to town.

  The trailer had two bedrooms stuffed into its back end, one a little larger than the other. The bathroom and a short hallway separated them from the tiny living room and kitchen. I crept back to Sadie’s room to make sure she was really asleep. The room had once been Mom and Dad’s, so her bed was a double with a solid wooden frame. She was a big, softly snoring lump under the crocheted blanket and comforter.

  Not even the Chevelle’s engine would wake her. I ducked back into my own room, where the mattress sat on the floor, and dug through my mounds of clothes for my mine-tromping boots and my flashlight. I would have hidden everything better, but Sadie didn’t come in this room since she stopped sleeping there. She now referred to it as “Zora’s dumpster.” It was messy, there was no denying that, but I resented the implication that it smelled bad. I was very careful with my hygiene.

  Once in the Chevelle, I started down the winding path into town. Out here, where there were only hills, the coal mine, the junkyard, and the trailer park, the streets remained empty and quiet. On the bluffs there were no ghosts—one of the reasons Mom moved the trailer there—but because they didn’t make sound, even those around the trailer park kept the night peaceful. When I turned down the Goldmine, people came out of nowhere on late-night runs, dog walks, and tourist group outings. The ghosts here watched them pass by, sometimes drifting after a runner or a group for a little while, as if to catch their attention. When I passed, they fixed on me, but they never tried to follow me.

  The Goldmine, the southernmost street in town, had once belonged to the founding families of Addamsville. The houses loomed at sharp angles above the treetops, all imposing Victorian Gothics with huge porches, windows that stared at passersby. They had front gates, and the gates were marked by metal signs decorated with each original family’s name. Horwill House. Grimshaw House. Banforth House. Farow House. On and on, all the way down the street.

  Artemis was lucky enough to belong to one of these: her mother had married a Wake. But they didn’t even live in Wake House anymore. In the past month or so, they’d moved into Hillcroft House, the oldest of the old, perched on a rise at the very end of the Goldmine. It had been my last stop of the night when Artemis had found me hiding in her trash.

  Sylvester Hillcroft had been the owner of the coal mine where his son, Salem, had died. Stories said Hillcroft House was haunted by the father, who had wasted away after losing his eldest child. It wasn’t the most famous house in town—that honor belonged to Grimshaw House, with its long-lost buried treasure—but it was the most visible.

  I parked at the corner at 9:40 p.m. Artemis was already waiting for me behind a tall walnut tree near the end of the driveway, carrying a backpack stuffed so full it threatened to tip her over. Hillcroft House rose behind her like a watchful Victorian toad.

  “Took you long enough,” she huffed as she tried to crunch herself into the passenger seat.

  “Long enough? I told you I’d be here at nine forty-five. I’m five minutes early. If you were so worried about punctuality, why couldn’t you drive yourself?”

  “I would have, but it’s in the shop. I’ve been waiting out here for ten minutes and it’s so cold.”

  “What’d you tell your mom?”

  “That I was helping you, obviously. She knows there’s a firestarter in town.”

  “What the hell?” I threw my hands up. “Then why has she been treating me like I’m a horrible person?”

  “I don’t know; she doesn’t tell me everything. Come over and ask her yourself.”

  I wouldn’t set foot in Hillcroft House until someone forced me. “What’s all this?” I motioned to the backpack.

  “Flashlights, some granola bars and trail mix, camera, EMF meter, voice recorders, extra clothes, matches, rope . . .” She stopped when
she saw the expression on my face. “What did you bring?”

  I motioned to my flashlight on the dashboard.

  “You’re very underprepared. You don’t even have your axe.”

  “We’re messing with some people, not robbing a bank. And if you want to go at a fully mobile firestarter with just an axe, be my guest.”

  “I’ve never investigated the mines before. Didn’t want to go by myself. I want to see if I can learn more before the film crew gets there.” She managed to buckle her seat belt, somehow. “I was doing research earlier today on the mine and I found some new stuff; it was really interesting. . . .”

  I threw the car in gear and turned down the street. “Not the first place I’d spend time investigating when we know there’s a firestarter inside. Don’t you have better places to snoop around? Your brand-new spooky scary house, for example?”

  “My mom didn’t buy Hillcroft House for its history; she bought it because it’s the most extravagant house in town. She won’t let me investigate it.” She paused, then a sneaky smile slipped onto her face. “I still leave my recorders on at night, though, just in case. Imagine what we could learn if we could find another way for the dead to communicate.”

  I headed back the way I’d come. The few people on the sidewalks watched the Chevelle as it passed by.

  “Have you ever found anything?” I asked. “I always imagine you sitting around and listening to hours of empty noise.”

  “I’ve gotten some orbs on camera, a few EVP recordings that could be interpreted one way or another . . . and I had some very interesting EMF readings when I went to Maple Hills!”

  “Gnats, weird noises, flashing lights. Cool.”

  “It’s not an exact science,” Artemis snapped. “If it were, we’d already know what exactly the ghosts are made of, how they form, their routines, their purpose—and if we could communicate with them, imagine what we could learn—”

  “You want to know the history of the place; I get it.” I didn’t need to have that conversation over again. We pulled onto Hampstead Road. “That’s better than everyone else, at least.”