The Ghosts You Left Behind

Chapter 4-1

Chapter 4

The moment we cross the threshold, cold, stale air steals everything about the quiet June evening. A chill washes over me. Even though we’re both wearing sneakers, our footfalls sound loud and hollow in this space.

Again, the emptiness strikes me. I don’t do a lot of shopping, it’s true. The only time I’ve been to the Mall of America was on the way back from a class field trip to the state capitol. Still, no people, no chatter, nothing but musty air against my tongue. All of it feels wrong in so many ways.

The tile is dust-covered and grimy beneath our feet. I point. Every few squares, there’s an impression from a Tupperware container.

“This might be easier than I thought,” Malcolm whispers.

“It might,” I agree, my words equally low. Although why we’re whispering is beyond me. There’s no one else here.

At least, I hope there’s no one else here.

Every few yards, we halt. Malcolm turns in a tight circle, scanning high and low. I raise my chin to sample the air. Nothing. This doesn’t surprise me. If the Springside ghosts are here, they’re inside a containment field. Our sprite, in its Tupperware, is also in one. They’ll be nearly impossible to detect.

Still, we don’t want any surprises, otherworldly or otherwise.

Something else catches my eye. I point again, this time holding back a laugh. “You said you wanted an Orange Julius.”

Maybe it’s the power of suggestion, but I swear something sugary sweet teases my nose. Behind that smell is a brain freeze waiting to happen.

Malcolm glances toward the storefront, then at me, and back again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so orange.”

“How long do you think this place has been closed?” Everything about the Orange Julius looks retro—the typeface on the signage, the hard, plastic booths, all that orange.

He shakes his head, considering. “I don’t know. A while, obviously, but I was expecting things to be a lot worse.”

“Like what?”

“Graffiti. Black mold. Mildew. Broken glass.” He points to another storefront, this one with a display of prom dresses. The mannequins’ arms are spindly and seem to be reaching for us. Or maybe just for Malcolm. I place a protective—and irrationally jealous—hand on his arm. Then I blink, and the display resolves itself into a jewel-toned explosion of dusty taffeta and silk.

“The utilities are still on,” he says as we make our way farther into the mall. “Some of the stores still have inventory and equipment. You’d think that would be gone, at least.”

“It’s like a time capsule,” I say.

“It really is, like everyone left one day and never came back.”

Even here in the center courtyard, the space feels that way. Above us, sunlight filters through skylights and illuminates the floor below. The fountain is dry, but a layer of copper and silver coins shine dully in the spare light. So many wishes left behind.

I wonder if any of them have come true.

I let my gaze wander. A sign urges me to visit Brett’s Department Store, the anchor for the south wing. The display cases in the jewelry store, a place called Hillside Diamonds, are empty. Even so? If I squint, I swear I can catch the sparkle of gemstones.

“I mean, I don’t think anyone’s been cleaning on a regular basis.” Malcolm turns in another circle, surveying the space. There’s a calculating gleam in his eye, making him look far more like the former stockbroker he was and less like the ghost catcher he is now. “But you could repurpose this space, turn it into something useful.”

“Like a home for ghosts?” I suggest.

“Sure.” He gives me a sidelong glance, one that has a hint of a grin. “A home for ghosts.”

I point to a sign attached to a central kiosk: Troy Season Property Management. “Maybe they plan to.”

“Maybe.”

The lightest tap, tap, tap comes from a long, dark hallway just off the courtyard.

I nod in its direction. “Speaking of ghosts.”

Malcolm flicks on his flashlight and shines it down the corridor. Something bounces. At least, I think something does. Really, I’d have to move farther down the hall to know for sure. As it is, I’ve inched several feet closer.

I peer at Malcolm over my shoulder. “This is kind of breaking one of our ground rules.”

“It kind of is.”

“Maybe one of us could stay here—” And by one of us, I absolutely mean him.

“I don’t want you going down there alone.”

And he knows it.

“Well, I don’t want to leave you here by yourself, either.” I stare into the darkness before the obvious hits me. “You said the utilities were on. How can you tell?”

He tilts his chin toward the ceiling. “Ventilation system.”

I look up as well. That cold, stale odor meets my nose, but beyond that, I catch the telltale hint of an air current. “Then maybe there’re lights, too.”

Malcolm shines the flashlight up and down the walls until the beam lands on a bank of light switches. With the edge of the flashlight, he flips each of them on.

There’s a crackling, a sputtering, and a fizz and pop. The overhead fluorescents are fairly put out about being pressed into service after all this time. The illumination is minimal, tinged a sickly yellow.

But we can see all the way to the end of the hallway. There, next to the restrooms and some offices, the sprite bounces in its Tupperware container.

“What do you think?” My voice is low again, as if whispering will somehow keep us safe. I point to a sign at the end of the hallway. “There’s an exit.”

“Which might be blocked.”

There’s that.

“Or will trigger an alarm,” he adds.

That, too.

Down the hall, the little ghost is doing all it can to get our attention. At this rate, I’m afraid it might crack both the plastic container and the containment field holding it inside.

“We need to do something,” I say.

“You’re right.” He holds out his hand. “Together?”

I take that hand. His skin is warm, and his grip reassuring in mine. “Together.”

Before we reach the end of the hallway, the sprite scampers around the corner and out of sight. The Tupperware thuds against the tile, so following this thing isn’t all that difficult.

At last, we find the sprite springing up and down in front of a bank of rental lockers. Malcolm’s grip tightens on mine, and we creep forward.

The lockers tremble and shake. A muted rattle reaches my ear, like the sound must travel through molasses to reach us. One plaintive wail echoes down the hall. Then it’s a full-on chorus of ghosts, each crying out, their combined efforts filling my ears, my head, the entire mall.

“Okay, guys. Okay.” I hold up my hands as if that could placate them. “We’re going to get you out of there.”

Cheers replace the crying. The frenetic locker shaking transforms into something with a beat—something that sounds a lot like a rumba.

Malcolm manages a chuckle. “Definitely Springside ghosts.”

They are. They really are. I can’t suppress a grin. Despite the dank and spooky atmosphere of the mall, I feel lighter, hopeful. We’ll get them out of here and take them home.

I step forward to do just that, only to collide with something very hard and very invisible. I try again, simply because I’m stubborn that way.

I turn to look at Malcolm. “What is it?”

He’s crouched next to me, hands outstretched. “Containment field.” His fingers trace the invisible wall up, up until he’s standing on tiptoe. The barest shimmer of an outline sparkles in the dim light from the fluorescent bulbs above our heads.

The containment field surrounds the lockers—there’s no going up and over, around or under. The only way to free the ghosts is to break it by force.

“Maybe together?” I suggest.

We’ve done that before, broken a field that was much bigger—and probably stronger—than this one is.

“Yes, together.” This is what I love about working with Malcolm—and love about him in general. He connects the dots between my half-thoughts and intuition. So far, K&M the couple has not screwed up K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists.

And for that, I’m grateful.

Malcolm takes my hands, and we both close our eyes. Immediately, the containment field pops into view, its smooth surface clear now. I let my mind’s eye glide along that surface, searching out a crack or flaw. Even the tiniest of fissures or a hairline fracture will work.

“Are you getting anything?” He gives my fingers a squeeze.

“Nothing.” I scan again. “Do you recognize the necromancer?”

Every necromancer has a signature. It’s something I can’t really detect, maybe because I didn’t grow up as a necromancer. But Malcolm can.

“It’s weird,” he says, “because it’s familiar and yet ... not. Like when a word is on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t say it.”

I double my efforts to no avail. I don’t know who this necromancer might be, except that he ... she ... they are strong.

“What if we use something physical as well?”

He opens his eyes and peers at me. “What did you have in mind?”

“There’s a tire iron in your car, isn’t there?”

He raises an eyebrow. “If I recall, you’re pretty handy with a tire iron.”

I used one once to crack open a containment field around Malcolm’s convertible. I also managed to smash the window as well. But it worked. With my hands still in his, he considers my suggestion. His gaze darts down the corridor and then takes in the trembling bank of lockers next to us.

“This is an all-or-nothing deal,” he says. “I’m not leaving you here alone—”

“And I’m not letting you go out to the car alone.”

“Okay, we’re agreed, then.”

The rental lockers shake; ghosts cry and plead. They’re loud, despite the containment field, although not loud enough to make a dent in it.

“Guys, please, we’ll be back. I promise. We’ll be back, and then we’ll get you out of there.” I scoop up the sprite in its container. It pings against the sides as if it’s trying to escape.

“We’ll be back,” I say one last time.

The ghosts continue to wail as if we’re abandoning them to some terrible fate. It hurts my heart to leave them, but we have no choice.

Malcolm takes my hand, and we race through the corridors. In the center courtyard, swaths of pink and gold stream through the skylights. There’s still time. We’ll dash out and back in and free the ghosts all before twilight.

Really, my dear? Leaving so soon?

The sound of a voice I know so well has me staggering. Malcolm’s fingers slip from my grip, and I stumble. This voice is both so very real and so very impossible.

I shake my head, strain my ears, willing myself to hear it again and hoping I won’t. On reflex, my fingers go to my left cheek, where—once upon a time—I had a faded blue mark, a legacy of my encounter with a powerful entity.

My cheek feels normal, not waxy and cold. The mark and the entity are gone, long gone.

And yet ...

“Katy!”

Malcolm’s voice pulls me back to the present. I inhale a deep breath and give my head one good shake. Even as I catch up and retake his hand, I can’t help scanning the ceiling and then the sky above me. I can’t help wondering if I truly heard what I think I heard.

My mind encounters nothing. If that voice was here, it’s gone now—like a phantom cell phone ring or a baby’s cry.

An echo from the past and nothing more.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

The second time we leave the warm spring evening behind us, Malcolm brandishes a tire iron. I clutch the Tupperware with the sprite. It pings the sides of its container, urging us to run faster. We are fierce and determined—all three of us.

We race through the mall, past the courtyard, and down the hallway. Our footfalls thunder. My breath is ragged and loud in my ears. We will free the ghosts as fast as we can. Even though the lights work, I do not want to be here after dark.