“Things are changing,” I say to Malcolm right before we enter Springside Township. It’s the first words we’ve spoken since leaving the cornfield. “I used to know what to do, how to capture ghosts. But ghost eating? Mistress Armand? None of this makes sense. I can’t believe my grandmother wouldn’t tell me about such things.”
Malcolm is silent, jaw tense. In front of us, the stop light for Main and Fifth turns red.
“What do you think she was?” I ask. “You said before you thought she was human.”
“I did,” he says. “I think at one time, she must have been. I think the addiction ate away at her. I mean, look at Nigel compared to me. He’s only two years older.”
But looks at least twenty.
“I wonder if my grandmother ever knew of such things?” I think she must have. Maybe she died too soon to
