Home for the Haunting(14)

“Let me show you the best part,” Etta said as she led me toward the back door.

At some point the former concrete patio had been enclosed, and judging by the quality of the construction, I was guessing Mr. Lee, or perhaps Etta herself, had done the work. Two-by-fours formed the skeleton, the roof was made of corrugated fiberglass, and the walls were thick plastic sheeting stapled to the wood frame. Raggedy plants and tattered wicker furniture sat around the perimeter, forming a circle around a huge model train set built on a plywood platform. Three adorable miniature towns were separated by tiny scale rivers, mountains, and forests. One town was hosting a carnival that appeared to have been there for some time—the revelers on the minuscule Ferris wheel were caked in dust.

Unfortunately, the enclosure smelled neither of the outdoors nor the interior, but of must and mildew. It really should be either demolished entirely or shored up properly.

“This is quite something,” I said. “Are you the train enthusiast?”

“That was my husband. I haven’t kept it up the way I should. I’ve got the arthritis, so I don’t get around as well as I used to. Lord, I used to have such energy!”

“Does it still work?”

“The trains still run, but a lot of the smaller items don’t work well anymore. The Ferris wheel is supposed to go around, that sort of thing.”

“My dad’s pretty good with electrical work,” I said. “Maybe he can take a look at it.”

“Oh, he’s so busy I wouldn’t want to ask. He’s already doing so much.”

“I bet he’d get a kick out of getting it to run properly.”

Etta nodded, but looked distracted. “Listen, Mel . . . I was wondering . . . I heard about what happened at Monty’s yesterday.” She picked up a tiny truck and blew off some dust, then cleaned it with her hands before setting it back down on a tiny highway. “You poor thing. It must have been quite a shock. Do they know who it was?”

“I really don’t know,” I said.

“How sad. That place, all those lost souls . . .” She trailed off with a sigh. “I swear, it must be haunted.”

I studied her for a moment before realizing she was speaking metaphorically.

“Ms. Lee—”

“Oh, please, call me Etta. Ms. Lee is so formal. Makes me feel like I’m still a teacher.”

“Etta, then. What grade did you teach?”

“Middle school at first, and then high school later.”

“Wow. Teenagers. I’m impressed.”

She smiled and brought a tiny bright yellow train engine over to a worktable. She studied it through a jeweler’s glass, dabbed a minuscule brush in fresh paint, and then started painting the toy with surprisingly steady hands. Seeing Etta now, I realized she probably wasn’t much older than my father, maybe five years at most.

“I love teenagers. I know, I know, I’m crazy. But there’s something so . . . energetic about them. I love the way they throw themselves into things—feetfirst, all in, no doubts. Sometimes that impulsivity gets them in trouble, of course, or even puts them in danger. But there’s something about that energy I just love.”

“My stepson’s sixteen. He seems to be stuck in the grunting, shrugging stage.”

“My advice with teenagers? The more obnoxious they are, the more they’re begging you to spend time with them, pay attention to them. They try their best to run you off, but they’re really begging you to stay.” She grinned, and it was clear to see that she had always been what one would call a handsome woman: tall, strong-looking, I was guessing Polish stock. Capable and, I imagined, unflappable in the face of whatever antics teens might dream up.

“I understand you’ve lived here a long time. You must know a lot about the history of the neighborhood.”

She gave me a keen-eyed look. “By ‘history’ I assume you’re curious about what happened over at the Lawrence house.”

“Is that the house across the street, next to Monty’s?”

She nodded. “The children call it the Murder House.”

Once again, I told myself not to ask. The ghosts were none of my affair. I was running a volunteer project, and a dead body entirely unrelated to me was found in a building entirely unrelated to my project. And even if the dead woman had been found on Monty’s property, her death had nothing to do with the ghosts I had seen in the neighbor’s windows, much less the foggy circles on the windowpanes, as though someone were breathing on the glass . . .

“It was the most interesting thing to happen around here in ages,” Etta said as she stroked more paint onto the engine. She glanced up, wet brush held aloft. “That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? I simply mean that tragedy is inherently interesting, far more interesting to outsiders than happiness. That’s why all great literature is tragedy.”