Keep the Ghost

4. Conspirators

If there is one person who knows more than me about the fate of Kayla McPherson, it’s Jack. She talks about him, and I’ve driven her to his house a few times. The house I’m standing behind now.

Her boyfriend, maybe. One thing I’m sure of, is that he’s the man who taught her how to die—so, there is nowhere else for me to be. Not at school, not in therapy, and not asleep. 

My fist hits the screen door and the door rebounds against the frame, plastic and aluminum flexing. I repeat this in a series of snare drum pops, in groups of five. 

I step back to observe. I’m shaded by a lone oak tree, but the sun beams into my eyes when it shoots between shifting leaves. His yard is more acorn than grass, like most of them in this neighborhood. A poor part of town, every home identical, single story and made from wood. Everywhere I look, I see cars on blocks and kid’s bikes laying in the lawn next to plastic ornaments. 

Just before I start knocking again, I hear motion from within the house, and freeze. 

A woman appears through the translucent panel of the screen door. Dark brown hair straight, down below her shoulders. Broad forehead freckle-specked. The faintest wrinkles around her eyes and lips suggest she might be mid-twenties, early thirties. Face clean, barely any makeup. 

“I’m Morgan,” she says, smiling. “Who are you?”

“Sorry—I’m looking for Jack, it’s urgent.” Then I realize she’s asked a question. “I’m Sean,” I stammer. 

“Nice accent,” she comments. “You’re trying to not sell anything, are you?” 

“I just need to talk to Jack. He lives here, doesn’t he?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone named Jack.” 

Didn’t expect this. I step back, look around the back yard. This is definitely the house I remember. 

“I know he’s been here before. He stood right there: skinny, pale, bald head.” 

She becomes rigid, and something quiet takes control of her face. The smile fades, replaced by a subtle, fixed calm. Smooth, like a stone from the river. I don’t think I’d notice any change, if I wasn’t searching for it. 

I try to break the façade: “I need to talk about Kayla McPherson.” 

This gets a response: the edges of her eyes and cheeks crack alive. 

 “Come in,” she says. 

I enter. Low light streams in from thin curtains over brown-specked windows. The kitchen is dirty: dishes in the sink, trash piled high above the trash can. 

I hesitate at the threshold to the living room. There is no furniture. Instead, there’s a large flat screen television, guarded by two waist-high speakers. A pile of movies spreads out against one wall, like a black rot. Bands of black film jut out below silver discs, torn loose from ancient VHS tapes. 

Each of the titles is in French, and appears to be black and white; probably old, from the forties or fifties. 

“Brilliant,” I mumble. “You watch all of these?”

She nods, smiling. “La Nouvelle Vague.” The French rolls off her tongue. “Trying to see every New Wave film. You know: Truffaut, Godard, Rohmer, Charbroil, and everyone inspired by them. You need to have projects.” 

I don’t know. Couldn’t tell if those are names, or places, or titles of films, so I remain silent. 

Morgan doesn’t seem to mind the mess; she walks across some of the little silver plates on the floor. I follow her into a narrow hall. Everything is bare, not a single picture hanging. Like they just moved in, and don’t own anything but a massive television and a collection of French movies.