The Ghost of the Hindenburg (The Tes Simms Anthology, Book 1)

The Noise

"Wait, you caught that, too?" she asks, laughing. "Oh my God, I thought I was going crazy at first. Maybe there really is water. I'd have half a mind to look, if I could move safely."

I draw a sun on the table and point to myself.

"If you think you can wait that long," she replies. "It hasn't been more than an hour, but it's driving me mad."

I sigh and flop over on my side. As worried as I am about nightmares, I desperately crave sleep. Today's been exhausting. Plus, it's not like I encounter dead bodies daily, much less those of your classmates or those of Nazis that have been holed up in a dark spot for years. Not to mention I held the hand of a dying classmate as he breathed his last breath.

My wrist is still in excruciating pain, but the drumming of rushing blood has numbed the sharpness of it. There's definitely a lot more swelling, but at least I can still feel my hand. Not too much nerve damage.

A minute later, the noise drips again. Once. I lean forward a bit to check on Stacy, who is still wide awake.

"No dice," she says.

I lay down again, and the process repeats for the next seven drops. That's when I hear what sounds like moving on the other side of the thin wood. It's almost like someone is shuffling their feet. I lean against the wall and put my ear to it, facing Stacy.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

I motion for her to be quiet.

She puts her ear to the wall as well. The noise continues, moving back and forth between two spots. The telltale drip sounds off at the pivot points of the movements.

"Okay," Stacy says, "I don't think I can do this anymore. We need to go see what's happening."

I shake my head.

"Come on, Tes, let's go check the noise. I'm sure it's nothing. Here, help me out of the booth, would you?"

Without waiting for my response, she scoots along in her seat, apparently leaving me no choice.

I aid her with my good arm, and we awkwardly navigate to the oil lamp. She checks the oil level and frowns.

"I don't think this is going to last much longer," she says. "Do you know where they found this?"

I shake my head.

"We might have to go searching for some more soon. This might last us ten minutes, tops. I'm no oil lamp expert, but we're low."

My shoulders slump.

Against my will, we head out the diner's doorway to go discover the source of the noises. The lamp light flickers as we step into the somehow chillier hallway.

The air is dense here, too, popping my ears a few steps in. Aside from the loud snoring, and the faint shuffling noise we're hunting down, the silence is deafening.

The walls are lined with peeling wallpaper, and we kick up dust particles with every movement, which dance in the weak light's rays. The dilapidated floorboards can't seem to decide if they want to creak or crack. The only thing this airship is missing to fit the haunted house vibe is cobwebs. And, well, a ghost, hopefully.

I can almost read the headlines now: "The Ghost of the Hindenburg."

That would be an awful development to an already awful situation.

Still, ghost or no ghost, we press on. Neither of us can hug the wall for stability, seeing as her free hand is behind my back and mine hers, so she's left to hop beside me. So far, I'd like to think I'm better off with a broken wrist than a leg. At least I can still mostly function.

The sound of someone suddenly sobbing stops us dead in our tracks.

It's certainly not coming from behind us. I've heard what Holly sounds like when she cries, and that's not it. Our eyes go wide. I've never felt more hysterical in my life.

"Hello?" Stacy calls out. I open my mouth in shock, but the crying continues, unphased by Stacy's voice.

I thought we were on the same page—that page being "don't summon whoever's crying in an abandoned airship in the middle of the desert at night."

"What if it's one of our classmates?" she suggests, trying to rationalize her action. "What if they're hurt?"

She moves to continue, but I'm not totally convinced.

"Oh, I get it," she says. "You're scared of the dark, aren't you?"

I shake my head. I mean, I am, but that's not the reason I don't want to go find who's making all this racket.

The sobbing abruptly stops. We both stand motionless. Fireworks are going off in my head.

"Come on," she says, "let's go." She hops forward, dragging me along with her.

We approach the first doorway in the hall. My arm hairs are permanently straightened. I peer inside. Like the rest of the ship, the room is pitch black and musty, but disturbingly silent.

Against every thought and instinct in my brain, we sneak inside, holding the lamp high. Old barrels, some of them cracked, line the room, occasionally stacked two-high.

Maybe if I distract myself with what's in the room, I'll be less scared.

The shuffling starts again, coming from the center of the room. Noticeable scratch marks line the floor where the noise is emanating from.

Oh, hell no.

I attempt to move out of the room, but Stacy is too entranced to budge. If I let go and run, she'll fall and likely hurt herself more.

The shuffling stops again, and we wait with bated breath for the dripping noise. A small reflective blob forms in the air above the end of the scratched floor closest to us, lingers for a second, and falls to the floor.

Drip.

The shuffling begins once more.

"No way," Sarah says.

The shuffling stops immediately. The light from the oil lamp flickers and vanishes. Complete fear courses through my brain. The nerve endings in my fingers flare.

Indistinguishable whispering noises fill the room.

And then, an ear-piercing scream replaces it.

Stacy and I scream in return.