THE CARROLLS INSISTED THAT the Stahls join them for dinner that night. At closing time, they all trooped up to the second-floor apartment, where Mr. Carroll’s pot of jollof rice sent out ribbons of spicy scent.
Eliza would have preferred a meal she’d had a thousand times before, like her father’s Monday Macaroni or Tuesday Tacos, or her mom’s Wednesday Western Omelette. But the rice turned out to be pretty tasty.
They all clustered around the Carrolls’ table and ate and made small talk. The adults made small talk, anyway. Tommy and Eliza mostly just ate. Tommy had never returned to the greenhouse. Eliza had eventually found him tending orchids in the front room, and he’d looked almost startled to see her, like he’d already forgotten she was there. Moggie lay between their feet under the dinner table, giving occasional wheezes. Mr. Carroll slipped her a bit of chicken whenever Mrs. Carroll wasn’t looking. Mrs. Carroll did the same thing whenever Mr. Carroll wasn’t looking. And when Tommy wasn’t looking, Moggie craned up and slurped a chunk of chicken off the edge of his plate.
Finally, Mr. Carroll brought a heaping plate of brownies out of the kitchen, plunked back down in his chair, and boomed, “Well, Professor, we’re dying to know what you think! Anything you can tell us yet?”
Eliza’s mother clasped her hands on the tabletop. Eliza knew exactly how this went: The longer her mother talked, the livelier and more expressive her hands would get. She’d seen them smack hanging light fixtures and accidentally slap strangers. Eliza leaned back in her chair.
“Well,” her mother began, her fingers starting to twitch, “you have several specimens I’ve never seen before, even in photographs. That variegated fern, for example. I’d love to know if it’s a mutation of some kind, or if it’s a trait of its entire genus. There’s another that may be a dwarf ginkgo, but of a variety I’ve never seen. And of course there’s the plant with the rufous fruits….”
Her mother continued, using words like abaxial and unilocular and exocarp, punctuated by bigger and bigger gestures. By the time she got to drupelet, she’d bumped Eliza’s arm twice and nearly toppled a water glass.
Eliza glanced around. Mr. and Mrs. Carroll were nodding and beaming. Tommy was listening intently, his eyes gleaming behind his oily hair. Moggie was licking his plate.
“And I’m just getting started,” said Eliza’s mother. “I haven’t used the microscope yet, or sectioned any fruits, or contacted any colleagues for their input. But I’ll—”
“Oh, we’d prefer if you didn’t talk with anyone about our plants,” said Mrs. Carroll, in such a sweetly apologetic tone that it didn’t even seem like an interruption.
Her mother’s hands dropped to the tabletop. “You don’t want me to confer with other botanists?”
“If you don’t mind,” said Mr. Carroll. “Brownie?” He wafted the plate under her nose.
Eliza’s mother took a bite. “I don’t mind, if you…” Her eyes slid partly shut. “Are there dark chocolate chips in this?”
“Dark and milk chocolate,” said Mrs. Carroll.
Her mother took another bite. “I can certainly…Mmm…I can continue my work alone. But having other experts weigh in may give you better conclusions.”
“We’ll trust your conclusions,” said Mrs. Carroll. “The truth is, we don’t want too much information about our very rarest plants flying around. We’ve got our own loyal buyers, and our own special dealers, and we’d like to keep a few little trade secrets. You understand.”
“It’s your choice, of course,” said Eliza’s mother. “I just hope I’ll be enough help on my own.”
Mrs. Carroll laughed. “Oh, Professor Stahl, we’re not worried about that one bit.”
“Enough shop talk. What about you?” said Mr. Carroll abruptly, turning to Eliza with a wide, warm smile. “What are your hobbies? Botany? Zoology? Paleontology?”
“Um…,” said Eliza. “Not any of those.”
“Of course not, Win.” Mrs. Carroll gave her husband a swat on the arm. “She’s a thirteen-year-old girl! She probably plays sports, or dances, or sings.” She turned her own smile on Eliza. “Am I a better guesser than the big goofball beside me?”
“Actually,” Eliza began, “I’m mostly interested in psychical research.” The Carrolls’ eyebrows rose simultaneously.
“Psychology?” said Mr. Carroll.
“No, like—paranormal investigation,” Eliza explained. “Ghost hunting.”
“Pseudoscience,” said her mother to the Carrolls, in the way other people would say diarrhea.
“Just because something isn’t proven yet doesn’t mean it won’t be,” Eliza argued. “Isn’t that what scientists do? Collect data and test theories?”
Mr. Carroll tipped his head thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right.”
“And lots of things people used to think were crazy or magical have turned out to be completely real,” Eliza pushed on. “Like that people can come back from the dead, by waking up from comas. Or that humans can walk on the moon. Or that plants can communicate.”
Eliza’s mother sighed. But the Carrolls were both nodding. And Tommy was staring steadily at her. Until now, he hadn’t ever looked at her long enough for her to notice the hazel color of his eyes.
“I just think it’s interesting,” Eliza finished. “I think it’s something waiting to be discovered.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Carroll leaned back in his chair. “You know, you may have come to just the right place.”
“Win,” said Mrs. Carroll warningly.
“This is one of the oldest parts of the city,” Mr. Carroll went on. “People have been settling here for centuries. Millennia. Just think of the history. The number of people who’ve lived and died on this particular spot.” He pointed around. “This building dates back to 1852. It saw the Civil War. The waves of immigrants. The fires, the blizzards and hurricanes, the diseases…”
“Diseases?” Eliza echoed.
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Carroll. “Cholera. Polio. Influenza. They cut through the city like pruning shears.”
“Win.” Mrs. Carroll gave her husband another smack. “You’ll give our guests nightmares.”
“Oh, ghosts can’t hurt anyone,” Eliza protested. “Even poltergeists—the most troublesome type of ghost—just break plates and rattle doorknobs and stuff like that.”
“Well, it will give me nightmares if I think we haven’t given you a decent meal after your long day. More brownies?” Mrs. Carroll held out the plate.
“So,” Eliza asked, through a mouthful of chocolate, “have you noticed any supernatural activity here?”
Mr. Carroll tugged softly at his beard. “In the shop, no. But up on the fourth floor…” He paused, his eyes lingering somewhere above Eliza’s head. “Maybe.”
Eliza perked up. The fourth floor?
Mrs. Carroll sighed loudly and began clearing the plates.
“What’s on the fourth floor?” Eliza asked.
“A mess,” said Mrs. Carroll, from the kitchen.
Mr. Carroll chuckled. “The attic. And she’s right. It is a mess. Full of junk that’s been there for decades and that I don’t move because it’s always been there. And because I’m lazy.” He gave Eliza a grin. “But the last time I was up there—and it was years ago—I was in a corner, digging through some boxes…” His words slowed and softened. “And I swear I heard a voice.”
Eliza leaned forward. “What did it say?”
“It sounded like a name.” Mr. Carroll frowned. “Like the voice was calling for someone.”
“You probably heard someone on the street outside,” said Eliza’s mother reasonably.
Eliza ignored this. She’d heard something from the attic, too. She knew it. “Did you answer the voice?”
“I don’t believe I did.” Mr. Carroll narrowed his eyes, remembering. “But I turned around, and for just a second, I could see somebody standing there. Somebody in a hat and dark clothes. Then I stepped closer, and it was gone.” His booming voice was nearly a whisper. “Maybe it was just a shadow. But I don’t know what could have cast a shadow like that.”
“And this is why I can’t take this man camping,” said Mrs. Carroll, putting her hands playfully around Mr. Carroll’s neck. “The last time the whole family went up to the Catskills, Win had all the kids sitting around the fire, telling them ghost stories, until half of them were screaming. His sister Marcelline had to drive her kids to the nearest motel so they could sleep with the lights on!”
Eliza’s mother laughed. So did Mrs. Carroll, and so did Mr. Carroll, so loudly that the glasses on the table jiggled. Tommy took his plate to the sink.
Eliza would have liked to ask a hundred investigative questions. Had Mr. Carroll felt the temperature in the attic change? Had the lights flickered? Had any objects mysteriously moved?
But the conversation had already traveled on, and her mother was telling the story about the camping trip when Eliza had made herself a crown of burrs, and soon the grown-ups were all laughing about other camping disasters, and in a little while, everyone was saying good night.
“I know you, and I know what you’re thinking,” said her mother, as soon as she and Eliza were headed up the creaky flight of stairs. “You’re thinking about exploring that attic.”
That was exactly what Eliza had been thinking. “No I wasn’t,” she said. “I was thinking, where does a name like Moggie come from?”
“I don’t want you going up there on your own,” said her mother. “In an old building like this, it might not be safe.”
They reached the top of the steps and turned into the third-floor hallway. Two dim electric candles flickered in an old wall sconce. Eliza kept her eye on the candles as they walked past, but the flicker was too regular to be ghost-related. Probably just old wiring. Eliza sagged slightly.
“Do you hear me?” asked her mother, opening the door.
“Yes,” said Eliza.
She did hear. She didn’t necessarily agree with what she heard—but her mother hadn’t asked that question.
Her mother flicked on the chandelier. “The Carrolls are nice, aren’t they?” she asked, once the door was shut again. “A little flaky, maybe.” She started to smile. “Mrs. Carroll and her singing flowers. Mr. Carroll and his mysterious voices. But nice.”
“Yes,” said Eliza. “Really nice.”
“I’m going to see if your father sent an email today.” Her mother bent over the table, turning on her laptop. “Would you like first dibs on the shower, sweet pea?”
“I think I’ll wait until morning,” said Eliza. Figuring out a brand-new shower—which tap did what, and how far to turn each one to keep from scalding or freezing yourself—sounded too tiring. She flopped down onto her creaky bed and pulled out her tablet.
There were no messages from Xavier or Chloe. She hadn’t expected there to be. Still, a trickle of disappointment seeped through her chest and dribbled down into her toes.
Xavier and Chloe and Eliza had been best friends since they’d met in the third grade. They’d all loved ghost stories. They’d watched Ghost Hunters and Ghostbusters and The Canterville Ghost together over and over. They’d used Ouija boards and played “Bloody Mary” in the mirror. They’d even snuck out one night to explore the old schoolhouse, which everybody said was haunted.
But over the last few months, Xavier had become more interested in underground hip-hop and kung fu movies than ghost hunting. And Chloe had become interested in Xavier.
This left Eliza on her own.
Eliza wasn’t going to give up her research, though. She wasn’t going to change.
She switched off the tablet and pulled out her research notebook.
She flipped to a fresh page. At the top, she wrote:
Carrolls’ Gardens, New York City
Below that, in careful columns, she recorded all the evidence she’d gathered so far.
June 10. ES (Eliza Stahl). Potential ghost sighting: dark figure in front of shop. Approx. 2:00 p.m.
June 10. ES. Potential ghost activity (creaking sound): attic. Approx. 2:30 p.m.
June 10. ES. Potential ghost sighting: shadow in backyard, behind greenhouse (possibly just dog). Approx. 4:00 p.m.
Date? Years ago. WC (Winston Carroll). Potential ghost sighting and hearing: attic.
Writing down the facts made her heart lift. Four items in one day was a good start. And she was writing in a room that looked like something straight out of a Victorian ghost story. If she returned to Worcester with stories about the spirits she’d encountered in a towering old building in the city, Chloe and Xavier would want to hear every detail. She could picture them sitting on the couch in her basement, just like they used to, poring over her notebooks, hanging on her every word.
Eliza closed the notebook and set it aside.
After putting on her usual pajamas—fuzzy sweatpants and a Sleepy Hollow T-shirt—she climbed under the patchwork quilt.
Nothing about this bed felt right. The squeak of the springs, the texture of the sheets, the shape of the pillow under her head. It was all different. Eliza was willing to deal with different if it brought her closer to actual ghosts, but it wasn’t going to be easy. The smells in the air were the most different part of all: dust and old wood and faint whiffs of plants, beneath a trace of jollof rice. Plus the Carrolls obviously used a different brand of laundry detergent.
Eliza rolled over so she was smelling the sleeve of her own shirt instead. She closed her eyes. The high-ceilinged room disappeared. The sounds of city traffic faded into the background, half-hidden behind the tapping of her mother’s fingers on the computer keys. At least that sound was familiar.
With the soft clicking in her ears, Eliza finally settled down to rest.
