might have been sneaking around in Aunt Inga’s yard in the middle of the night, before I fell asleep.
4
“This,” Derek said the next morning, taking it out of my hand, “is a TT-500 romex connector, also known as a Tom Two Way.”
“A what?” It seemed a long name for the small, gray doohickey now lying in his palm.
“A connector that’s used to clamp an electrical wire to a junction box,” Derek explained. “Why do you ask?” He tossed it up in the air and caught it again.
“No reason, I guess. I found it in Aunt Inga’s yard this morning.”
Derek grinned. “No kidding. Only the one? I appreciate your bringing it to me, Avery, but they’re a dime a dozen, almost literally. I buy a hundred for less than twenty bucks, and there’re probably fifteen more of them floating around your house and yard right now.” He stuck it in his pocket anyway.
“So it’s yours?”
Derek looked at me for a moment. “Well, it’s not like it has my name on it or anything, but who else’s would it be?”
“No idea. I thought I saw something in the yard last night, so I hoped I’d found a clue, but I guess not.”
“Afraid not,” Derek said. “I must have dropped it this summer, while we were working on the house. Sorry, Tink.”
“No problem. It was probably just my imagination anyway. Or an animal.”
“You sure?” He looked around, brows knitted. There was nothing to see, however. No footprints, no broken branches, no conveniently dropped handkerchief with the prowler’s initials . . . not even a paw print or a hair ball. All I’d found during my early-morning search was the small Tom Two Way, and that had turned out to be a red herring.
“I’m sure,” I said firmly. “It was just my imagination. Or the Weimaraner from three doors down.”
“The ghost dog?”
I nodded. The Weimaraner is smoky gray with yellow eyes, and it does look ghostly. “Sometimes it gets out. And chases the cats. I’m sure that’s what it was. You ready to go?”
“As soon as I get the cats out of the laundry room,” Derek said and went to suit action to words.
That day, the footsteps came back twice.
In the morning, Derek and I were hard at work removing the kitchen cabinets. I had excused myself for a visit to the bathroom, and while I was there, I heard someone come down the hallway. Naturally I assumed it was Derek, and started talking to him through the door. When he didn’t respond, I raised my voice and heard him answer, faintly, from the kitchen. Since he couldn’t very well be in two places at once, obviously he wasn’t making the footsteps, which kept moving past the door even as we were calling to each other. However, he’d also been too far away to hear them, and by the time he arrived in the hallway, at a run and skid, the footsteps had reached the end of the hall and stopped. One funny thing: They were still muffled and soft, as if they were walking on carpet, while the hallway now had hardwood floors. But that’s the way it is with ghosts, I’ve heard: There’s a nun in England somewhere who supposedly walks a half a foot below the current floor of whatever it is she haunts. Ghosts walk where the floor was when they were walking on it.
In the middle of the afternoon, the footsteps came back, and this time we both heard them. By then, the kitchen cabinets were history, thrown in the Dumpster, and we were in the small bedroom across from the main bath. I was spackling holes in the walls and Derek was tearing out the makeshift shelves in the closet. When the footsteps started, we both froze, ears pricked. I stayed where I was, balanced on the step stool, my arm with the putty knife raised above my head. Derek, on the other hand, leapt for the hallway and stood there, hands on his hips and sandy eyebrows drawn into a scowl, while the footsteps essentially walked right through him and continued down the hall. He turned around to watch, not that there was anything to see.
“What did it feel
4
“This,” Derek said the next morning, taking it out of my hand, “is a TT-500 romex connector, also known as a Tom Two Way.”
“A what?” It seemed a long name for the small, gray doohickey now lying in his palm.
“A connector that’s used to clamp an electrical wire to a junction box,” Derek explained. “Why do you ask?” He tossed it up in the air and caught it again.
“No reason, I guess. I found it in Aunt Inga’s yard this morning.”
Derek grinned. “No kidding. Only the one? I appreciate your bringing it to me, Avery, but they’re a dime a dozen, almost literally. I buy a hundred for less than twenty bucks, and there’re probably fifteen more of them floating around your house and yard right now.” He stuck it in his pocket anyway.
“So it’s yours?”
Derek looked at me for a moment. “Well, it’s not like it has my name on it or anything, but who else’s would it be?”
“No idea. I thought I saw something in the yard last night, so I hoped I’d found a clue, but I guess not.”
“Afraid not,” Derek said. “I must have dropped it this summer, while we were working on the house. Sorry, Tink.”
“No problem. It was probably just my imagination anyway. Or an animal.”
“You sure?” He looked around, brows knitted. There was nothing to see, however. No footprints, no broken branches, no conveniently dropped handkerchief with the prowler’s initials . . . not even a paw print or a hair ball. All I’d found during my early-morning search was the small Tom Two Way, and that had turned out to be a red herring.
“I’m sure,” I said firmly. “It was just my imagination. Or the Weimaraner from three doors down.”
“The ghost dog?”
I nodded. The Weimaraner is smoky gray with yellow eyes, and it does look ghostly. “Sometimes it gets out. And chases the cats. I’m sure that’s what it was. You ready to go?”
“As soon as I get the cats out of the laundry room,” Derek said and went to suit action to words.
That day, the footsteps came back twice.
In the morning, Derek and I were hard at work removing the kitchen cabinets. I had excused myself for a visit to the bathroom, and while I was there, I heard someone come down the hallway. Naturally I assumed it was Derek, and started talking to him through the door. When he didn’t respond, I raised my voice and heard him answer, faintly, from the kitchen. Since he couldn’t very well be in two places at once, obviously he wasn’t making the footsteps, which kept moving past the door even as we were calling to each other. However, he’d also been too far away to hear them, and by the time he arrived in the hallway, at a run and skid, the footsteps had reached the end of the hall and stopped. One funny thing: They were still muffled and soft, as if they were walking on carpet, while the hallway now had hardwood floors. But that’s the way it is with ghosts, I’ve heard: There’s a nun in England somewhere who supposedly walks a half a foot below the current floor of whatever it is she haunts. Ghosts walk where the floor was when they were walking on it.
In the middle of the afternoon, the footsteps came back, and this time we both heard them. By then, the kitchen cabinets were history, thrown in the Dumpster, and we were in the small bedroom across from the main bath. I was spackling holes in the walls and Derek was tearing out the makeshift shelves in the closet. When the footsteps started, we both froze, ears pricked. I stayed where I was, balanced on the step stool, my arm with the putty knife raised above my head. Derek, on the other hand, leapt for the hallway and stood there, hands on his hips and sandy eyebrows drawn into a scowl, while the footsteps essentially walked right through him and continued down the hall. He turned around to watch, not that there was anything to see.
“What did it feel
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