The boys draw water from the well and plant their seeds: “Estoy trabajando hacia la grandeza.”
During these times, the dead hold their breath. The heart of the land beats with fresh hope. That we will hold these truths to be self-evident, and crown thy good with brotherhood. Sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
In our shrouds, we look up and watch you.
You, milking the cow. You, dreaming in the field. You, who look to the stars and proclaim yourselves. You, who fall in love and marry, who birth and plot and strive. You, who blow yourselves apart with war. You, who mourn your losses and curse those same skies. You, who bury your dead. You, who ask, “Am I enough?” You, who pray to leave a mark. You, so full of life. You, capable of such moments of transcendent beauty that it shifts the atoms of history into an ecstatic sigh. You, who erect the monuments so that you’ll remember, for a time. You, who will also wither and die.
We marvel at your endless capacity to dream and create and, yes, even to love. To keep inventing yourselves. To ignore history’s lessons. To rewrite the story again and again.
We wish you love. And dreams. And hope.
We wish we could keep you from making the same mistakes.
We wish we could extinguish your hate.
We wish we could walk among you just to be close to the living.
Sometimes, we do.
We watch the sun rise and sink, day after day after day, faster and faster, until time is a string moving so swiftly it appears not to move at all.
We, the ancestors.
The ones who came before with the same dreams.
The same false inheritance.
The people are afraid now. Too much history rises from the graves.
Ghosts take shape in the cornfields. Behind the factories. Along the rivers. At the creeping edges of the cities and towns. They burn brightly like a secret revealed. The night is illuminated by truth so sharp it scrapes breath from the lungs of those who finally see. The people are anxious for vague reassurances.
But this is the history: blood.
We are the dead.
We are the keepers of the stories.
We hold the history of blood and promises.
We are speaking.
Are you listening?
Will you hear?
PART TWO
GHOSTS IN GOTHAM
The Daily News
EXTRA! GHOSTS IN GOTHAM!
Exclusive to T. S. Woodhouse
The days are numbered for the creepy crawlies allegedly lurking in the city’s dark alleys, making a nuisance of themselves in swanky hotels, and spooking the speakeasies. Manhattan is giving up the ghost, thanks to the combined efforts of a dedicated team of Diviners. Led by the Sweetheart Seer herself, comely Evie O’Neill, who only so recently braved the fire out on Ward’s Island to save the lives of the poor souls housed there, a fire started, they say, by malevolent spirits from beyond, these Diviners are making the city safe again. Woe unto the things that go bump in the night, for it’s hip, hip, boo-ray for this brave ghost-banishing team.
Theta lowered the newspaper and lifted one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Led by comely Evie O’Neill? Oh, brother.”
“What are the rest of us, chopped liver?” Sam said.
Evie’s eyes were wide and innocent. “Can I help it if Woody put me first?”
“Yes!” everyone said at once.
Evie pretended to be miffed, but she was thrilled that Woody had singled her out and called her comely to boot. Her only objection was that the story had been buried on page six in the “Seen and Overheard” section. Hopefully, that would change, and soon. She’d have to talk to Woody about it. They needed more attention if they were to find ghosts, solve the mystery of the Eye, and get Conor back, too.
“Any calls yet?” Evie asked Mabel.
“A few,” Mabel said, passing over her notes. They were gathered in the tiny Tin Pan Alley room where Henry and David composed music. The building was noisy but it was cheap, and Mabel, David, and Alma had promised to come in a few hours each day to answer the telephone they’d installed, which, so far, was not ringing as often as Evie would’ve liked. That morning, they’d scoured the papers for mentions of ghost sightings, finding one or two worth looking into.
Evie read through Mabel’s notes. “Drunk. Not credible. Drunk. Thought I saw a ghost but it might have been my brother in his underwear. Drunk. Are there any naked ghosts and do they touch you in your naughty…” Evie paused, frowning.
“I hung up on that one,” Mabel said, blushing.
“We’ve got a tough road to hoe to get people to believe us,” Theta said.
“And to get off page six,” Evie grumbled, tossing the useless notes into the wastebasket.
“Just remember to keep Isaiah and me out of the papers,” Memphis said.
“I don’t need that kind of publicity, either,” Theta said. She smiled at Memphis, but he looked away, as if he hadn’t seen her at all, and Theta called on her acting skills to make it seem as if she weren’t broken inside.
The phone rang and Mabel pressed the receiver to her ear with one hand as she scribbled notes with the other. “And where did you say you saw these ghosts? At your mother-in-law’s house? You think she’s possessed by an evil spirit? Uh-huh.”
Mabel looked to Evie with a help expression. Evie grabbed the phone and put on her brightest radio voice, all elocution-shaped vowels. “An evil spirit in your mother-in-law, you say? Well, I’m afraid there’s only one cure for it, sir. Yes, you’ll need to spend all of your time with her. Yes, every blessed minute. Constant watching. Ask her to dinner and to be a fourth for your bridge party. That’s what these ‘evil spirits’ demand. Do whatever she asks of you. You don’t want to be cursed for life, do you?” Evie held the receiver out. “Huh. He hung up, the chump.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Alma said from the piano where she had been sitting with David, singing along softly to a new tune he was working on. “How many real calls have you gotten today?”
“Five,” Evie said.
“Mm-mm-mm. And were any of ’em on the level?” Alma asked.
“Not yet. But we will get them!”
“You know, not all the newspapers are so enthusiastic about your ghost-hunting activities,” David said, scribbling lyrics on staff paper. “They want to know why Luther Clayton died—and why he was last seen with you when it happened.”
Evie sobered. “All the more reason to hunt down ghosts and get the answers we need.”
“Any clues from last night’s dream walk?” Sam asked.
Henry shook his head. “We couldn’t find Conor anywhere.”
“Isaiah? Any visions?”
“Sorry,” Isaiah said glumly.
“Memphis, Ling, have you found anything at the libraries?” Evie asked.