Page 37 of Ghost in the Night

Myah jogs up the steps to the entrance, and I can’t help noticing how the building is similar in size to the Myers House. A white-and-gray home with mint-colored shutters. Tall, wide, taking up most of the street. Except thisbuilding is well taken care of, not abandoned, and hopefully not haunted.

Inside reminds me of a small art gallery.

“Be out in just a minute,” a woman calls from the back office and I recognize the voice.

Myah must too and she gasps. “Oh, wait. We should—”

“Myah? Robby?”

Ms. Trina, dressed in an orange-and-black African print skirt and top with matching head wrap, stops short at the sight of us. Especially since we’re the only people in here.

“You knew she worked here?” I whisper.

“She volunteers a few days a month,” Myah whispers back, equally stunned.

“You trying to take your new friend here on a tour?” Ms. Trina asks, grinning with pride.

“Um, no,” I start, staring at my team. “Well, kinda.”

Myah stumbles over her words. “We’re here about something … or someone.”

Robby rolls his eyes. “We’re here about Tim Truman.”

Myah shoves Robby’s shoulder. Could he at least try to be a bit smoother with it?

Ms. Trina blinks a few times, then turns to face us head-on, eyes narrowed.

“What’s this all about?” she asks, sounding suspicious. “I thought I told y’all to leave him and his family alone.”

“I’m, um, real sorry about upsetting you the other day with that picture, ma’am,” Myah says. “You know I was just trying to help.”

Ms. Trina raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I know all about how you like tohelppeople.”

If Myah could go pale, she would. She flashes me and Robby a stunned look and casts her eyes down to the floor.

“Well, um,” I say, stepping forward. “We’ve been learning so much about Tim, you know, following in his footsteps to … honor him. That’s how we heard about this place.” I pause. “We were hoping to learn more about him.”

Ms. Trina gives me a once-over, then takes a deep breath and holds it.  “God rest his soul. Tim was a real real good friend to me … and to this place. We’re all devastated.”

I can hear it in the crack of  her voice—the mourning, the loss, the grief. It’s something I know well.

“Can you tell us a little about why he loved it here?” I ask.

She raises an eyebrow. “You want a tour?” she asks.

Myah jumps in. “Um, we a little tight on time, ma’am. How about a preview?”

Ms. Trina chuckles and waves her hand. “All right. Follow me. Folks usually pay for my tours, you know. But I’ll make an exception.”

We walk through the building that feels more like someone’s home than a museum.

“The Beach Institute was founded in 1867, around the Reconstruction era,” Ms. Trina says. “It was the first school built specifically for emancipated Black folk in Savannah, Georgia. The school taught reading, writing, and math, preparing folks for a life outside slavery. A benefactor from New York, Alfred Beach, contributed to the building of the institute, which is why it’s named after him.”

“Whoa, someone from New York helped build this?” I ask.

“That’s right. Mr. Beach designed the New York City subway.”

“What! Stop playing! That’s crazy.” I ride the subway every day! Well, when I’m home.