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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.
