Everyone at the dentist convention said the ghost tours in town were pretty good. After the last panel, I found the old square.
Competition was kind of intense. All along a cobblestone pedestrian mall, people waved flyers for “True” and “Authentic” or “Real” tours. Guides wore branded polos, headsets, haircuts. Big groups circled them, laughs and gasps erupting all over. I watched the fancy tours depart.
Then there were the scraps. Smaller tours, smaller promises. One guide—a cigarette behind his ear, a distressed flannel, flip-flops—caught my eye. He looked a little sad, a little like my brother—it had been years. I finished my other hot dog and jogged over just before they set off. I handed him a twenty.
“Welcome to the ghost tour. Stay close. Obey pedestrian traffic rules. No smoking,” he said. That was it. Then he started walking.
We followed. There were nine of us—a family of four, a mom and young son, a hip couple, me. We were mostly silent. We marched by other tours and heard the amplified hush and crescendo of practiced storytelling. Our guide moved fast, kept his head down like he was trying to lose us. The mom with the boy looked at me and gestured. She was confused and disappointed. I smiled and shrugged: We’ll see.
Finally, after an unreasonable distance, far from all the monuments and the lights and sound and tourist traps, he halted. A streetlight blinked on and shone down on him. His arm raised as if under the power of an external force. It stopped. His finger pointed to a row house. “First ghost,” he said, his voice deadish. “Twenty-seven Carpenter Street. Brian’s father died here when he was fourteen. His mother went crazy.” His arm lowered to his side. “Their spirits still haunt the place.” Then our guide walked into the darkness down the block.
We didn’t follow right away. “Who’s Brian?” the boyfriend asked when we had caught up.
The guide didn’t answer.
I checked my phone. Nothing about Carpenter Street. No ghosts. No history. I scrolled through other tour offerings. The girlfriend took out her phone and started recording. The mom and young boy peeled off, cutting their losses.
Next stop: a playground in the big town park. Our guide sat on a swing, lit his cigarette, swung dispassionately. “Second ghost,” he said. “Right here.” He ashed angrily.
The family wanted their money back.
The guide pulled out two crumpled twenties and chucked them. The dad picked up the money and escorted his family away.
The couple masked their laughter with coughter. “Total gold,” the girlfriend whispered, phone raised.
Cigarette smoke seemed to leak from our guide. “Brian’s girlfriend dumped him right here.” He paused, composed himself. “Her spirit still haunts this place.” He grunted, then stomped out the butt in the gravel. “Come!” he shouted.
The remaining three of us followed him back into town. “Do you think he killed his girlfriend?” the couple asked me, a safe distance behind. I smiled and shrugged: We’ll see.
Our guide ducked into a bar and slipped frictionlessly through a gyrating crowd. He took up the last open stool, paid for a shot with our money. He took out his phone, scrolled. He lit a cigarette and ashed it on the floor. No one said anything.
“What’s the ghost here?” the girlfriend asked, taking her beer.
He looked up, confused, insulted. He hesitated then said, “That’s pretty dumb. And rude.” After another drink, he stood and called out, “One more site.”
The last stretch of the walk was slower. The night was warm. On the pedestrian mall, kids licked ice cream cones, tourists sat with street psychics, buskers strummed acoustic guitars. A French restaurant glowed safely, somewhere we were not going.
Deep into a dark residential part of town that echoed with sirens, our guide turned at a narrow apartment building. He unlocked the door, waved us in. Up two flights, he opened another door.
“Last ghost,” he said. The only light in the room was from the static on the television, which was enough to see that its cord was unplugged. Melted rainbows of candle wax covered most of the surfaces. “Brian’s spirit still haunts this apartment.”
“How does Brian do his haunting. What’s his haunting style?” the boyfriend asked, inspecting a cobwebbed bong on a mantel blanketed with bug carcasses.
“Like this.” He fell onto the couch. Dust plumed into the air. He clicked a remote. The static hissed. The couple posed for photos, made big faces, and finally left.
I lingered. Our guide looked either heavier or lighter now. All the cigarettes and drinks and regrets and anger had settled on his shoulders or had lifted. I wanted badly to think of something to do for him. An old and bad habit. I forced myself to just leave him to his haunting. I let myself out.
Back at the square, I mixed into a crowd and waited for “The Original Ghastly Ghost Tour” to get going. While the pro guide gave us the rundown, I spotted Brian. Fresh cigarette behind his ear, same flannel and flip flops. A light glinted near his hands. A meager group was forming around him. I elbowed my way out. I went back to him.
This time, I’d pay attention.