The Ghost on Emmett Till Lane

Rain was pelting the leaves of the Purple Ghost Japanese Maples lining Emmett Till Lane in Money, Mississippi, when Letitia Mae Watters rapped her cane on the front door of the yellow two-story house, a worn blue suitcase clutched in her arthritic black hand. She could smell October's wet leaves, had felt their slushy glutinosity through her grey orthopedic shoes with memory foam, but she had never seen leaves or their many colors. Only with her hands and ears was she able to know what something looked like, felt like. A leaf, she thought, "looked like" a tiny hand, much like her own. All her life she had seen nothing of this world. The only time she could see was when she encountered something that was not of this world, something—or someone —that the seeing walked right by without even noticing.

Although she couldn't see the house's occupants, Letitia knew white people lived here as she'd slogged through a wet, leafy, uncut front lawn and negotiated her way around a ten-speed bike left in the rain on the walkway leading up to the front porch. Black folks had sense enough to keep their bikes out of the rain, but this kid didn't, and his mother sure didn't seem to mind, either.

Of course, she couldn't have known the house was yellow or that it had two floors, but judging by the tap of her gnarled hickory stick, she was able to count twelve wooden steps (in need of a coat of paint) leading up to the front porch, which could use a good sweeping, too. This, she determined, was a house left in a state of disarray (abandoned, it seemed), and she supposed there must have been a reason for that. White folks were usually better at keeping up a good front, and their houses represented that. But this one seemed to defy such pretensions. If a blind person could tell, just imagine what the seeing thought of it—and in their neighborhood!

When she rapped again and the door swung open, Letitia could smell a white woman at the door, caught a whiff of boiled cabbage, kitty litter, and Febreze. But nothing could cover up the sulphuric smell of white people, that mothbally odor they seemed so unaware of. It emanated from their pores, their clothes, their hair which they seemed so proud of flashing in grocery lines. White folks were so predictable. You could smell them or hear them playing with each other's hair like baboons a mile away.

"May I … help you?" the white woman asked, uncertainty polished with politeness. The way she spoke clenched it—the trace of a Coastal Southern dialect mixed with a college education, all nice and proper. But it bore more than that, a note of condescension. Letitia may have been an elderly black woman standing before her with a cane and a little blue suitcase, but this white woman had no idea who she was dealing with.

Letitia said, "More like I come to help you." She heard a catch in the woman's throat. Letitia tried to smile the way her mama had taught her to. What was a smile but exposed teeth meant as a threat? But in this case, the smile was intended to assuage any hatred this woman may have had for her. "Always put white folks at ease, Titia," her mother used to say. "They're scared to death of us."

"Your daughter asked me to come here. Told me you had an unwanted visitor in your home."

What the white woman couldn't have known about Letitia was that Letitia was also from the South, was also a graduate of Spelman College, and was also a mother of two children—a boy and a girl—neither of whom, with their middle-class incomes and their white families and friends, believed in their mother's elderly, eldritch beliefs. She just didn't put on airs like most white people she'd encountered, and although she didn't have a reason to be condescending to anybody, she was also the type of person who got straight to the point. There was no sense in beating around the bush the way white folks did: "If you could just clean off that table over there, Ms. Watters, that would be great …" This coming from Howard, an obese middle-aged white man who didn't know how to delegate authority to a black octogenarian because he didn't want to come across as being racist toward his mostly black employees—didn't, in fact, know how to run a restaurant, for that matter.

But they were all racist in their own way, weren't they, white people—monsters who'd betray you for a buck. None of them could be trusted, even when they claimed to help you, which in reality was their way of assuaging the guilt for their forefathers' past of abduction, false imprisonment, oppression, torture, rape, miscegenation, and genocide. Letitia's doctoral dissertation had posited that all African Americans, even today, suffered from some form of bipolar disorder or PTSD as a result of their legacy of being kidnapped from their homeland, auctioned off and separated from their love ones, whipped, enslaved, and—after the Civil War—forced to live as sharecroppers under apartheid in a white systemic patriarchal hegemony.

Howard had only hired her in order to gloat over having a blind black employee—but one who knew her way around the joint better than anyone did.

For instance, he didn't even know about Rachel, a white girl stuck in her twenties who'd been murdered in the same building, when it used to be a brothel back in the 1970s. Rachel had been an "employee" there, too, but when she got tired of one of the black bouncers putting his hands on her, she told Madam Sharee, who promptly fired him. So one summer night, after the house had closed and Rachel was counting her take for that day, the bouncer sneaked through the back door (which Rachel claimed had been left unlocked by another bouncer), and he raped her and stabbed her to death in her room. He beat it out of town with her money before Madam Sharee opened the house for business the following morning. The bastard was never found, and anyway he'd murdered a prostitute, so it didn't cause much of a fuss in the community. But Madam Sharee was forced to close the place not long after that. She just packed up her belongings and took her girls with her north to Memphis, where she was never heard from again.

Rachel didn't know what to do or where to go in the restaurant. Ghosts get trapped sometimes. So Letitia just let her be. The girl spent most of her time sitting on a wooden stool in the kitchen, watching all the drama unfold among the black waitresses and cooks as they scrambled to get their orders out. When Letitia eventually had to quit because of her sciatic nerve and COPD, Rachel cried, so the two of them hugged goodbye in the pantry, where the seeing wouldn't wonder why a black senior citizen had her arms wrapped around air, or give her a layman's diagnosis of dementia. But Letitia's mind was clear as a bell. "You'll do just fine here," she whispered into Rachel's cold, waxy ear. "Just stay out of their way. They may not see you. But some of them might feel you. Get me?"

Rachel nodded as she wiped away her tears. Even the dead could still cry. And with her cane leading the way, Letitia Mae Watters hobbled right out of that restaurant, never to return, avoiding Howard's "It is been great having you here" bullshit.

Now she devoted her time to what she called "ectoplasmic extermination."

The white woman at the door said, "And you are …?"

"Oh, where are my manners," Letitia said. She extended her hand, felt the woman's soft doughy skin as she took it. No calluses. No grasp. No work. Letitia was like most men. She preferred a nice, firm handshake; it told her a lot about a person's character—and respect for her. "My name's Letitia Mae Watters. But most folks" (she meant black folks) "just call me Titia."

"Well, nice to meet you, Ms. Watters."

"Please. You may call me Titia."

"Thank you," said the white woman. "Well. My name is Caitlyn. Caitlyn Adkins."

Caitlyn . Of course it was. White people had the craziest names. What the hell did Caitlyn even mean? Twenty years ago nobody was named Caitlyn. Now it seemed like every white girl had that name these days.

"But I don't … understand—when you say my daughter called you. Kayla's too young to have a cell phone, so she uses the house phone to call her friends. She must have Skyped you on my laptop."

"Kayla," (of course) "didn't use a phone," Titia explained. "And I don't know what Skype or a laptop even means."

"Then how did she …?"

"My head," said Titia, tapping her pressed grey hair. She remembered when her mother had pressed her hair with a hot comb and lye against her objections. "You ain't goin' home, child," her mother had said. Back in the present, Titia said, "She called my mind."

She heard the white woman stifle a snort. "Your—I'm sorry, Ms. Watters. Did you say you just … that one day Kayla called your mind?"

"That's right. Something like that. And it wasn't just one day, Ms. Caitlyn. Kayla's been calling me for weeks. Won't hang up, neither." It wasn't until the white woman finally laughed that Titia realized she'd just made an attempt at humor. And Titia Mae Watters was not known for her levity.

"Let me call Kayla to the door," Caitlyn said. "I'm sure this is just some … misunderstanding."

"Oh, you don't have to ask her to come downstairs. She knows I'm here. So if you don't mind, I'll just go on up to her room, and we'll have ourselves a little sit-down."

"How did you know … ?"

"Kayla told me," Titia said. "She's up there waiting. Second room on the left. Do you mind, ma'am?"

The door creaked a little, and for a second Titia thought Caitlyn was about to close it in her face. This was clearly a woman who didn't know how to make a decision without a man's approval. He'd definitely be a non-believer, and anyway he wasn't home, wouldn't be home. No, not here. White men left their women same as black men did. The only thing a man was good for, Titia submitted, was spreading his seed, and there were a lot of sperm pits who were willingly ready to receive it.

"I won't be long," Titia assured her. "'Less you want me to be." She could feel the white woman's gaze on the blue suitcase. "There's no religion or voodoo in there. Just enough clothes for an overnight stay. If need be."

The white woman sighed. "Well, I still don't know what's going on here. But if Kayla … contacted you, then I see no harm in you at least talking to her. I'd like to join you, though."

Titia smiled. "You needn't worry yourself, Ms. Caitlyn. I'll even leave her door open. Just a little talk. Enough time to get my bearings straight. Then I'll be on my way. If need be."

"And what if everything's not okay?"

"Then maybe I spend the night. Enough time to get this spirit out your home."

"But, Ms. Titia, there is no spirit in this house."

Titia heard a quiver in Caitlyn's voice. "I'm sure there isn't," she said to reassure her. But she knew better. The spirit was also aware of her presence now. The air coming through the front door had turned cold and fetid. And it didn't smell white. "Five minutes, Ms. Caitlyn," Titia offered. "Just five minutes with Kayla. You can even time me if you'd like." (She knew how anal white people were about time. There were two types of time: white time and black time. White folks showed up promptly at events; black folks came when it was convenient for them, sometimes showing up at the end of an event. This drove white people crazy. "Why can't they just be on time?" she'd overheard many white folks whisper to one another. Then, "Well, hello there! It's nice to finally meet you" in that fake voice of theirs. "Who, us? Oh, no, we just got here. Didn't we, honey?" "Why, yes. We just walked through the door."

Again there was a pause, and again the door creaked. But this time it creaked back. "All right, Ms. Titia. I'll give you five minutes with my daughter. But that's it, okay? Then I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to be on your way. I don't feel right about my daughter getting scared."

"She already is scared, Ms. Caitlyn. I'm here to make her not scared." ("And you, too," she almost added. Parents were always harder to deal with than children.)

"Well. Okay," said Caitlyn. "Come in," and Titia brushed past her into the living room.

"Pardon me," Titia said. "Melanin walking through."

Caitlyn offered a soft, polite giggle, even though she had no idea what she was supposed to be laughing at.

The black woman was sitting on the sofa. She looked younger than Titia, maybe in her forties. Black folks never looked their age. She had on a red dashiki, bell-bottom blue jeans with studs along the seams, and a pair of Birkenstocks. Layers of brown wooden beads adorned her neck, but they still couldn't hide the huge gash around her throat from ear to ear. She was light-skinned, and her hair was done up in a fro—the Pam Grier type. But this was no Pam Grier—more like the Angela Davis type. Her dark brown eyes leered at Titia. "Get out of here," she hissed, baring yellow teeth. Black folks didn't have yellow teeth, so this one must have been dead a while. Judging by her attire, she must have passed away sometime in the 1970s. "These are my crackers," the woman said, flashing her eyes. "So leave. Now. If you know what's good for you."

Caitlyn heard none of this exchange. She just stood there dumbfounded, wondering why Titia kept staring at her couch. When was the last time she'd upholstered it?

"I know what's good for me," Titia told her with her mind. "What you don't know is what's good for you."

"I'm not going anywhere, old woman," the ghost said.

"Oh, you're going somewhere," Titia said. "You're just not staying here."

"I'm not playing with you, old school," the ghost said. "You don't know who you're fuckin' with."

"Maybe I do," Titia said, "and maybe I don't. But you don't know who you're messing with, neither."

"Is everything all right, Ms. Titia?" Caitlyn said.

Titia turned in her direction. "Oh, everything's fine, Ms. Caitlyn. Just trying to get my bearings is all." She took Caitlyn's hand, and they moved toward the stairwell. Titia looked over her shoulder at the woman on the couch. "I'll be back," she told her with her mind.

"And I'll be waiting, nigga," the woman shot back. "Aunt Jemima."

It took everything within Titia to avoid going over to that dirty, nappy-headed hippie and giving her a piece of her mind. Growing up in Mississippi, she'd been called "nigga" plenty of times, and frankly she couldn't understand why, after years of oppression, black people chose to call each other by that "term of endearment," as they referred to it. But an Aunt Jemima? That was worse than Uncle Tom.

The ghost on the sofa seemed to sense this, for she offered Titia her biggest, yellowy smirk.

Instead of saying something, Titia followed Caitlyn to the staircase. Caitlyn tried to lead her up the stairs ("step up; step up"), but Titia waved her off. "I know my way." When they reached the landing, Titia felt breathless. She could hear loud hip-hop muffled behind a closed door to her right. She felt Caitlyn pause in front of it, ease past it, pause again, then back up to it and knock loudly. The music lowered a decibel. "WHAT?!" a boy screamed through the door. Beneath the music Titia could hear cartoon gunshots. Must be one of those video games boys couldn't stop playing these days.

Caitlyn tried the knob, but it was locked, so she knocked again. "JEE-ZUSS!" the boy cried over the music. The noise dropped a decibel. Titia heard movement within, and then the door swung open. Judging by his energy, Titia surmised he was a tall teen-ager, probably with stringy brown hair and a pimply face, a Post Malone T-shirt (even though she'd never even heard of Post Malone), and a pair of long, narrow hipster jeans below the waist. "What do you want?" he said to his mother. Then his voice paused when he noticed the tiny black woman standing by her side.

Caitlyn said, "This is my son, Tyler." (Of course. Only white people gave their children last names for first names. Tyler Adkins had two last names . Was he even aware of that? Titia wondered.) "Tyler, this is Ms. Watters."

"Please. Call me Titia."

"Oh … Hey."

"Nice to meet you," Titia said, even though she was uncertain of that. The way white boys talked back to their mothers was appalling. If Tyler were her son, she'd have taken her cane to his ass, no matter how old he was. She witnessed this all the time—the way white parents spoiled their children, letting them run around in the restaurant, telling them they needed time-outs instead of wearing their ass out. No wonder white folks were crazy. No wonder they felt they had a sense of entitlement. They were raised to believe they could get away with anything, especially the boys.

Caitlyn said, "Titia's here to talk to Kayla."

"'Bout what?"

"Oh, just some stuff," Caitlyn said.

"Like what?"

"You know," Titia interjected. All she heard was the music in the background. My, how music had devolved since the days of Marvin Gaye and Aretha Franklin.

"Huh … "

"She won't be here long," Caitlyn explained.

"Oh, really?" Titia imagined him picking lint out of his navel.

"We'll see," Titia said. "Want me to talk to you, too? Tyler?"

She heard something ball up in the boy's throat. "Oh, no," he said. "That's okay. Nice meeting you, though." And with that he closed the door in their faces. Then he cranked up the music and resumed shooting people on his flat-screen TV.

Caitlyn offered an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry about that," she said. "He hasn't been the same since …"

"How long has it been?"

Titia heard a quickening in Caitlyn's voice.

"It's okay, Ms. Caitlyn. Mine left me thirty-five years ago. I was better off for it."

"It's been a year since Taylor" (of course) … "Since he …"

"Run off with another woman?"

"Well, he … He—"

"—thought he could get some play with another bitch's punani?"

If blushing had a sound, then Titia heard Caitlyn turn a crispy red. "Well, something like that." Then, changing the subject by rubbing her soft hands together: "Okay, let me take you to Kayla's room."

The noise of the hip-hop decrescendoed half a decibel as they continued down the hall. Titia began to feel a warmer, more welcoming energy coming from the girl's room, but one tinged with fear. Kayla's door was open, so Titia felt sunlight coming through a window. Unlike her brother, this was a child who liked light. Probably clung to it.

Caitlyn said, "Kayla? You have company."

"She knows I'm here," Titia said. "How you doin', Kayla?"

A tiny, almost indecipherable voice uttered, "Fine."

Where she at? Titia thought. Sitting on her bed? Standing by the window, watching falling leaves? On the floor, playing with a doll? Her voice didn't give her away. Kayla was clearly a girl who was used to hiding.

"Come on out now," Titia said. "You're safe. That woman's not going to hurt you anymore." If it weren't for the loudness of the hip-hop pumping from down the hall, Titia would have heard the ghost cackling downstairs. She tried to sift out those offensive hip-hop sounds (nigga, bitch, ho) in order to focus on the girl somewhere before her.

At last, she heard the hesitant rustling of a rayon dress, then a crawling sound, then a step up followed by another step up. The girl had been hiding between her bed and the wall and was now standing between it and the window, no doubt gazing with dubious blue eyes at the grey opaque ones staring straight back at her. How dead and yet how alive they must have seemed to such a young girl.

Titia still struggled with her breath. "Is there a place where an old woman can sit?" she said of her host. There had to be a vanity in this room. Every white girl had a vanity, a table where she could sit in front of a mirror and brush that shiny fine hair every day. What Kayla didn't know was that she'd be looking at a mirror for the rest of her life, but she may never know herself. Mirrors didn't have the answers. The only one Titia had was inside her mind, and she found that to be a lot more reliable than a one-dimensional plate of silver glass.

"Over here to your left, Ms. Titia," Caitlyn said. "Here, let me—"

"I got it," Titia said. Reaching out her hand, she found a wall and slid along it to the vanity, where she pulled out a small chair and sat perfectly erect, ankles crossed like a lady's, facing in the direction of Kayla's voice. "Now, then," she said. "Let's get to work."

There was a palpable pause. "Oh," Caitlyn said. "That's my cue, isn't it?" When no one answered, she slowly made her exit from the room, leaving the door open a crack. Titia heard Caitlyn's tentative steps as she passed Tyler's bedroom and continued on down the hallway.

"Have a seat, child," Titia said. She heard Kayla plop down on the side of her bed, heard the child's dimpled hands smooth the rayon out. Already she was practicing to be a lady. Titia imagined Kayla's legs were also crossed at her ankles. She could practically see the pink walls and Sweet Jojo curtains with pink butterflies, a big brown teddy bear with welcoming arms propped up on fluffy pillows, could smell talcum powder and perfume, could taste … Now this was rare. Titia rarely tasted anything when she did her walk, but this taste was strong. It was the taste of a penny. "The taste of fear," her mama had told her. Butwhose fear? Kayla's or mine? "So who is this … visitor you have in your home?" she continued.

"Well," the girl said, "one night I woke up in the middle of the night? And there was this … black woman?" (Sorry, Ms. Watters.) "Standing at the foot of my bed?"

Why do white people speak in questions? Titia wondered. They even end their sentences with conjunctions. "You can take your lunch now, Titia," Howard used to say. "Or …" It was just as bad as some black dude adding "You know what I'm sayin'?" to almost everything he uttered. "Of course I understand what you're telling me," Titia wanted to blurt out. "The question is do you know what you're saying?" What was happening to the English language these days?

"And then she came around the side of my bed?" Oh, right. She was supposed to be listening to Kayla, questions and all. "And before I could scream? She put her hands around my neck."

"She strangle you?"

"No," Kayla said. "She almost did. She told me if I opened my mouth she would."

"What she want?"

"Want?"

"Why she put her hands on you like that?"

Titia heard an intake of breath, then a sniffle. She could hear tears in the back of the girl's throat. Fumbling around on the vanity, Titia found a box of Kleenex and held it out. Kayla took it and daintily blew her nose into one of the tissues. "She said she was going to kill us."

"Kill you? Why?"

But the girl was too far gone. The tears just kept coming, and she started weeping. Kayla was almost inconsolable. Titia thought Caitlyn would come running and end the session, but the thumping music and the rattling automatic weapons fire drowned Kayla out. For once Titia was grateful for Tyler's cacophony.

"It's okay, child," Titia said. "Never you mind, now. Everything's going to be all right. Titia here. Remember—you called the right number." She tapped her temple in another attempt at humor. This time it seemed to work because the girl's crying began to subside.

Titia inched over to the side of Kayla's bed and put her arm around Kayla's round shoulders, stroked that fair hair. Her chest began to ache again, but she ignored it. "Now tell Ms. Titia why this crazy sister want to kill you."

"I hate her," Kayla said. "I'd kill her if she wasn't already dead."

"Oh, you can kill the dead, Kayla," Titia assured the girl. There was a pause in the room. "Oh, yeah," Titia continued. "See, the dead think that once they've died they're invincible. You know what that word means, don't you? Invincible?"

"I think I do. Sometimes Tyler claims he's in, in—"

"—vincible," Titia finished for her. "But that's just in a video game, child. Tyler means the cartoons can't kill him."

"But the ghost can?"

"If you let it. But we aren't going to."

"We?" Kayla's voice trembled. "So how do … we … kill it?"

Titia did something she rarely did. She offered up one of her barely audible giggles. She doubted even Kayla heard it, for it was one of those giggles that stayed trapped inside her. But it wasn't a giggle of humor; it was one of irony. "We love her," she said.

"Love her?!" This was the first time the girl had raised her voice. "I hate her!"

"That's what she wants you to do, honey," Titia said. "Only lovers are left alive. You see, haters are on a limited budget, so they don't last that long, especially when lovers confront them. Know what I'm saying?" (Oh, God, there she went.)

"Not really."

"See, sometimes bad things in life open up your eyes," Titia explained. "I may be blind, but I can see bad things. And bad people."

"Is that woman bad?"

"I don't know yet," Titia said. "I think so because I can see her. So can you. That means you've got the gift, too."

"But I don't want it," Kayla said. She started to cry again, but Titia rubbed her back to console her.

"God gives us gifts whether we want them or not," she said. "And that's why that woman tried to strangle you. She's afraid of your gift."

"She's scared of me?"

"That's right," Titia said. "She wants to be all alone in this house, but she's scared because you know she's here."

"So ghosts are scared of us?"

"Of course they are," Titia said. "Hell, ghosts are more scared of us than we are of them."

"But why?"

"Because we're alive, sugar," Titia said. "Some of them hate us for it. Like that woman in this house. They don't get to do the things we do anymore. So some of them resent us for it."

"Is that why they wait for us to go to bed?" said Kayla. "To attack us in our sleep?"

"It ain't just at night," said Titia. "Most hauntings happen during the day." She began to feel that familiar pang in her chest, and her left arm started becoming numb. She could barely breathe. "Not now, Lord," she thought. "Ain't time yet, and you know it. I got a job to do. So quit

playin' ." The pressure lifted, and she could breathe again. "So you see, we've got to fight her with love. Because we don't know what happened to her, and she might be very angry about that. Who knows? She may even need our help. Even if she doesn't know it yet. Otherwise, she may never leave."

"And keep attacking me?"

"Attacking you. Attacking Tyler. Attacking your mama."

At the mention of the word mama, Kayla started crying again.

"Sh," Titia soothed, rocking her in her arms. "I won't let her attack your mama. I'll make sure she's safe."

"And Tyler?"

Titia had to pause on that one. "If that's what you want."

"But what are we going to do?" Titia felt the girl's eyes on hers.

"Just you wait," Titia said. "Just you wait."

* * *

"No," said Caitlyn Adkins. "Absolutely not. I've got kids in this house."

"Shit," Titia thought, but she wasn't one to share her profanity with others.

The music and the shooting had shut off in Tyler's room. He always liked a good fight.

"Ms. Watters, I didn't ask you to come here. I invited you into our home out of a sense of politeness. But this whole … ghost thing has gone too far, and you are scaring my daughter."

"But, Mom," Kayla said. "There is a ghost here."

"That's enough ghost talk for today, Kayla."

Suddenly Titia remembered a quote by Tolstoy. It came from Anna Karenina, which was on a World Lit. reading list back at Spelman. She doubted Caitlyn had read it, much less heard of it.

Anyway, the quote went as thus: "All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." This described the Adkins family to a tee.

Every dysfunctional family had a tone, Titia thought, and it was usually established by the matriarch. As a mother herself, she knew it all too well. Every mother took a lot of grief from her family. She took a lot from her husband's moodiness (if he was around); she took a lot from her daughter's attitude; and she especially took a lot from her son's sense of entitlement (especially if he was white). But when Caitlyn used that tone of forbiddance, everything stopped, because a mother's no meant no.

"Now I know you brought that suitcase with you, Ms. Watters," Caitlyn said. "But you won't be needing it here. Not tonight. Not ever. Do you understand me?"

Titia's shoulders slumped. "Yes, ma'am. I do." She got up from the side of the bed. "I'm sorry I caused y'all so much confusion, Ms. Caitlyn. I was just trying to help because Kayla called me."

"There ain't no such thing as calling," said Caitlyn. "I don't know where you got that notion, Ms. Watters, but you must have got the wrong number. Now please. I must ask you to leave." Titia could hear Caitlyn moving toward the bedroom door.

Titia was reaching for her suitcase when she heard movement in the doorway. At first she thought it might be the ghost, but she would have seen her.

"Mom, Kayla's telling you the truth." It was Tyler Adkins! "Sometimes at night? When I'm about to conk out? She comes in my room? And makes me do things I'm ashamed of? I'm sorry." Oh, Lord. He spoke in questions, too. What was wrong with kids these days?

There was a l-o-n-g pause in the bedroom. Then Ms. Caitlyn said, "Why didn't you tell me, Tyler?"

"Because I was afraid you'd get mad at me. And I felt bad about the things she made me do. Nasty things. Things you told me never to do until I got married."

"That'll do, Tyler," said Caitlyn. Sometimes being blind was fun. Because you had to rely on your hearing, you could detect how a person was really feeling. There weren't any eyes or facial expressions to distract you from what a person really meant. Everything a person felt was in the tone of the voice. And at that moment, Titia heard guilt in Ms. Caitlyn's.

Titia started walking for the door. "I'll just be leaving now," she said.

At the same time, all three of them cried, "NO!"

"This changes things," said Caitlyn. "We need you to get rid of … whatever this thing is that's terrorizing my children. And if you say you can do it, Ms. Titia, then I'd like you to do it." Titia felt another attack coming on. This time it felt like some white girl was running a hot curling iron up and down the inside of her left arm. "Oh, Jesus," she said and nearly crumbled to the floor.

"Ms. Watters, are you all right? Tyler, go get a glass of water. And some ALKA-SELTZER!"

She heard Tyler move away from the door and plod down the hallway like a good little St. Bernard. Titia could have used a shot of brandy from a keg collar, not a glass of Alka-Seltzer.

"Here. Why don't we you sit back down," Caitlyn said in her politest white voice. Titia felt herself being guided back to Kayla's little vanity chair, where Caitlyn and Kayla sat her daintily down. For a moment, she felt as though she were on an episode of Leave It to Beaver. She wished Ward were here. Ward would know what to do. "That's right. Just relax," Caitlyn continued. "You'll feel better in no time at all. TYLER?!"

"I can't find the Alka-Seltzer, Ma!" Tyler yelled from somewhere on the second floor.

Caitlyn sighed. Boys were so do-less. "It's in the second drawer of the bathroom cabinet!"

There was a slight pause as the three of them held their breath. Then, "Okay! Got it!"

Tyler ran down the hallway and gave something to Caitlyn, who handed it gingerly to Titia. Already Titia could hear a glass of fizzing bubbles doing their thing. "There you go," Caitlyn said matronly. Out of politeness, Titia drank the Alka-Seltzer. It burned a little going down, but she drank the whole glass for Caitlyn, who, Titia supposed, was watching intently. Titia covered her mouth and burped, and everyone laughed. "Feeling better now?" Caitlyn said.

"Oh, much better, thank you, Ms. Caitlyn," Titia said.

White people. They thought Alka-Seltzer solved everything.

"All right," Caitlyn said, getting down to business. In her mind, Titia saw her with her arms folded, a wisp of hair across her forehead. "How did this … ghost or whatever it is get into my home and frighten my children? I know I didn't invite it in. Did you invite it in, Kayla?"

"No, ma'am."

"Tyler?"

"No way. Uh-uh."

"You sure about that?"

"Why is it always my fault?" Tyler said. "I mean, sure, she's done some things, but … But it's not like I asked her to."

"But you let her."

Where was this going?

"Mom, please!" Tyler said. "This is embarrassing, alright?"

"Sometimes at Halloween," Titia said, steering the conversation back to where it needed to be, "some children are frightened by what they think are ghosts. But when real ghosts come in out of the rain, those children don't even know they're there."

"What does that mean?" Caitlyn said.

"It means," Tyler explained, "that ghosts can come in anytime they choose, and nobody can see them."

"Except you," Titia added. "And your little sister." She aimed her face in the direction of Caitlyn.

"I … don't want to talk about it," Caitlyn said, and Titia could feel that blush in her voice again. "Not in front of the children. Okay?"

"Does this mean Titia's going to spend the night with us, Mama?" Kayla said, either out of curiosity or as an attempt—even at her age—to change the subject. "She can stay with me." She took Titia's hand, and Titia gave it a light squeeze.

"Of course she can," Caitlyn said. "But I'd like to know, Ms. Titia, when you intend to rid us of this … monstrosity."

"Well," Titia said, "we can try right now if you'd like."

Kayla clapped her hands. "Yay!"

"Thank God," Tyler said.

"But you said we," Caitlyn added. "Why do you need us? Can't you do this on your own?"

"For where two or three are gathered in my name," Kayla recited by rote, "there I am in the midst of them. Matthew 18:20."

"Very good, little girl," Titia said.

"No way," Caitlyn said. "I will not put myself or my children in danger. I don't care if there are four of us."

"All you need is faith," said Titia. "Won't be any danger with that."

"It's what you teach us in Sunday school," said Kayla. "Remember, Mama?"

Oh, Lord , Titia thought. We in the middle of an epistemological crisis. "Now ain't the time for skepticism, Ms. Caitlyn," she said. "What we've got to do is take us a leap of faith."

"A what?

Did this woman go to college, or didn't she? "Faith is all we have," Titia said.

"That's it?"

Titia wanted to smack Ms. Caitlyn on the mouth for not believing. What kind of Sunday school teacher was she? "I'm afraid so" was the best she could muster.

"Well, didn't you bring something in your suitcase? You know, like they do on TV? Something to, you know, get rid of it or make it move toward the light?"

"For some ghosts, there ain't no light," Titia said. "Especially if they've committed suicide. Like the case I think you got downstairs. See, she lost. She don't know where to go. But somehow she wound up here. So we got to get her to move on."

"And haunt somebody else?"

Titia turned so her whole body faced Ms. Caitlyn. "You want her haunting you?"

"Okay, what do we have to do?" said Ms. Caitlyn.

The ghost's voice gurgled and popped up the stairs like an acid. "Well, are you coming down here or not? I've gone and lost my patience."

As if on cue, all three Adkins' started jumping around and screaming like a bunch of banshees. Titia just sat there. She'd heard white people scream in horror flicks before, like in that Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but these white folks was batshit out of their friggin' minds! She stood up. "Here now! Ain't no call for all that noise!"

"Am I going to have to pay you?" said Ms. Caitlyn.

"Hesh up!" Titia said. Everyone got quiet. Then, to the presence downstairs, she said, "Oh, we ready alright. At least I am. I done told you that when I got here."

"Then bring it on, old school," the ghost said. "I'm starting to get tired. I need to get my beauty rest." And she cackled at that, too.

Without saying anything, the Adkins' slid like snails down the hall toward the stairs. Titia didn't understand why the order was the way it was, but Tyler led the way with a Louisville Slugger he'd got from his room, followed by Caitlyn and Kayla, and Titia brought up the rear. Tyler took baby steps down the hallway and prenatal steps down the stairs.

"Hey, baby," Titia heard the ghost address Tyler. "What you doin' with that bat? Have you already forgotten about last night?"

"Shut up, you hussy!" Caitlyn screamed. Then, realizing what she'd said, she whispered, "Jesus" under her breath.

"You too," the ghost said to Caitlyn. "Your memory must be as short as his pink—"

"That'll do!" Titia said. "Don't listen to her, Ms. Caitlyn. You either, Tyler. And you too, Kayla. She just sayin' all that mess to distract you."

Now that they were inching down the stairs, Titia was able to look around Kayla and see the ghost, who was looking up at her with that same smirk she'd greeted her with earlier. But there was something different about her complexion, something only black folks noticed. Her face had turned an ashen grey. She hadn't moved from the couch. Her legs were crossed, and her hands sat on either side of her. "Can y'all see her?" Titia asked the family. All three of them said they could. "Good," Titia said. "Now we on equal ground. I can see her too."

"But how?" said Caitlyn.

"She said she can see them," said Kayla. "It's the only time she can see."

"Them?" said the ghost. Her voice sounded like that female god in the movie Ghostbusters that Titia had listened to while her kids had watched ages ago. She remembered Bill Murray had been funny, but a ghost couldn't slime anybody. When it came to the paranormal, Hollywood got it all wrong.

"Who's them?" the ghost continued. "Am I them?"

By now they'd reached the base of the stairs. Titia stepped around Kayla and Tyler. "You know what you are," she confronted the ghost. "And you're not wanted here."

The ghost put a hand to her chest and feigned pain. It was unconvincing. "I'm not wanted here?"

"You know you're not," said Titia. "Coming in here, scaring this family the way you have. What gives you that right?"

For the first time the ghost shot to her feet. Caitlyn and Kayla screamed and held each other, and Tyler cocked back his bat in a swinging pose. "I have every right!" the ghost said. She looked at Tyler and laughed. "Put that stick down, boy." Then she suddenly got serious. "Before you get hurt." Tyler lowered his bat.

"I'll tell you what I am," said the ghost. "I'm your worst fucking nightmare."

All of a sudden, Tyler projectile vomited on the floor, taking everyone by surprise.

"Tyler!" Caitlyn scolded. "And on the shag carpet? That's going to be hard to get out."

"Sorry, Mama," said Tyler. "The chicken alfredo just kind of got rewound."

"And left a white stain on my carpet."

"Let's do without all that cussin', okay" Titia told the ghost."They's children present. You're scarin' Tyler to death."

"I cuss," said Tyler.

"Hesh up, Tyler!" Titia said. Good Lord. She was getting to know this family way too well. "And no more chicken alfredo."

"Tyler cusses all the time," the ghost said. "Don't you, Tyler?"

Titia waved a hand to silence him.

"The things you people say when them doors are closed," said the ghost. "Ain't that right —Ms. Caitlyn?"

At this point, Caitlyn was in a dither. "Please, Ms. Watters," she said. " Please make her stop. She's filthy."

"Oh, I'm the filthy one?"

"Enough!" Titia said. "It is time for you to go."

"Is that right," the ghost said. "Well, let me tell you how this is gonna go down, old woman. One of us is gonna stay with this … fine churchgoing family. And the other one is gonna leave. In a body bag if need be." She zapped Titia with her forefinger, and Titia felt her legs just give out beneath her, collapsing like a rag doll. The ghost approached her, and the Adkins family backed away against the wall, huddling together. Titia couldn't breathe. She tried to suck in air, but nothing came. She needed oxygen. Why hadn't she brought her oxygen?

Now the ghost was standing over her, looking down at her with a wicked grin and that horrid gash beneath her chin. "It's time for you to go, little lady," she said mock-politely. "You won't need this cardboard suitcase no more. Will you?"

Oh, my God , Titia thought. I'm gonna die on a shag carpet in a white folks' home. She felt herself losing consciousness.

"Tyler, get the Alka-Seltzer!" she heard Caitlyn scream. Then she heard Tyler's clumsy feet drumming up the stairs.

Titia held up a hand and with her forefinger, beckoned the ghost to come closer. When she bent down, Titia said, "Who cut you, young lady?" That was the last thing she could say. She felt things starting to fade. There was no light left a blind person. There was no anything.

The ghost's face went from wicked to hurt. She raised up, and with the wave of her hand, Titia could breathe again. She just lay there, inhaling over and over again, getting her breath back. She heard Tyler coming down the stairs. "I've got it!" he said victoriously. "I've got the Alka-Seltzer!"

"I don't need no Alka-Seltzer, boy!" Titia wheezed.

Kayla was at her side. "Are you alright, Ms. Titia?"

"For now," Titia said. "Only for now. Just help me up, girl. I don't know how much longer I got." Kayla helped her to a sitting position. Titia waved her away, so she went back to join her family, where Tyler wrapped his arms around her protectively.

The ghost was still standing over Titia. "Who cut your neck, young lady?" Titia continued.

The ghost just stared at her. Titia couldn't tell what was going through her mind or what was left of it. It was hard enough understanding the living.

"Get them white folks outta here," the ghost said. "Or I can't be responsible for what happens to them."

Titia leaned in the direction where she thought the family was huddled at the foot of the stairs. "Y'all go on up now," she said. "I'll be up directly."

"But, Ms. Watters," Caitlyn objected. "Your life's in danger."

Titia looked at the ghost. Still she stood there with that ashen, desperate face.

"I'll be alright," she said.

Kayla broke away from her brother and hugged Titia. "I love you, Ms. Titia," she said.

"I love you too, girl. Now go on back to your room, okay?"

"How will I know you'll come back?"

Titia said, "I gotta get my suitcase, don't I?"

This seemed to satisfy Kayla. She kissed Titia on the forehead and returned to her family. Without another word (which was rare for white people), they climbed the stairs like lemmings and returned to their rooms. Oddly enough, Tyler's room remained soundless. They're listening, Titia thought. Now they know what it is to be blind and helpless.

Titia tried to get up, but she kept falling back down. The ghost cupped her hands under Titia's armpits and lifted her off the floor like a stuffed animal. She carried her across the room and set her in an armchair. Then she returned to her place on the couch.

The ghost said, "I'm gonna tell you my story, but the truth has to come from here." She indicated the gash beneath her chin. "'Open your throat,' my nana used to say. 'That where the truth come from before the lips get it wrong.' That okay with you?"

Titia nodded. "Tell me your story. It doesn't matter how you do it."

The ghost smiled at that. Then she titled her head back so that it rested against the headrest of the couch. "Have I got a story to tell you," she said through the scar. "But it's all true."

"I have an open mind," Titia said. "Hell, I'm eighty years old. I've heard it all."

"Not this one," the ghost said through her wound. She tried to clear her throat to get started, but she only managed to gurgle blood. When she found her voice, it sounded like a Buddhist monk chanting sutras. "Back in the Seventies," she began, "when I was in my twenties and with the Panthers, I fell in love with a Klansman."

Titia started in her seat, leaning forward with her hands on the armrests.

The ghost leered at her. "This is my story, old woman," she said through the gash beneath her chin. "I'm sure you got plenty, like Rachel, the white girl at that restaurant you used to work at?" Titia looked at her. "Yeah, I know Rachel. We ghosts—we gotta keep in touch. But that's your story. This one's mine. Understand?"

Titia nodded and sat back in her chair.

The ghost continued through the cut beneath her chin. "His name was Ray. Prima facie he seemed like a nice guy. He was nice to me, anyway. That was all that mattered at the time. He paid attention to me—a white boy, the enemy. But I loved him, and I thought he loved me."

Some blood began to trickle from the gash, but she just wiped it away with a handkerchief Titia didn't know she had. It was already stained with blood. "I had no idea he was in the Klan. I didn't know his purpose was to infiltrate the Panthers through me and find out what they stood for." She smiled. "The irony was we both wanted the same thing: The Klan wanted enfranchisement for white people, and the Panthers wanted autonomy for black folks. It's a shame they never came together. And I didn't know Ray was about the Klan—that he was just playing me as a means of attacking not just me, but all my black brothers and sisters. And like I said, he was nice. He was gentle with me, and I loved him for it. Can you imagine? A black woman in the Panthers in love with a white boy in the Klan?

"We met one day at a grocery store that allowed blacks to shop with whites because the meat there was better and the food was cheaper than it was back in the hood. You get me?"

Titia nodded. The ghost wiped more blood from her throat.

"We met in the pro-duce section. I'd never seen so many ve-ge-tables. You get me?"

Again Titia nodded. She knew.

"I was checking out the Roma tomatoes when he came over with a buggyfull of food. I mean he had it—everything you'd ever want in your fridge and cupboards. That's how he got my attention. 'You look like you could use some of this,' he said, waving his hand over all the food in that buggy. 'I bet you could use it.' I said, 'You damn right I could use it.' And he said, 'Well, seeing as how I have enough of this at home, how 'bout you take it? On me.' Well, I wasn't born yesterday, and I already didn't trust white people. But that buggy looked out of sight. So I said, 'What's the catch?' And he goes, 'No catch. Just trying to help out another human being.' Well, that hooked me. Instead of turning the other way like I should have, I took him up on his offer. And he was a perfect gentleman about it. When we got in the checkout line, people—white and black—just gaped at us. The blacks because they thought I was a whore, and the whites because, well, they thought I was a whore, too. Even the cashier—some fat bald middle-aged white man—didn't want to check us out. But Ray was smooth. 'This is for one of them shelters in town,' he said, 'It's my turn to shop this week.' So that cashier sighed and checked us out, even bagged our groceries and put them back in the buggy for us. Ray pulled out a wad of bills—I mean, a wad—and paid the man on the spot! 'Much obliged,' he said, and we were on our way. I'd never seen anything like it.

"When we got outside, Ray said, 'Where's your ride?' I pointed to my Buick Electra, and he loaded up the entire trunk with those groceries. He wouldn't let me help. After he'd closed the lid, he said, 'So where you live?' I said, 'I think this is where we part company. You've been nice, but you don't wanna go where I'm goin.' He put his hands in his jeans pockets and said, 'Someone's got to carry those groceries inside.' Then he smiled at me. He had light brown hair, almost blonde, and it came down to his shoulders, like Ronnie Van Zant's. He looked pretty fit for a white boy, like he could hold his own if things got crazy. I said, 'Okay. Why not? But you on your own after that.' He just smiled and nodded. He had that confidence, that swagger you like in a man, and since the one I'd had left me for a white girl, I decided to take this one home with me. I drove, of course, 'cause even back then people looked at you funny if a white boy drove a black girl in her car. 'By the way,' I said, 'My name's Keisha. That's my parvenu. What's yours?' And that was when he told me his name was just Ray. 'Just call me Ray.' I tried to get more information out of him, but he didn't really say that much, just dipped and cupped his hand in the passing air through the open passenger window.

"Well, when we pulled up at my duplex, he was true to form. All he asked me to do was put a catch in the screen door to keep it open. Then he carried the bags of groceries in the kitchen while I took stuff outta the bags and put it away where it belonged. Girl, I had a gallon of milk, fresh ve-ge-tables, meats, steaks, canned goods, flour, sugar, butter. Real butter. Olive oil, boxes of different cereals, pasta, spaghetti sauce with Italian sausage, all kinds of salad dressing, cheese fondue. Cheese fondue! Andy Kapp's Hot Fries, Funyuns, Wonder Bread, Swanson frozen dinners, Kool-Aid, Hawaiian Punch, Tab, Ding Dongs, Twinkies. You name it—it was in my kitchen, baby. And he brought it all in and closed the lid of the trunk when he was done. It was like we was married."

This time a significant amount of blood poured from Keisha's wound. She tried to soak it up with the handkerchief, but she could use another one.

"Honey, you want me to get you something for that?"

"No, no, it's okay. I got it."

"No, you don't got it," Titia said. Without Keisha's permission, Titia got off her chair. She went looking for a towel to soak up all that blood because she wanted to hear the rest of the story. Based on her experience, white folks had two bathrooms—one upstairs and one downstairs. She walked along the walls, waddled into the downstairs bathroom and found Keisha a couple of the big absorbent towels. Caitlyn could afford to get a couple more. She handed the towels to Keisha, who absentmindedly took them. "There," said Titia, and she squirmed her way back into the armchair for the rest of the story.

"So when we had everything settled," Keisha continued as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, "Ray stood in the middle of my kitchen and beat his chest with his fists. 'Ray stay,' he kept saying. 'Ray stay .' I was standing by the fridge, where I'd just managed to cram the pot roast in the freezer and slam the door. 'Okay,' I said. 'Stay, Ray.'

"And Ray stayed for the next six months. Oh, I kept him well hid when Eldridge Cleaver dropped by. You can believe that. I mean, imagine Tarana Burke shackin' up with Richard Spencer! That's the only way I can reference it.

"Look at it this way: How many times are we literally in bed with the enemy? How often have we sucked at the juice of the forbidden fruit?"

Titia knew Keisha was "living" on borrowed time. "So anyway …"

"So anyway, those were some of the best months of my life," Keisha said. "I mean, we had sex all over that duplex. We did it on the sofa, on the floor, in the—"

"I believe you!" Titia said. "Language!"

"I loved him!" Keisha was suddenly emotional. "I baked for him. We slow danced to Marvin Gaye and Fleetwood Mac, just to mix it up a little. He loved my cooking, ate everything, didn't even complain when I put Tabasco sauce on his scrambled eggs in the morning. He used to look at me across our table every morning and quote me things he'd read. One of them was this: 'To learn who rules over you, simply find out who you are not allowed to criticize.' That was my favorite."

"Voltaire."

"That's right. Voltaire. He used to empower me by saying things like that."

Titia didn't have the heart to tell Keisha that the quote was attributed to white nationalist writer Kevin Strom in 1993.

"How did that empower you?"

"By knowing it was okay to have a voice. Of course, I already had one, but he didn't know that yet. So I did things for him, to show him I loved him. I did his laundry. I even pressed his drawers."

"His boxers?!"

"Yes. I even did that for him. I loved him, Ms. Titia."

Titia couldn't remember telling Keisha her name, let alone being given a title, especially after Keisha had pointed a finger at her and almost killed her. Maybe Keisha had heard it when Titia was at the front door or upstairs with Kayla. Anyway, it didn't matter anymore.

By now Keisha was applying pressure with the towel against that lesion she'd been speaking through. Her head began to bob, and Titia could barely understand what Keisha was saying. Her breathing was bubbling, and there was blood on her teeth when she smiled. She didn't have much longer to go. Taking her to the ER crossed Titia's mind, but how could she get the living to understand a ghost was dying—for a second time? Plus a black ghost—and a black one at that—would probably evacuate the hospital quicker than the coronavirus.

In order to learn the outcome of Keisha's brief affair with Ray and who had killed her, Titia had to move this narrative along. Gesturing at Keisha's throat, she said, "So when did … that happen? How did you get that gash in your gullet?"

Keisha was now on her last towel. "Well, if you must know," she said, "Ray had nothing to do with it."

Titia sucked air. The room held its breath. If Ray, a Klansman working undercover, hadn't done it, then who had?

"That's right, Ms. Titia," Keisha said, as if she could read Titia's mind. "Mr. White Supremacist, Sir Neo-Colonist, King Klansman was nowhere at hand when the murder occurred. Surprised? I bet you are. And what does that say about you? That just because Ray was white he was the culprit? Well, I will say this for him: He went to prison for it. But Ray had no idea it was even about to go down. There wasn't even any circumstantial evidence or a white jurist. That precluded premeditation. But did an all-black jury buy it? Hell no."

"An all-black jury?" Titia said. "In the Seventies? How was that possible?"

Keisha said, "By law a defendant is guaranteed to stand trial before a jury of his or her peers. Since Ray was living with me in a black hood, then he got an all-black jury. A white man had to have committed the crime. After all, the prosecutor—who was also black—found in Ray's discovery that he was a member of the Klan."

"So did the Klan mastermind it? Did it help with his defense?"

Keisha just shook her head at Titia's ignorance. "When you think you safe among your own kind," she said, "you're looking the wrong way. 'Cause the person who's gonna do you in is the one who gonna look just like you. So much for racial unity, sister," and she pronounced "sister" with bitterness.

"Now comes the end of my story," Keisha said, her breath a death rattle. "The reason I'm still here. I had to tell it to another sister—somebody who could see me, hear me. Understand me. Not them crackers upstairs.

"Most of the sisters in the Panthers were down with the party. Know what I'm sayin'?"

Titia nodded wearily in agreement. "Yes," she said. "I know what you're sayin'."

"Ever hear of Assata Shakur?" Titia shook her head. "She used to be Joanne Chesimard till she changed her name. She was a former member of the Black Liberation Army who'd already been convicted for aiding and abetting the first-degree shooting of a New Jersey state trooper back in '73. She was a real piece of work. Anyway, she escaped from prison in '79, the year I died. In '84 she fled to Cuba, where Fidel Castro granted her political asylum.

"Shakur would have wanted to know why Ray was shackin' up with me. I couldn't hide him forever. So she did some snooping. And she was more relentless than Columbo. She learned that Ray was a member of the Klan. Perhaps I never did. Maybe I didn't want to. He'd been given his orders to surveil the Panthers—through me, through whichever sister whose lonely life he could charm his way into. But he come across me first, and I never had any regrets.

"One day, when I thought he wasn't listening, I let spill some information about our next gathering. He was supposed to report his intelligence to the Grand Titan."

"A who?"

"The Grand Titan. He rules over of a 'dominion.' It can be a district, even a state. Anyway, the Grand Titan was going to take a wrecking crew to that meeting. But after falling in love with me, Ray decided to banish himself from his klanishness. The Klan Bureau of Investigation was already onto his ass, anyway. They check for leaks within the Klan. So he went into hiding. I didn't know where he'd gone until the Southern Poverty Law Center tracked him down somewhere in Oregon and reported him to the FBI. I never saw him again—in my previous life or in this one.

"It was while Ray was gone that Shakur stole into my duplex one night while I was asleep. She had on a balaclava so I wouldn't see her. But by the time I knew who she was, the bitch had already slit my throat, leaving me for dead.

"The Panthers held no funerals for race traitors. No memorial service for me. Some of the men carried me out to a vacant field outside town. They dug a hole and placed my body in it, covered me up and left no marker. Even you wouldn't know where it is." She tried to laugh at the irony, but the blood was coming just too strong.

"Some twenty years later, a parcel of real estate was auctioned off and developed into a suburban community. Asphalt streets and concrete sidewalks covered my remains, followed by houses with lawns and Purple Ghost Japanese Maples. Emmett Till Lane seemed like an appropriate name for the street this house was built on. He'd been beaten to death for whistling at a white girl, and I'd been stabbed to death for loving a white man. I've been waiting here ever since for someone like you to talk to, until I found a white clairvoyant like Kayla to call you.

"This is my own story," Keisha said. "Please tell that family I meant them no harm for the grief I caused them. I just get mad sometimes, knowing they're alive while I'm still dead. Now my story's over. Thank you, Ms. Watters, for listening to me." Her gouge stopped mouthing. The blood had stopped too, her breathing ceased. Her head folded forward over the crimson towel like a black Raggedy Ann doll. She didn't move anymore, nor, Titia supposed, did she wish to. Titia couldn't tell if Keisha saw the light. Being blind again, Titia couldn't see it, anyway.

THE END

Bio: Chris Wood's short stories have appeared in Aphelion, Appalachian Heritage, Concho River Review, Deep South Mag, Hadrosaur Tales, Skylark, and Now & Then.

E-mail: Chris Wood

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