Chapter 5: The Ghost in the Hallway

I wrapped up all my things in a tablecloth, packed up the booth, and Derek drove me to his house.

I tucked my cards and the salt jar into a faded canvas backpack—everything in this line of work has to be portable. Derek’s car was a late-model Lincoln, leather seats smelling faintly of cologne and stale French fries. He drove with both hands at ten and two, eyes darting to the rearview every few seconds.

On the way, I sat in the back seat with my eyes closed, but I could feel Derek glancing at me through the rearview mirror every so often.

He kept fiddling with the radio knob, switching from talk radio to country and back again, never settling. I could feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

He was nervous, or maybe had something else on his mind.

At one stoplight, I caught him mouthing silent prayers, his lips barely moving. The Lincoln’s heated seats couldn’t warm the chill in the air between us.

We passed shuttered strip malls, a Dairy Queen glowing in the dusk, and a half-lit church sign that read: “God answers knee-mail.”

Derek’s home was a big house in the suburbs, far from downtown. After getting out of the car, I looked around and frowned.

The neighborhood was quiet, almost too quiet—every lawn clipped short, American flags fluttering on mailboxes, but no kids playing outside. A cold wind rustled the leaves in the gutter, and the only sound was the low hum of distant traffic. Halloween pumpkins still sagged on a couple porches, their faces caving in from last week’s frost.

His front yard faced the main road and was built right at a T-intersection—this is a classic house blessing taboo, as it draws in negative energy.

In local superstition, folks say houses at a T-intersection catch every bad vibe rolling in off the highway. The kind of place where mail piles up and porch lights flicker for no reason.

The backyard bordered a creek, with rows of willow trees along the bank. Willows, sometimes called "ghost trees," are said to attract restless spirits.

When I saw those trees, my skin prickled. I remembered Grandpa’s warnings—never sleep under a willow if you can help it. “They soak up tears,” he’d said, “and never let go.”

If there were plenty of neighbors around, their energy would balance things out, but here, the houses were far apart.

It felt like standing at the edge of the world—no close neighbors, just the creek, the road, and the whisper of trees. A perfect storm for bad luck.

Living in a place like this, the owner was bound to have bad luck.

I shivered and pulled my jacket tighter. Derek caught my look, and I could tell he was wondering if he’d made a mistake buying the place.

“Sir?”

Derek noticed my hesitation and called out.

He sounded small, almost apologetic, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I forced a smile and gestured for him to lead the way.

I waved my hand and walked forward without saying much. He quickly followed.

His footsteps crunched on the gravel, echoing just a second behind mine. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of wet earth and something faintly metallic.

As we entered the yard, Derek was clearly uneasy, glancing around nervously, as if afraid something would jump out at him.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, eyes darting from the willow trees to the dark corners of the porch. His knuckles were white as he clutched his keys.

When we reached the door, I signaled for him to open it. He trembled as he pressed the code into the keypad, then suddenly stopped and looked at me.

He hesitated, finger hovering over the last number, waiting for reassurance.

“Sir, forgive me, but... are we just going in like this?”

He eyed my empty hands, searching for a vial of holy water or a cross. Maybe he expected me to wave some incense or mutter a prayer in Latin. Instead, I just waited.

Maybe it was because I had my hands behind my back the whole time and hadn’t pulled out any ritual tools. That made Derek uneasy.

I kept my stance relaxed, letting him see I wasn’t rattled. Folks like him need to borrow your confidence when theirs runs out.

“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

I gave him a reassuring nod and stepped a little closer to the door. Confidence is half the job in cases like this.

Seeing my calmness, he finally turned to the electronic lock, quickly entered the code, and with a beep, the door opened.

The lock clicked, and the door swung open on well-oiled hinges. The house was dark and still, every shadow stretched long across the polished hardwood.

Derek immediately stepped back, hiding behind me.

He gripped the doorframe, almost pushing me ahead. I smiled inwardly—bravery is overrated anyway.

I reached out and pushed open the door, stepping inside. The lights were motion-activated, and as soon as the door opened, the main lights all flicked on.

A wave of cold air greeted us, tinged with the faint scent of lilies and bleach. The open floor plan gave me a clear view down the hallway, all the way to the glass patio doors at the back.

I walked forward, observing as I went. Derek followed closely, constantly looking back. He was so scared he put a hand on my shoulder.

I could feel his palm trembling, his breath quickening behind me. I took a slow, deliberate step, forcing the pace steady.

But after two steps, I suddenly sensed something was wrong. I turned around sharply—Derek was now standing six feet away from me, which meant the hand on my shoulder just now wasn’t his.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. My breath caught. Every instinct screamed to run, but my feet wouldn’t move. I glanced at my shoulder—nothing there but the memory of cold fingers pressing down. A chill swept through the room, making the light flicker for a split second.

The moment I entered, she greeted me like this—it seemed she wasn’t welcoming me at all.

I muttered a quiet prayer under my breath, more out of habit than belief, and kept moving. I could almost feel eyes watching me from the dark corners of the foyer.

At this moment, Derek was acting strangely. He stared at the floor, muttering, “No, no, how... how could it be gone?”

He kept looking down, lips moving fast, panic rising with every word.

I looked at the floor—smooth and clean, with no dirt as he’d described.

The hardwood gleamed, not a speck out of place. If there had been dirt, someone had cleaned it up, or it was never there at all.

“Sir, I swear I saw it. There was dirt here before, all the way to the bedroom. How could it... be gone?”

He sounded desperate, clinging to the memory as if afraid it would slip away and leave him with nothing but fear.

I patted his back, telling him to calm down, and explained, “What you see isn’t always real.”

Sometimes, the mind plays tricks—especially in a house thick with grief. I tried to keep my voice steady, letting him borrow my calm.

Then Derek followed me closely as I went up to the master bedroom on the second floor.

The stairs creaked under our weight, the banister smooth and cold beneath my hand. The air upstairs felt heavier, like a storm about to break.

It was the same.

The master bedroom was immaculate—bed made, blinds drawn, no sign of the chaos Derek described. Even so, the cold lingered, coiling in the corners of the room.

At this point, Derek’s expression was complicated, his eyes wandering.

He looked lost, as if he’d expected to find proof of his own madness but instead found nothing at all.

I thought, maybe he was doubting himself, wondering if he was losing his mind.

I’d seen that look before in war widows and men haunted by their past. Sometimes the worst ghosts are the ones you carry inside.

“Sir, what is going on?”

He turned to me, eyes wide and pleading, his voice barely above a whisper.