I retied the ribbon holding my bonnet on, wishing yet again that it was newer and not so faded. The ribbon used to match the color of my eyes and I loved how my mother would comment on that. "We were so lucky to get the last of this ribbon, Abby. It's the exact light blue of your eyes. It will bring them out."

On this particular tour of Gatlinburg, Tennessee it didn't matter of course, since the Ghost Walks always happen at night. I'd been helping with them for some time and enjoyed it very much. It was so interesting to see all the different kinds of people that visit our town. Some of them were from the other side of the world! They each had their own particular ideas regarding the Ghost Walk itself. Some obviously believed, and couldn't wait to spot a ghost or some other unearthly thing. Then there were the loud skeptical ones, yelling "boo!" unexpectedly or making other jokes. But most of the tourists merely wanted to enjoy a spooky evening under the stars. Or in the rain, since the tours continued "rain or moon."

Tonight I stood several yards away from the appointed meeting place, the entrance to the White Oak Cemetery. The head Tour Guide, Jeff Gibson, liked for me to start off in the graveyard. Although sometimes he preferred it if I met the tourists at the haunted houses. I leaned against the pale marble of one of the tombstones and watched them gather. Perhaps I should say "heard" them gather. In addition to the usual "Ooo, there it is! The cemetery!" and "How long is this tour again?" and "I'm hungry, Mom" comments, tonight there were two boys who were remarkably loud.

They were clearly brothers, not only because their faces bore a strong resemblance to each other but because they were bickering in that heated way that only family members do.

"It's stupid to believe this stuff. Don't be such a dork," the older one said, cuffing his little brother on the top of the head.

The younger one stood completely still, so still that I thought he might be about to hit his brother back. "LOTS of people think ghosts are real!" he finally said, stomping one of his
feet on the packed clay. His voice sounded half-angry, half-pleading. "Grownups, even. You heard Dad—there's all kinds of stories about haunted houses and stuff, all over the country."

The older one said, "Ha, yeah, I heard Dad. I heard him say I had to come along with you on this stupid Ghost Walk, because he's too tired. So he gets to relax in the hot tub and watch baseball on TV and I have to babysit a little kid who believes in fairies and stuff."

I took a few steps closer and believe I startled them both because they jumped. The older one's face was hard to read, but the younger one looked excited. "Wow! Cool costume!" he said. "And the way you came at us out of the shadow—now you don't see her, now you do—very ghost-y! Are you the Tour Guide? What's your name?"

I smiled and shook my head, but spoke to his brother. "You shouldn't name the Little People like that," I said. "Especially when you're speaking of how you doubt they exist. It makes them angry. Although you're probably safe this evening. They avoid the company of ghosts."

He lifted one corner of his mouth and nodded. "Yeah, okay. Thanks for the heads-up." Then he abruptly turned away and bent over one of the gravestones to read (or pretend to read) its inscription. I could tell he wished I would leave, perhaps go speak to some other tourists.

But his brother said, "Do you wear that for every tour? Are there other people in costume? Are they all from your time or are some of them more recent? Do any of them look like the way they died? You know, like with gunshot wounds or something? And what were you talking about just now? Fairies? Fairies don't like ghosts? Do you actually believe in fairies?"

I had to laugh at this rain of questions. "I'm not sure which of those I should answer," I said. "First, my name is Abby. But look! There's the Tour Guide—Jeff Gibson—the man holding the old-fashioned lantern. He'll start the tour any moment. So I'll answer your last question next and say yes, I do believe in the Little People. Because I've seen them."

Much to my surprise, his eyes narrowed, as though he doubted me, or perhaps thought I was pulling his leg. His brother made a loud snorting noise and said, "So do you believe her, Zach? Fairies? What's next, leprechauns? Hey, maybe we'll spot that Lucky Charms guy tonight."

"Austin, just shut UP, okay? I wish Dad had let me come alone! You ruin everything. Just go ..."

But he didn't get the rest out because Jeff started the tour. Zach stopped mid-sentence at Jeff's first words and worked his way to the front of the group, listening closely. Austin shrugged and stayed where he was. I crossed around behind Jeff, taking a few steps deeper into the graveyard.

Jeff's first speech is a general overview about the Ghost Walk. He talks about how history is really just the stories of people's lives and says that Gatlinburg is full of stories, some happy, many not. And that the old houses and cobbled lanes remember the stories, good and bad. Then he tells the group that not on every Walk, but usually, some of them see something special. Something from one of the old stories. Sometimes only later, when they develop the pictures from their cameras—strange lights appear in the photos that they never saw on the tour. Or a mysterious shadowy shape is visible on a tombstone that no one remembers seeing.

At this point of Jeff's talk, Zach's eyes lit up. He pulled a camera out of his pocket and turned eagerly, as though he wanted to say something to Austin, but his brother was still behind the other tourists, making a face that showed how much he'd like to make fun of what Jeff was saying. Zach slumped and turned back around, his camera hanging forgotten by a strap on his wrist. The light had gone out in his eyes.

That was when I decided to break one of the Ghost Walk's rules.

I slipped out of the graveyard, crossed the cobbled street, and went inside the first haunted house that Jeff would bring the Tour to. It was darker than the bottom of a well. The tour didn't allow electricity in any of the haunted houses, and most of the gas lamps weren't lit. But the unshaded windows made rectangles of dim light in the black walls. I went upstairs, to the front bedroom, the room where they say Maisie Wilkins died. The window was wide and faced the front of the house. I stood at a corner of it, watching the tourists gather into a clump facing Jeff. Zach was still at the front, his camera ready in both his hands now. His brother Austin had moved closer to him and even appeared to be listening with some attention to Jeff's story. I couldn't make out all the words, but knew them by heart, of course. The tale of Maisie's mysterious death, and how many in the town suspected she was murdered by her own sister. The stories of how the two sisters had always feuded bitterly, since they were little children. And now they say Maisie doesn't rest peacefully in her grave, but haunts her old home.

Zach's face was lifted up, his eyes searching the house, his camera raised to his chin. Austin looked up at the window where I waited as Jeff pointed to it, finishing his speech. I waited a few more moments, until some of the crowd's interest had begun to drift and Jeff was already walking away, leading them to the next stop on the tour. Then I ran across the length of the window. When I got to the other side, I peeped over the edge to see if anyone had noticed.

I'll say they did! Several hands were pointing up at the window and some folks were talking so loud, I could make out the words. "Did you see that!" "Was that her ghost?" "I saw it!" Lights flashed from cameras like a cloud of blue-white fireflies.

Zach and Austin were both staring up at the window, mouths open.

Jeff walked back over to the group and I guessed he was giving them a speech about how he was glad the Tour was off to a special start, but more surprises awaited them. The chattering crowd followed as he led them away.

Except for Zach and Austin. They were very close to the front of Maisie's house. Zach gestured up at the window, then turned to his brother, who had his skeptical, making-fun face back on. I could tell Zach wanted to come inside the house to explore. He grabbed his brother's hand during his pleading. Austin shook him off, said something short and headed for the door.

"When will you stop being such a idiot?" he said when they got inside. "This is just some trick, like a haunted house at Halloween. You'll see."

Zach didn't reply. I heard them shuffling a few steps, then they stopped; I guessed at the foot of the dark stairway.

"Why are you stopping, Austin?" Zach asked his big brother after a long moment. "Scared? Of a Halloween trick?"

Austin made that snorting noise again and said, "You are!"

They clomped upstairs.

I slid behind an old chiffarobe and tilted its tarnished mirror toward the doorway. Their footsteps stopped very close, probably just outside the open door. I could hear them breathing fast and short, almost panting, as though they'd run full tilt up the stairs.

"See? There's no animatronic figure or anyone!" Zach said. His voice was quavery. "That was really her ghost!"

Austin grunted, then stomped into the room, like he wanted to be extra loud. He crossed to the window and looked all around it, then he turned, saw me, and let out a whoop of a scream. Then his face changed all of a sudden from terrified to a kind of sneering I-told-you-so expression. "HA!" he shouted. "YOU see, Zach. Look, it's her, the costumed tour girl. What's-her-name . . . Abby. I knew it! I knew it was a trick."

Zach took a few steps into the room until he could see me next to the chiffarobe. His face was so sad I wanted to give him a hug or a big bag of penny candy. "It was you?" he asked. "The thing we saw go across the window? It was just you?"

"Of course it was her, you dope. Now you have to admit I'm right. There's no such thing as ghosts. And if you want to admit you're an idiot too, that would work. Now can we quit this stupid fakey tour and go back to the condo?"

I turned to Austin. "What is wrong with you?" I took a step closer to him. "You are his big brother." Another step. "But not a very good one." I floated up off the floor, and pulled off my bonnet, letting my smoke-white hair float free. "Don't you know how lucky you are to have a brother?" I asked in a voice so high and screeching I knew it made all the hairs stand straight up on both brothers' skin. I rushed out, through the mildewed plaster and broken slats of the wall into the night sky, then slid back through into my little sister's bedroom. I threw my arms out wide, my dress floating wildly about me, like my hair, and raced right through Austin. I felt the hot throb of his heart; it juddered, then sped up like a galloping horse. I turned to face him and was pleased to see him gasping, his eyes practically popping out of his face. Then I stopped close to Zach, who was standing very still, his eyes wide too, but not only with fear, I don't think.

I smiled at him. He blinked rapidly, then said in a low voice, "Are, are y-you her? The girl that was . . . m-murdered?"

I stopped smiling. "No. I'm her sister. Her big sister. Abby Wilkins."

Zach jumped then ran over to Austin. The two of them backed up a few steps. I sighed and the temperature in the room dropped. "No, no, nooooo," I murmured. "I didn't kill her. No, no, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

All my old sorrow and grief and hundred-years unquiet welled up inside me and I couldn't stop howling. I felt my substance expanding and expanding and knew I was dematerializing, disappearing like a swamp vapor blown apart by a strong summer wind.

"Wait! Don't go!" It was Zach's voice. "You didn't do it? Are you the one who haunts this house? Not her? Because you didn't kill her? Maybe we can help you."

I tried to stop myself, to go back, to see them again, to try and explain . . . but I couldn't. Something was stopping me. I couldn't see anything from the world of the living. I wondered if I could ever go back. If this was perhaps my last Ghost Walk. I suddenly felt sleepy, something I hadn't felt since I was alive, a warm heaviness dropping down all through me. I closed my eyes and yawned. I heard voices, as though from far, far away.

"L-let's get out of here, Zach! Come on!"

I heard a clompety clomp of feet, like someone walking or running on the roof of a house, but softer, like this particular roof was five stories above my head.

And then, so quiet I almost couldn't understand the words, "S-sorry, Zach. I'm sorry."

"That's okay, Austin. Wasn't that cool? Do you think she'll rest in peace now that we know? Huh? Should we tell people about what happened? I think we should, right? Do you want to? Do you think they'll believe us? Let's tell them anyway. And let's at least go tell Dad, right?"

I smiled at his rain of questions, and then, I fell asleep.

The End

D.C. Imm moved so much when she was growing up that she doesn't know where she's from. Now, she lives with her husband and three children in Cincinnati, OH. You can read another of her stories, "Mike and the Greenwood" in the Story Station archives, and a mystery short story by her in the anthology, SUMMER SHORTS, edited by Madeline Smoot. Or drop by her blog at www.dcimm.com.

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