Page 33 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
The following five minutes are the best of my entire life. The absolute rush of adrenaline that pumps through my veins is intoxicating. Blood rushes to my head and laughter escapes my lips without any effort. I swing the bat like I’ve never swung before. The chained swings shatter and break into pieces across the yard.
Lanston laughs beside me, swinging just as hard and breaking the legs of the set. His shirt lifts with each swing and I watch as his muscles flex and move so flawlessly. His spine is defined and one small, round red spot at the center of it stops my heart.
His trace of death.
The sad thought only lasts a second because his maniacal, larger-than-life grin grounds me back into the moment. Hetosses his pipe and grabs the bat from my hands, throwing it behind him and reaching for my hand.
I burst into laughter again. “What are you doing now?”
He pulls me behind him, two phantoms running down a dark alley in the middle of the night, and shouts, “We just destroyed personal property! We have to get the fuck out of here.”
Lanston knows as well as I do that the swings are intact on the living side. Our debauchery has no consequences, but I play along because this is easily the best night of my life.
We don’t stop running until we reach his crotch rocket back on the main street. On the ride back to Harlow, I squeeze him tighter than I usually do with a smile that warms my soul.
15
Ophelia
We arrive backat Harlow with empty hands, but our spirits are high.
Hopefully Yelina and Poppie had better luck searching through the moonflower field, but my expectations are not high.
Poor Charlie. He’s been lingering around here for such a long time.
Lanston parks his bike in the driveway; not a single light is on in the manor, making the mist that seeps between the pines in the distance more eerie.
“I knew it was a long shot, but I’m still disappointed we didn’t find anything,” I say as we walk toward the front doors.
Lanston offers me his hand and a small smile spreads over my somber expression.
“You know, I think I have one more spot we can check. No expectations though.”
“Really? Where?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.” Lanston leads us along the side of Harlow and back toward the greenhouse. We walk by the tables of plants and straight toward the back.
I didn’t see the door in the back yesterday with all the leafy ferns covering the area around it. But there it is. The knob is brass and looks rusted and unused. Lanston twists it and has to jostle the handle a few times before it opens.
“Charming,” I say, scrunching my nose at the mildewy smell that seeps from the room.
“You have no idea.” Lanston’s voice is low with distaste as he leads us into the room. He turns on the single light bulb that swings from a cord above. The room is drab and covered with dust—a drain lined with rust at the center of the floor.
“Oh my God, this is disgusting.” I cover my mouth and look around warily at the shelves packed with things no one has touched in years—boxes and crates filled with an assortment of papers and random lawn-care equipment.
As my eyes skirt across the shelves, ceasing on a coat rack with jackets hanging by hooks, it looks like there might be something beneath them.
I squeeze Lanston’s hand and he looks at me, then follows my line of sight.
“No way,” he says, exasperated. He moves toward the coat rack and lifts the first jacket, careful not to get dust or grime on himself. The black coat falls to the floor and the next one is brown, then a woman’s small cardigan.
Beneath that is a worn satchel.
We both freeze. Lanston looks back at me with an incredulous expression.
“After all this time, it’s been here all along?” I say somberly.
Lanston nods grimly as he lifts the satchel. “The best hiding spots are in plain sight. Crosby came here often to punish Liam.”
