desperately in need of painting. On the porch, a small crowd had gathered as two women, dressed as witches, stood around a large pot, serving apple cider and pretending to conjure up the first owner of the house, a man who’d supposedly been be-headed in a logging accident. The front door of the home was open; from inside came faint sounds of a carnival funhouse: terrified shrieks and creaking doors, strange thumps and cackling laughter. Suddenly the two witches dropped their heads, the lights went out on the porch, and a headless ghost made a dramatic appearance in the foyer behind them—a blackened shape dressed in a cape with arms extended and bones where hands should have been. One woman yelped as she dropped her cup of cider on the porch. Sarah moved instinctively toward Miles, half turning toward him as she reached for his arm with a grip that surprised him. Up close, her hair looked soft, and though it was a different color from Missy’s, he was reminded of what it had felt like to comb through Missy’s hair with his fingers as they lay together in the evenings. A minute later, at the muttered incantations of the witches, the ghost vanished and the lights came back on. Amid nervous laughter, the audience dispersed.
Over the next couple of hours, Miles and Sarah visited a number of houses. They were invited inside for a quick tour of some; in others they stood in the foyer or were entertained in the garden with stories about the history of the home. Miles had taken this tour before, and as they strolled from home to home, he suggested places of particular interest and regaled her with stories about homes that weren’t part of the ghost walk this year.
They drifted along the cracked cement sidewalks, murmuring to each other, savoring the evening. In time, the crowds began to thin and some of the homes began to close up for the night. When Sarah asked if he was ready for dinner, Miles shook his head.
“There’s one more stop,” he said.
He led her down the street, holding her hand, gently brushing his thumb against it. From one of the towering hickory trees, an owl called out as they passed, then grew silent again. Up ahead, a group of people dressed as ghosts were piling into a station wagon. At the corner, Miles pointed toward a large, two-story home, this one devoid of the crowds she’d come to expect. The windows were absolutely black, as if shuttered from the interior. Instead, the only light was provided by a dozen candles lining the porch railings and a small wooden bench near the front door. Beside the bench sat an elderly woman in a rocking chair, a blanket draped over her legs. In the eerie light, she looked almost like a mannequin; her hair was white and thinning, her body frail and brittle. Her skin looked translucent in the flickering glow of candles, and her face was lined deeply, like the cracked glaze of an old china cup. Miles and Sarah seated themselves on the porch swing as the elderly woman studied them.
“Hello, Miss Harkins,” Miles said slowly, “did you have a good crowd tonight?”
“Same as usual,” Miss Harkins answered. Her voice was raspy, like that of a lifetime smoker. “You know how it goes.” She squinted at Miles, as if trying to make him out from a distance. “So you’ve come to hear the story of Harris and Kathryn Presser, have you?”
“I thought she should hear it,” Miles answered solemnly.
For a moment, Miss Harkins’s eyes seemed to twinkle, and she reached for the cup of tea that sat beside her.
Miles slipped his arm over Sarah’s shoulder, pulling her close. Sarah felt herself relax beneath his touch.
“You’ll like this,” Miles whispered. His breath on her ear ran a current under her skin.
I already do, she thought to herself.
Miss Harkins set the cup of tea aside. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper.
There are ghosts and there is love,
And both are present here,
To those who listen, this tale will tell
The truth of love and if it’s near.
Sarah stole a quick peek at Miles.
“Harris Presser,” Miss Harkins announced, “had been born in 1843 to owners of a small candle-making shop in downtown New Bern. Like many young men of the period, Harris wanted to serve for the Confederacy when the War of Southern Independence began. Because he was an only son, however, both his mother and father begged him