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“I could,” Fritz says. “But first I’m going to need something from you. A promise that you’ll remain quiet about anything you see or hear. Don’t tell your parents or your brother or your friends. They don’t need to know what we do here.”
“Whatdoyou do here, Fritz?”
Fritz Van de Veer smiles, pleased the boy remembered to use his first name. “We do many things, Billy.”
“Do you talk to ghosts?”
Fritz contemplates the boy. Such a big, complicated question from someone so young. One he can’t answer.
But he knows someone who can.
He takes him into what’s known as the library, although it holds much more than books. It’s the heart of the institute, where others gather to discuss, debate, debunk. Currently, only one man occupies the vast room.
Ezra Hawthorne.
He’s looking at the photos that hang on the walls when they enter.When he turns around to smile at Billy, Fritz sees the man as if through the boy’s eyes. Tall, pale, and ancient, looking both dapper and ominous in his black suit.
“Hello, young sir,” Ezra says, prompting tongue-tied consternation from Billy.
Fritz remembers being just as awestruck when he first met Ezra Hawthorne all those years ago. He was a grad student at Princeton, working on his master’s in psychology, when he was invited to an informal gathering hosted by one of his professors. Also in attendance was a tall man in a black suit that made his pale features appear positively ghostly. After a few minutes of aimless chatting, Mr. Hawthorne introduced himself and invited Fritz to visit the institute.
“Let’s see if you have any gifts,” he said.
Fritz took part in a silly test in which he was asked to turn his back to a man holding a stack of flash cards with pictures of animals on them. All he had to do was guess which animal was on the card being held up. Even though Fritz failed the test in spectacular fashion, when the day was done, Mr. Hawthorne pulled him aside and said, “You’re welcome to return anytime you’d like.”
He had no intention of coming back. But then Alice suffered a miscarriage—her third—and Fritz found himself looking for something to believe in. He knew he wasn’t going to find it in religion, especially the harsh fire-and-brimstone sermons his parents had dragged him to when he was a boy.
One night, for no particular reason he could think of, he found himself driving to the Hawthorne Institute. Ezra welcomed him like a long-lost friend. They talked for hours about why inexplicable things happen and how to make sense of a world that very often makes no sense at all. To Fritz’s surprise, the conversation ended with a job offer.
Now he all but runs the place, which is how he knew to bring Billy here. It’s an unspoken rule at the institute: If it involves ghosts, consult Mr. Hawthorne.
“Do you talk to ghosts?” Billy asks again.
“Not all the time,” Ezra says. “But on occasion, I have communicated with spirits.”
Fritz notices the boy’s eyes light up. “So ghosts are real?”
“Oh, they’re very real.”
“Where are they?” Billy says, glancing around the room, as if one might be lurking in the corners.
“There are ghosts everywhere,” Ezra Hawthorne tells him, “if you just know where to look.”
For the next half hour, Fritz watches as Mr. Hawthorne regales Billy with tales of his exploits, showing him books about ghosts, photos of séances, the tools of the trade. The boy proves himself to be quite knowledgeable about the subject. Far more than Fritz, who doesn’t know the difference between a specter and a shade. But Billy does, which Fritz can tell impresses Mr. Hawthorne.
“I see you’re a mutual ghost admirer,” he tells Billy. “I’ve never talked to one so young.”
When the visit is over, Fritz starts to escort Billy out of the room, having already decided to drive the boy home himself. It’s easier that way. Less conspicuous, too. But before they’re completely out the door, Ezra Hawthorne has one more thing to say.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Billy. You’re welcome to return anytime you like.”
TWENTY-TWO
I stare up at the sky, suddenly dizzy. It’s one of those perfectly clear nights when every star is visible, all of them seeming to pulse with extra energy. I’m buzzing, too, over what Fritz is telling me. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Billy, who so desperately wanted to believe in ghosts, eventually found his way to Ezra Hawthorne, a man who allegedly communicated with them. Yet it’s a shock to hear, mostly because Billy never mentioned it in the tent later that night.
Then again, I didn’t give him much of a chance.
“Do you think he was lying to Billy?” I say. “About making contact with spirits?”