Hazel and Cindy walk side by side, admiring the scenery alongside a small group of other tourists. Because they were never allowed to travel alone, they feel like foreigners in their state. They left high school with ambitions slowly crushed by the stress of college, with no understanding from their African American parents. Cindy places her manicured hands in the back pocket of her denim skirt as her eyes search for a sense of familiarity, while Hazel clutches her silver, black and wooden camera against her chest with both hands for comfort.

"And over here is where our founder, Alan Armitage, settled with his wife Florence back in eighteen-o-six," the tour guide says, motioning to an Edwardian-style townhouse nestled between two others of similar design. They come to a halt, and the tour guide turns to face the group, her silver hair lightly flowing in the breeze. A stoic expression contradicts her otherwise carefree demeanor. "Some of you may know the history behind this house's previous residents."

Where he once lived, the grass resembles an aging man, with brown patches that resemble bald spots and green, vibrant foliage that resembles the few sections of hair that remain. They follow the guide's gaze to the withering residence.

"When Florence gave birth to Julius, he begot Alexander, and they migrated to Texas, where he begot Lillian, and she begot Lenora," she explains. "And Lenora, on the run for the murder of her husband, migrated back to Minnesota and changed her identity from the Jayne Mansfield doppelganger to match the lovely brunette Shirley MacLaine's. She died as Rachel Hoffmann, mother of seven children like her great-great-grandmother Florence. Any questions?"

Cindy briefly throws her left hand up, peering through the space between the two men in front of her, and she announces, "Yeah, I have one! Can we see the lighthouse?"

While the others observe the guide's blank expression, Hazel remains glued to the house. Cindy slowly retracts her hand, taking her bottom lip between her teeth out of embarrassment. Hazel narrows her eyes at the attic window, its curtains swinging despite every window being closed. She stops in the middle of the road when she notices a silhouette with red scleras and olive irises. It's as still as a statue, as dark as midnight, and the sight of it causes her heart rate to slightly quicken.

Hazel leans in closer to the house, her eyes narrowing even more. She trembles as she looks at the camera in her hands, the fear of the unknown creeping into her subconscious. How ironic: a woman taught by her mother to be as calm as the bullfrogs screaming in their backyard, plagued with paranormal-induced fear.

She raises her quivering arms, her gaze fixed on the shadowy figure, and closes one eye as the scope reaches her eyesight. Her index finger hovers above the black shutter release as she inhales a breath, holding it in her chest to keep her arms steady. She calmly presses the button, and a click and flash alert her to the incoming picture.

She lowers the camera without looking away, and her hand searches for the Polaroid as it slides free. She shakes the image at her side three times before raising it and blocking her view of the silhouette. The displayed photo is precisely what she saw with her eyes, and her stomach twists as she realizes she isn't hallucinating.

The group is further away, but the guide's voice is clear enough to hear a couple of sentences.

"And over here is the house that Andrew Howell grew up in. If I remember correctly, he was the first football player born and raised here in Griffon." Hazel lowers the square with her gaze, searching for the silhouette in the window, and sure enough, it's there, but this time, its shoulders are lifting and dropping as if it's breathing.

Hazel shakes her head, her brows furrowed. She begins to return her gaze to the distant group when the creature lifts its hand. Her face relaxes, then her lips part while goosebumps trail up her arms and back. The entity's fingers are skeletal and dark, like bones coated in soot, with talon-like nails. It waves with a motion of its fingers unfurling, then curling.

Her breath hitches in her chest, her heart plunges into her gut, and her stomach twists around it like a domino effect. It grabs the translucent drapes and pulls them together, shielding itself from the outside world and leaving her stunned.

***

"Chris," Hazel and Cindy yell in unison as the front door slams shut behind them. Because her mind is racing, she lets his twin lead them into the kitchen.

That couldn't have been a ghost? I don't believe in that shit, and I doubt Chris does.

She lifts the photograph to get a better look at what was captured. She notices the narrow house and the window with the swaying drapes. A dark entity is visible through the glass—the same one she is certain she saw with her own eyes.

Hazel shakes her head and drops her arm, then swallows over the lump hurting her throat.

No, it can't be. I'll just see if Chris can tell me what it is.

When they walk into the kitchen, they notice him sitting at the table next to the sliding door. On the surface sits a dial television box, but in front of him is a book. The box is tattered, the sides withered from years of water exposure, and because of this, the book has a few ripped and brown pages.

Cindy sprints toward him while Hazel stands in front of the arch. His right elbow is pressed beside the book, his forehead rests on his knuckles, and his left hand is pinning the hardcover in place.

"Chris," Cindy calls his name again, and this time he directs his attention to her without lifting his head. He has a pair of glasses around his neck on a string, dangling in front of his grey t-shirt. "Oh, my God, you won't believe how sick this city is!"

"Yeah?" His voice is full of sarcasm, and his mouth's corners twitch as he fights away a smile.

"Yes! And the lighthouse?" Cindy blinks her eyes wide, leaning her head forward. She shakes her head as she says, "Don't even get me started."

"I'll try not to." He looks at Hazel, and when he notices the discomfort staining her appearance, his faint smile falters. Chris looks up at his sister and says, "Could you give us a minute?"

She peers over her shoulder at Hazel, then nods at her brother. "Um, sure. I need to shower anyway."

"I wasn't gonna say anything." He chuckles. She playfully rolls her eyes and walks toward the hall with his and Hazel's attention on her.

They wait for a distant click, and when one presents itself, Christopher and Hazel turn to each other.

"What's wrong," he asks her, and she takes a deep breath, her body trembling.