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got to lose, Matthew?
I write down the address.

8
    W hen I step inside Morris Dyson’s house, I’m so nervous I can barely look up at him. We shake hands, then he invites me to take a seat in the kitchen and offers me a cup of tea. It feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I take a deep breath and force myself to get to the point.
    “Mr. Dyson, there’s something I need to ask you. What did you mean when you said there was something paranormal going on in the barn? When you phoned me after Matthew’s funeral, I had this feeling that, that maybe you meant … I don’t know, like a ghost or something. I just need to know if you believe in ghosts.”
    At first he simply stands there, like he isn’t going to answer me. Then the kettle starts whistling and he unplugs it.
    “Please, call me Morris,” he says, pouring hot water into two teacups. It seems to take him forever to go on. “Well, mostly I believe in history, and I like telling history stories. Local history, social history, family history. That kind of thing.”

    That figures, because his furniture is really old-fashioned, like in a pioneer museum. And he fits right in.
    “The first European settlers in Grey County were mostly Scots. And I don’t know what it is about the Scots, but over the years—and I’ve been at this for almost twenty—I’ve run into an awful lot of ghost stories. I haven’t published anything about them, but I keep track of them. I research them. I look for patterns.” Then he pauses and asks, “How about you, Amelia? Do you believe in ghosts?”
    I can’t think how to answer that, but I finally say, “I’m not sure.”
    “Well, do you believe you’ve ever seen one?”
    “I don’t know.” Why did I even come? Why bother if I can’t talk about this? “Maybe,” I say, “but I’m pretty sure it was just my imagination.”
    He nods slowly, saying, “I see.” He sets a cup of black tea in front of me and places a small carton of milk and some sugar cubes on the table. “Why do you think that?”
    It’s time for the truth. “Because that’s what I’ve been told.”
    He looks at me a little longer, like he’s trying to figure me out, then he starts to talk. “I called you last month because I’ve always wondered about my friend Paul Telford. He killed himself in the same barn as your friend Matthew. He had his whole life ahead of him and he was looking forward to living it. I was sure of that. He was in love with a great gal named Janice. He’d just got accepted into McGill, we both had. On the night it happened, he was in a terrific mood. But there was something strange: he told me he was heading off to meet some mystery girl. That didn’t make sense, because of Janice, but he wouldn’t tell me anything more.” He pauses and I look at his face, so full of sadness and worry. There’s a deep line between his brows. He clears his throat, which was sounding pretty raspy, then continues. “His father found him deadin the barn the next day. He’d poisoned himself with something he’d found lying around in there.” He clears his throat again. “The thing was, there was always this big bolt on the barn door, and he never used to go in there. He’d forced his way in that night. I don’t know why he did that.” He stops and stares into his teacup, then takes a sip and continues.
    “Paul’s parents were devastated. Mrs. Telford never got over it and died not long after. I stayed in touch with his sister, Emily, off and on for years. She told me that Paul and Janice had had a big blow-up the day before he died. Janice had apparently suggested they see other people while he was away at university, and he got really upset. Emily saw him after the fight, crying behind the barn. Then, the very next day, I see him in this euphoric mood, off to hook up with some mystery girl. So like I said, it made no sense.”
    I’m focusing my eyes on the sugar cubes in their small blue bowl. I start to lift my