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It was the man again. But he wasn’t on the third floor anymore. He was now on the second floor balcony. How had it he made it to the second floor so fast?
    “Holy shit,” she whispered and pointed at the man. Sierra realized this strange man on the balcony couldn’t be a tenant. He couldn’t even be a man. He was translucent. She could see the pattern of the brick behind him.
    This was a ghost. This was the Sultan.
    The people in the group around Sierra glanced at where she was pointing and they turned questioning gazes at her.
    “Do you see him? Do you see the man?” Her voice quavered. They were looking at her funny. Her hand was still in Owen’s grip and he squeezed gently, making her look at him.
    “Do you see him?” she whispered and he nodded jerkily. He looked fearful and nervous. He knew it wasn’t a man too. They couldn’t deny what they were seeing was supernatural. It was a ghost. The ghost of the Sultan.
    The man on the second floor balcony wasn’t a being from present day. She could see him more clearly now that he was closer. He was a handsome man, in a stern and foreign way. Sierra could tell he was of Middle Eastern descent, his skin was dark and golden, his hair long, black, and lush over his shoulders in a vintage style. His pants were strange; they puffed out at the thighs and tapered at the ankles. The wind blew, yet his pants didn’t flap in the wind.
    It had to be a joke. Some Halloween prank by the people that lived in the Sultan’s Palace. Scare the tourists. Play the Sultan. Because this couldn't be the Sultan. Even the translucent look had to be a prank. Maybe done with lighting or make-up. It had to be fake. It had to be a prank. This couldn’t be the real Sultan. It had to be a joke. Denial repeated in Sierra's head.
    This was a Trick or Treat and the tour group was getting the trick.
    “What are you pointing at?” Cecilia hissed. She was uncomfortable as more and more people turned and looked at them, whispering.
    “The man on the balcony. The one right there.” Sierra pointed, gesturing erratically. “It’s gotta be some crazy joke. He must be getting a kick out of dressing like the Turk. It’s gotta be one of the people that live in the apartments. Whoever is doing this must be getting his rocks off dressing like the Turk to scare the tourists,” Sierra laughed nervously, not quite believing her own excuse.
    “I don’t see a man, Si,” Cecilia said softly, looking at Sierra strangely.
    “The man, right there? You don’t see that man? He’s right there, Cecilia.” Again Sierra pointed at the Sultan impersonator.
    “No, there is no one up there.” Cecilia’s eyes widened when she realized Sierra wasn’t messing with her. “You see someone? You see the Sultan? Like for real, for real?”
    “No, it’s gotta be a joke,” Sierra said.
    “There’s no one up there,” a woman to Sierra’s left said. “Do you see something?” She brought her camera up and snapped a few pictures of where Sierra had pointed.
    “I see him,” Owen said. “Long black hair, weird pants, no shirt?”
    “Yeah, I see that,” Sierra said, relieved that someone else could see the man. That meant she wasn’t crazy, right? She couldn’t be nuts if someone else was sharing in her insanity.
    “Where? Where do you see him?” the woman asked.
    “He’s right there.” She pointed at the man again. But there was no one there. He had disappeared. Gone.
    The tour guide had gone silent and was looking at the house with wary trepidation and then back at Sierra. The tourists were either looking at Sierra or looking fearfully at the house. They were murmuring amongst themselves. It sounded loud compared to the quiet of the street around them.
    Finally the guide stepped toward the house and pulled out his phone. “Folks, I think we might be experiencing a bit of supernatural activity. This is common on these tours. Do you smell the incense? And those screams are coming from the house. This