It was around this time that Hildy’s parents died. Perhaps they will be my ghost friends, she thought, but no—they went off to find her dead sister and left Hildy all alone.
She hatched a new idea: she would sell her parents’ house and buy a haunted one instead, which would have its own ghosts built in! So she went shopping for a new house. The real estate agent thought she was frustrating and strange (which, to be fair, she was) because every time she showed Hildy a perfectly nice house, Hildy’s only question was whether anything terrible had ever happened there, like a murder or a suicide, or better yet a murder and a suicide, and she’d ignore the generous kitchen and light-filled drawing room to go look at the attic and basement.
Finally, she found a properly haunted house and bought it. It was only after she moved in, though, that she realized the ghost that came with it was only there part-time, stopping by every few nights to rattle chains and slam doors.
“Don’t go,” Hildy said, catching up to the ghost as he was leaving.
“Sorry, I have other houses to haunt,” he replied, and hurried away.
Hildy felt cheated. She needed more than a part-time ghost. She’d gone to so much trouble to find a haunted house, but it seemed the one she bought wasn’t haunted enough. She decided she needed the most haunted house in the world. She bought books about haunted houses and did research. She asked her part-time ghost what he knew, shouting questions after him as he raced from room to room, clanking here and slamming there. (He always seemed to be late for some more-important haunting, which Hildy tried not to take personally.) He said something about “Kwimbra,” then left in a hurry. Hildy discovered that this was actually a town in Portugal—spelled Coimbra—and once she knew that, it was simple enough to track down which house in the town was most haunted. She exchanged letters with the man who lived there, in which he described being bothered day and night by disembodied screams and bottles that flew off tables, and she told him how pleasant that sounded. He thought this was strange, but also that she wrote very nicely, and when she offered to buy his house, his refusal was as gentle as could be. It had been in his family for generations, he explained, and so it had to remain. The house was his burden to bear.
Hildy was getting desperate. At a particularly low moment, she even entertained the thought of killing someone, because then their ghost would haunt her—but that didn’t seem like a very good way to start a friendship, and she quickly abandoned the idea.
Finally, she decided that if she couldn’t buy the most haunted house in the world, she would build it herself. First she chose the most haunted spot she could think of upon which to build it: the top of a hill that had been the site of a mass burial during the last outbreak of plague. Then she collected the most haunted building materials she could find: wood salvaged from a shipwreck with no survivors, bricks from a crematorium, stone columns from a poorhouse that had burned with hundreds of people inside, and windows from the palace of a mad prince who had poisoned his whole family. Hildy decorated the house with furniture, carpets, and objets d’art bought from other haunted houses, including that of the man in Portugal, who sent her a bureau from which emanated, at precisely three o’clock every morning, the sound of a crying baby. Just for good measure, she let bereaved families hold wakes in her parlor for an entire month, and then, just after the stroke of midnight in the middle of a howling rainstorm, she moved in.
Hildy was not disappointed—at least not right away. There were ghosts everywhere! In fact, there was hardly room in the house to hold them all. Ghosts crowded the basement and the attic, fought for space under the bed and in the closets, and there was always a line for the bathroom. (They didn’t use the toilet, of course, but liked to check their hair in the mirror, to make sure it was disheveled and
frightening.) They danced on the lawn at all hours—not because ghosts especially liked to dance, but because the people buried under the house had died of Dancing Plague. 11
The ghosts clanked pipes and rattled windows and threw books down from shelves. Hildy walked from room to room introducing herself.
“You can see us?” asked the ghost of a young man. “And you aren’t frightened?”
“Not at all,” Hildy replied. “I like ghosts. Have you ever played stick-a-whack?”
“No, sorry,” the ghost muttered, and turned away.
He seemed disappointed, as if all he’d wanted was to scare someone and she’d robbed him of the chance. So she pretended to be frightened by the next ghost she met, an old woman in the kitchen who was making knives float.
“Ahhhh!” Hildy cried. “What’s happening to my knives! I must be losing my mind!”
The old woman ghost seemed pleased, so she stepped back and raised her arms to make the knives float even higher—and then tripped over another ghost who was crawling on the floor behind her. The old lady ghost went sprawling and the knives clattered onto the counter.
“What do you think you’re doing down there?” the old woman ghost shouted at the crawling ghost.
“Can’t you see I’m trying to work?”
“You should watch where you’re going!” the crawling ghost shouted back.
“Watch where I’m going?”
Hildy started to laugh; she couldn’t help it. The two ghosts stopped bickering and stared at her.
“I think she can see us,” said the crawling ghost.
“Yes, obviously,” said the old woman ghost. “And she isn’t frightened in the least.”
“No—I was!” Hildy said, stifling her laughter. “Honestly!”
The old woman ghost stood up and dusted herself off. “You’re clearly humoring me,” she said. “I’ve never been so humiliated in all my death.”
Hildy didn’t know what to do. She had tried being herself and that hadn’t worked, and she’d tried acting like she thought the ghosts wanted her to, and that hadn’t worked, either. Discouraged, she went to the hallway where the ghosts were lined up to use the bathroom and said, “Does anyone want to be my friend? I’m very nice, and I know lots of scary stories about living people that you might enjoy hearing.”
But the ghosts shuffled their feet and looked at the floor and said nothing. They could see her desperation, and it made them feel awkward.
After a long silence she slouched away, her face burning with embarrassment. She sat on the porch and watched the plague ghosts dance in the yard. It seemed she had failed. You can’t force people to be friends with you—not even dead people.
Feeling ignored was even worse than feeling alone, so Hildy made plans to sell the house. The first five people who came to look at it were scared away before they even got through the front door. Hildy attempted to make the house somewhat less ghost-infested by selling some of the haunted furnishings back to their original owners. She wrote a letter to the man in Portugal asking if he’d be interested in taking back his wailing bureau. He replied straightaway. He didn’t want the bureau, he said, but hoped she was doing well. And he signed the letter like this: “Your friend, João.”
Hildy stared at the words for several minutes. Could she really call this man her friend? Or was he just being . . . friendly?
She wrote him back. She kept the tone of her letter light and breezy. She lied and told him she was doing fine, and asked how he was doing. She signed the letter like this: “Your friend, Hildy.”