The fog of ghosts swallows us immediately. Carter is a shadowy figure backlit by the kitchen. His form morphs, growing fatter, then tall and thin. His nose stretches, Pinocchio-style.
Belinda breathes a laugh. “They’re making fun of him,” she whispers.
Why, yes. Yes, they are.
“Where do we start?” I ask. “Can you find a thread or a ghost to begin with?”
She extends a hand in front of her. Ghosts swarm and then retreat. One slithers by me, ruffling my hair, but when I try to follow its path, it fades into the cloud once again.
“Here,” she says. “Let’s start here with this one. Do you recognize it?”
She sweeps her hands around and around until the outline of this particular ghost takes shape. It shimmers except for those spots where it’s stitched to the other ghosts in this tangle. And
