The Ghost

Gloomsbury is a nameless town—an amalgam of the countless places in the world where poverty reigns and hatred brews. It is a place of both hopelessness and promise, for if one can understand the root causes of violence here, in this tiny town, there may yet be hope for the rest of the world....

Chapter 1

It started as an ordinary summer day, though for five-year-old Danny and his ten-year-old sister Em, life would never be the same. After spending the morning with Em and her friend Libby at Libby’s house down the street, Danny now sat by the tiny window in his dark and gloomy bedroom at home, watching the two girls play hopscotch in his driveway. A single tear fell from his eye as their laughter filtered through the window screen, the sound carried toward him by a hot summer breeze. He wished that heat could penetrate inside him and pierce through the chill of shame and loneliness he felt. When he had tried to join them, Em had snapped at him. “Go away! You’re being a pest!” He didn't think he was a pest. He simply wanted to play, but it was clear the girls didn’t want him around. Well, that wasn’t totally true. Em wanted nothing to do with him, but Libby had smiled shyly at him, as if to say, “I don’t agree.”

Danny liked Libby because she often persuaded Em to include him. But on this day, Em didn’t back down. Through the open window, Danny heard Libby ask his sister why she was so mean to him. “He’s a wimp,” Em said with a shrug.

Bored and dejected, Danny trudged down the hallway, bristling at the sight of his older brother Sean’s locked door. It seemed like no one wanted to play with him. He considered walking away, but knocked quietly, fully expecting Sean to bark at him like Em had. To his surprise, Sean let him in.

Plopping himself on the floor by Sean’s bed, he asked, “What’s a wimp?” At fourteen years old, Sean knew everything, or so it seemed to Danny.

“It’s someone who’s weak and cowardly,” said Sean. “Why do you want to know?”

“That’s what Em thinks I am. I heard her tell Libby. Do you think I’m a wimp?”

“Nah, I think you’re just a little shy, is all.” He hesitated. “Listen, can you keep a secret?” Danny nodded solemnly. Sean reached under his bed and pulled out a cloth bundle. He looked straight at Danny. “I got this yesterday, but no one can know I have it. Mom would kill me if she found out about it.”

Danny watched Sean unwrap the parcel. Inside was a gleaming pistol, the likes of which he had only seen in video games. He leaned forward. “Is it real?” he whispered.

“Yeah, it is. It’s a ghost gun, made here, in this city.”

“I don’t believe it’s real. I bet it doesn’t shoot real bullets.”

“Sure it does. I tested it yesterday.”

“I want to test it.” Before Sean could blink, Danny grabbed the gun and dashed out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house.

Chapter 2

Em woke with a start. She sat up in bed and covered her eyes with her hands. That damn dream again. Would she ever be free of it? She hated reliving that memory from Gloomsbury, the place where she grew up. Her ten-year-old self playing hopscotch in the driveway with her best friend, Libby Lewis. Hearing a shout and looking up. Her 14-year-old brother Sean racing after five-year-old Danny. Sean yelling something at Danny and tackling him. A loud explosion, and Libby motionless on the ground, a red spot blooming on her chest.

She curled her arms around her knees, her heart still beating out of control. A dream was a collection of random thoughts and could be changed. But this was real. It happened, and there was no way to rewrite history. Though Lord knew, she had tried. Fourteen years later, she still felt at the mercy of this nightmare.

“It’s not your fault, Em,” her brother, Sean, had told her again and again. “Libby was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Yet how could her driveway be the wrong place? It made no sense. In an instant, Em's world had shattered, leaving her with a memory that often woke her at night. Drive-by shootings happened where she grew up, yet she had always felt safe in her own yard and driveway. Sometimes, tensions between street gangs ran high, and her parents did not allow her outside. But this had not been one of those times.

She rubbed her eyes, as she often did on awakening from this nightmare, trying to piece together the forgotten parts of her childhood. Her memory of what happened after was fuzzy. She recalled Sean yelling at Danny. Her parents were out, so Sean must’ve called the police, because soon, a single cop car pulled up. Two officers emerged, one black and one white. Em recognized the black cop and was relieved to see him. He had been hired about a year earlier and often patrolled in their neighborhood to keep the peace. He was friendly enough to all the black families on the street. The white policeman, though, was a stranger to her, and his gruff manner made her uneasy. Em felt the terror of her ten-year-old self as the two men examined Libby’s body. Soon, other officials arrived, and Em watched in horror as they wheeled her friend's lifeless body into the back of the ambulance.

She recalled a heated discussion between Sean and the two policemen. The white officer grilled her brother. “I just need a statement from you, okay? You say a car sped by and whoever was in it must’ve fired the gun, correct?”

Sean nodded without looking at the man. “Yeah, I saw a man running down the street, dodging parked cars.”

That was news to Em. She hadn’t noticed a speeding car, and if anyone besides Sean or Danny was running outside, she hadn’t seen it.

“Are you sure about this?” the black officer asked. Sean nodded again.

“We got our statement. Leave the boy alone,” said the white police officer. His partner shrugged and turned to question Em. But at that moment, her parents showed up and ushered her inside.

Em felt her memory was a giant jigsaw puzzle, and each time this dream occurred, more pieces were added. This morning, she recalled how two days after the shooting, the black officer had returned to talk to her. She was nervous at first, but he said he wanted to make sure they knew what had happened, for Libby’s sake. He faced her in the driveway, as her mother hovered in the background. “Can you tell me what you and your friend were doing?”

“We were playing hopscotch. Right here.” She pointed to the chalk squares on the ground.

“Which way was she facing when…”

Em squeezed her eyes closed and tried to remember. “It was her turn. She was here, facing this way.”

“Are you positive?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did you see a car go by at the time or a man running down the street?”

She shook her head and started to cry. “It was quiet on the street. I didn’t see or hear anyone go by.”

Em’s mom yelled, “Listen, this girl’s been through enough trauma. Leave her alone!” She shooed the officer away, and within a week, her family had moved from the neighborhood. They spent a few weeks with her mom’s sister in a cramped one-bedroom apartment before moving to a small house in a new town. From then on, no one ever discussed what had happened with Em.

“Forget the past,” her mom said if the topic ever came up. “We should’ve moved outta that city long ago.”

But Em couldn’t forget—at least not completely. The next two years became a blur in the mind of her future self. She vaguely remembered Sean and Danny were inseparable, while she felt like an outsider. The trauma of that day left its mark on them all, especially Danny, changing him from a fun-loving, vibrant kid to a boy who only spoke to his older brother.

The three children shared a mother, but Sean had a different father and fought with his stepfather constantly. After two years, he moved back to the city they grew up in to live with his dad. Danny, at seven years old, refused to talk to any of them, and Sean’s father agreed to allow him to join Sean as well. Em was glad to be rid of them both. Secretly, she wondered if Sean's father was also Danny's father, though she was certain her mother would deny it. The idea was ludicrous, given that Sean was four years older than Em, and Danny was five years younger. But the thing was… Em was light-skinned, like her mother and father, yet both Sean and Danny were blacker than coal, similar to Sean's father. She hadn’t spoken to either Sean or Danny since, and now, at twenty-four years old, she wasn’t even sure if either of them was still alive.

Em knew what triggered the dream this time. Gun violence was in the news once again. Another mass shooting yesterday—the third in the space of three weeks. Sadly, she shook her head. It had been fourteen years since the death of her friend Libby from a stray bullet, and deadly weapons were still readily available. From mass shootings to gang violence to accidental shootings, it seemed like never a day went by without some grim report. Would it ever stop? To Em, this was a black-and-white issue. As long as the means to commit these violent, horrific acts existed, innocent people would die by gunfire.

She glanced at her clock: 4:30 a.m. She was wide awake now and figured she may as well get up and go to work. As a journalist for a mainstream paper, she kept odd hours, and her boss didn’t mind as long as she met her deadlines. Often she was the first one into the office in the morning and got her best writing done before the office became a bustling place. She wanted to get off a piece about this latest shooting as soon as possible. Though Em rarely wrote of gun violence, the events of the past few weeks had her re-thinking that. Just yesterday, she had told her boss, Jonathan, that she was considering tackling this issue. Maybe it was time to face those demons. It was the least she could do to honor her childhood friend.

She arrived at the office, surprised to see Jonathan already there. Usually, she had the place to herself for at least an hour.

“What’s up?” she asked. “It’s not like you to be here so early.”

Jonathan stared at her. Something was wrong—she could see it in his eyes.

“Don’t start writing yet,” he said as she turned on her computer, itching to log in.

“Why not? I want to get out a story about yesterday’s shooting. We need to be on top of this one.”

“Not so fast,” he cautioned her. “I thought you might want to write about this, and I’m getting mixed messages from upper management. You know the paper is under new ownership, right?”

“Of course, but we were told the sale was ceremonial and nothing would change.”

“We were told that, but it may not be the case. Our new owners have a different agenda. They don’t want us highlighting certain things. Gun violence is on top of their list.”

“That’s crazy,” Em said. “This paper was built around reporting on issues like this. I’ve written about social justice for my entire career, and this is the most important issue of our time.”

“Yeah, well… that’s why I’m in early. I need to tell you to tone it down. Libby is being let go.”

Em was stunned. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “They can’t fire her—she doesn’t even exist.”

Jonathan cleared his throat. “Right, well, you know that and I know that, but the new management here doesn’t. They don’t know who specifically writes as Libby Lewis and they don’t care. That persona can no longer write for this paper.”

Em stared at her blank computer screen. For two years, she had been a lead journalist for the Post and a champion for human rights. She had written about many issues, ranging from corporate greed to online gambling to voting rights. Management had given her free rein to write about a variety of topics, and she wrote most of her articles using her pen name, Libby Lewis. Em did that to hide her own identity from the public. That arrangement had worked perfectly until now.

“So… if they fire Libby, what happens to me?” she asked. The articles she wrote as Emiline Jackson were fillers. Nothing earth-shattering. She usually did the minimum needed to avoid raising any eyebrows among the company executives while focusing the bulk of her work on writing as Libby. She couldn’t imagine writing as Emiline full time.

Jonathan shrugged. “I don’t know how this will play out. Maybe they’ll change their mind, but for now, Libby needs to stand back. I mean it, Em. Don’t press your luck with this. I can’t keep your identity a secret if you make a stink about it, and you don’t want it to get out that you’re Libby Lewis.”

With a sigh, she realized he was right. She had no way to fight this. Because of the sensitive nature of what Libby wrote about, Em felt it was critical for her true identity to remain separate from her pen name. Still, it irked her. Fourteen years ago, she had lost her best friend. She had promised herself she would be Libby’s voice and stand up for those who couldn’t speak for themselves. She looked at Jonathan with tears in her eyes.

“Gun violence is something I’ve wanted to write about for years. It’s the reason I do what I do. But I’ve been afraid. Since I started working here, I’ve been dancing around it, thinking it was too big, that I needed more experience, more practice, a bigger following. But lately, I’ve been having this dream. I keep seeing my friend Libby, and I need to be her voice about this. It’s time for me to tackle this. I came into work this morning thinking this was it, my next big break, only to be shut down before I could even get started.”

“I’m sorry, Em. Truly I am. Things might change in the next few days, but for now, you need to stay away from this issue.”

Em fumed all day, while she worked on an article profiling one of Washington’s newest restaurants. She couldn’t imagine feeling more bored. Since she had come in before sunrise that morning, she left work early, a luxury she rarely took advantage of when pursuing an important story. Dejected, she trudged home. Her mood perked up at the thought of her weekend plans. Typically, Em spent most weekends alone in her apartment. This weekend, however, her college roommate and closest friend, Cara, had invited her to dinner to meet her partner, Ron, who she had recently moved in with. Aside from Jonathan, Cara and Ron were the only friends who knew of her dual identities. Together, they managed a non-profit corporation focusing on gambling addiction, and during the past year, Em (in her persona as Libby) had worked closely with them to uncover corruption in the online gambling industry. However, all the work had been remote, and Em had yet to meet Ron in person.

Em had promised to bring something for brunch that Cara had raved about in the past. Hopefully, Ron would feel the same. Em loved introducing her white friends to foods they would normally never eat. Shrimp and grits, along with banana pudding, she thought. Cooking soothed her, especially when she could listen to music. In the privacy of her home, she put on her favorite music by Sade and set to work in the kitchen. The perfect blend of jazz, soul, and rhythm and blues, along with the tantalizing odor of peppers, garlic and onions, calmed her frayed nerves. As she cooked, she thought of her friends. Both Cara and Ron had lost their jobs at the Centers for Disease Control because they had attempted to research some things that were considered off limits. Em felt they would understand her dilemma and was grateful she could turn to them. She looked forward to being with them, though she grudgingly realized she needed their advice more than she cared to admit.

Chapter 3

By the time Em arrived at Ron and Cara’s house the next day, she had once again worked herself into a rage.

“I can’t believe they fired Libby! How could they do that?” she seethed, pacing back and forth on the porch.

“It was great to work with you as Libby and I’m sorry to see her go,” said Ron. “But look at it this way. At least you still have a job and a paycheck coming in.”

“But what good is it if I can’t write what I want?” she asked. “There’s nothing more boring than writing about restaurants and fashion! If I can’t write about stuff that matters to me, then I quit!”

“I’m going to give you the exact advice you gave me last year,” Cara chimed in. “Do your job like you’re supposed to and lay the groundwork for what’s next.”

“But what is next?” wailed Em. “I spent all this time developing a reputation as Libby Lewis, and that’s being snatched away. She’s gone—‘poof’—and since no one knows I was her, I can’t use that identity if I apply for future jobs. No one would want to hire Emiline Jackson. All she writes is boring run-of-the-mill stuff with no imagination. She has no portfolio to speak of. Where would I even begin to look for a new job?”

"Well, for one thing, you could open a restaurant," said Ron. "This food you brought is amazing! I don't think I've ever tasted anything quite like it."

Cara nodded in agreement. "I told you she was a woman of many talents!"

Em glared at them both. "Cooking is something I do for me, to calm myself down. I'm glad you like it, but it's not like I could ever make a living out of that. Journalism is my life."

“Okay, so if you want to keep writing, what about launching your own non-profit news site?” asked Ron. “There are a lot of resources out there to help with that.”

“You’re kidding, right? Me, launch my own news site? I don’t know the first thing about business or how to do that.”

“Sure you do!” chimed in Cara. “You’ve been involved with our company since the beginning! You helped us get it off the ground, and we can help you now.”

Em sat and hugged her knees. She had never been one to accept handouts. She shook her head. “You two have enough on your plate. I can’t ask you to help me like that.”

“You’re not asking. We’re offering,” said Cara. “You are way more capable than you give yourself credit for. If this is something you truly want, you can do this. You once told me: ‘the bigger the risk, the bigger the payout.’ This is a big risk for you, and maybe it’s time.”

Ron pulled out his phone. “Here, look at this. It’s a link to an organization dedicated to helping reporters and journalists start up their own non-profit news agency. You could start up a news magazine. It has a step-by-step guide.” Em glanced at it, then pushed the phone away. She stood up and paced again. “Send me the link and I’ll look at it,” she said glumly.

“I think Ron may be on to something. Keep your identity as Libby. You’ve put a lot of effort into building a following using her name. You should run with that. How about you talk with Henry Ives? After all, he’s a master at changing identities, and he might be able to give you some pointers.”

Em pondered that. Through the work she had done with Cara and Ron, she knew Henry remotely in the same way she knew Ron. He, too, had worked at the Centers for Disease Control and had teamed up with Cara and Ron to investigate some key ringleaders in online gambling corporations. He was a brilliant computer programmer who had maintained several different identities in his life. They all knew him as Henry, though his given name was James, and now, he often went under the name Samuel. Cara was right-Henry knew about changing identities. Would that be helpful to her? Though Libby was her pen name, she didn’t consider it a real identity. Yet maybe it was. The thought of Libby being fired angered her to no end. It felt like they fired her. Did she actually consider herself to be Libby? Or did the possibility of losing her connection to Libby bother her? Or… was she hiding behind the guise of Libby, so she didn’t have to put her real self at risk?

“This is so confusing!” she lamented. “I want to speak for Libby, but I’m not sure I want to fully take on her identity.”

“Talk to Henry,” urged Cara. “One conversation can’t hurt. Maybe he can help you sort some of this out. And think about striking out on your own. You can make a name for yourself independent of the newspaper.”

Em looked at her friend, who seemed so sure of herself. It wasn’t long ago that Cara was feeling lost and seeking Em’s advice. Em was used to being the wise one in their relationship. Somehow, this reversal of roles felt awkward, yet she knew Cara was right. It was time to make some changes in her life. For too long, she had held back from writing what was truly in her heart, and if her employer would not allow it, then she needed to take matters into her own hands.

Alone in her apartment, Em browsed the internet, intrigued by the link Ron had sent. Could she create an online magazine dedicated to telling the stories of underprivileged people? After all, that was what she had been doing at the Post for the past two years, though the administrative part of it hadn’t been her responsibility. How hard could it be?

Step one was “Define Your Mission” and she spent the better part of the morning on that, becoming more excited with every word she wrote. The possibility of continuing to write as Libby Lewis fired her up. Libby was an integral part of her, and she needed to figure out how that might work in the future. Having a pen name was tricky enough, but if the publication she intended to put forth was hers and hers alone, could she do it under Libby’s name? Or should the official public face be Emiline, with Libby as a ghostwriter? She still needed to sort all this out.

Maybe I should talk to Henry, she thought. Much as she didn’t like taking advice from others, she realized she was stuck. But one thing worried her. She reached for her phone and called Cara.

“I’ve been thinking of calling Henry, but I’m just not sure,” she told her friend. “He makes me nervous.”

“Henry’s okay. Sometimes he comes across as a little odd, but he’s a sweet guy. It took me a while to get to know him, but now that I do, I can say there’s more to him than meets the eye. His experience with changing identities could be a big help for you. What makes you nervous?”

“I just feel uncomfortable around him,” Em said. “For one thing, I did a background check on him last year, remember? I learned he has a gun permit. I hate guns!” She looked at the phone, momentarily surprised by her own outburst.

Cara paused, thinking back to her time at the CDC where she and Henry had worked together in the same office. She was sure Henry never had a gun with him when she was with him. True, he had a complicated history, but Cara felt confident he would never hurt anyone.

“Em, lots of people have gun permits. That doesn’t mean he carries a gun with him all the time. If you’re concerned about it, why not ask him about it?”

Em considered that. The dream the other night had really affected her, she realized. It wasn’t the first time she’d dreamt about Libby—far from it. However, this time felt more real. Somehow, it gripped her and wouldn’t let go. Maybe she should ask Henry to leave his gun at home, but she didn’t want to have to explain why. “I’ll think about it,” she mumbled to Cara.

“Good,” replied Cara. “Listen, don’t worry so much. You have an incredible talent for journalistic writing and will find an outlet for it. I know you, and I know what you’re capable of. Let us help you. Let Henry help you if he wants to. Just because the Post wants to stop Libby doesn’t mean she’s gone. Many times, you told me you wanted to be her voice, and now is as good a time as any to bring that forward. I love Ron’s idea of you starting your own magazine. If anyone can do it, you can.”

Em hesitated. Unlike Ron, Henry knew her only as Libby. If she wanted to get his advice on managing her identity, she’d have to tell him about her dual identities as well. That worried her. She had put so much effort into keeping Libby private, and the thought of letting anyone else in on her secret terrified her.

Em sighed. “Maybe you’re right, but Henry only knows me as Libby. It feels weird to talk to him as Em. For now, I’m going to keep my day job at the Post, so money keeps coming in. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

What the hell? she thought after getting off the phone with Cara. If Libby no longer exists, it probably doesn’t matter! But what if she wanted to keep Libby alive? She covered her face with her hands. Why was this so complicated?

She reached for her secure phone that she only used for “Libby business.” She knew Henry’s phone was secure as well. It was time to start trusting people if she was going to get any kind of support. Picking up the phone, she called Henry. He answered immediately.

“Hey, Libby! I haven’t heard from you in a while. What’s up?”

Em was momentarily tongue-tied. She hadn’t expected him to answer right away and thought she’d have more time to collect her thoughts. After all, in the past, they had only interacted about business-related things, and this was a very personal thing she was calling about. “Er... I saw Cara yesterday, and she suggested I talk to you to get some advice.”

“Cara told you to get advice from me? That’s a first. About what?”

“It has to do with changing identities. I’m not real comfortable talking about this on the phone. Can we meet somewhere and I can give you a little more information?”

“Sure. My schedule is probably a bit more flexible than yours. You pick the time and place.”

She took a deep breath. Truth be told, she hated going out in public, but it was better to meet him in a public place than privately, especially if he might be carrying a gun. She knew she was being paranoid, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. Nevertheless, she had called him and initiated the invitation. There was no backing down now. She gave him the name of a crowded café across town. “I’m taking a day off work tomorrow. Can you meet in the morning for coffee?”

Henry agreed, and Em bit her lip, hoping this wasn’t a big mistake. “One more thing... you should know that in public, I’m not Libby. Libby is a pen name. You should call me ‘Em.’”

“M? As in the letter? Does it stand for anything?”

“No, that’s my name! E - M, short for Emiline.”

“Okay, Emiline. I will see you tomorrow. You have my curiosity up now!”