My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I stared through the windshield, up to the third story window on the end. My window. My apartment.

I had picked out the curtains in those windows. I'd color coordinated them with the rest of the apartment. Bronte and I had spent nearly a week debating about what color to get, what fabric, what kind of curtain rod to put up. I'd felt so proud as I installed them. It'd been an adult thing to do: getting curtains for your windows.

There wasn't, however, anything adult about hiding in your car while ghosts fought in your apartment.

Or maybe it was. I didn't have much precedent to work with here. But I didn't feel grown up. I felt like hiding under the covers.

Only my blankets were in the haunted apartment. Where a supernatural death match was happening, judging from the growling I'd heard. And the gentle push that had warned me to leave.

God, that hadn't sounded human. Hadn't even sounded animalistic, truthfully. But like something in between. Or maybe something completely different altogether–something new and terrifying and presently in the vicinity of my very comforting Doctor Who blanket.

I'd never been so immediately afraid, hearing a sound before. But I'd cycled through all the clichés in less than a second: frozen body, spine tingling, hair standing up on the back of my neck, goose bumps rising.

Someone rapped their knuckles against the passenger side window and I screamed. A full-blown, Gothic heroine scream.

Bronte's brows knit in concern and she mimed for me to unlock the door.

My hands shook as I did.

"What happened?" She climbed into the passenger seat, pushing aside my discarded scarf as she did. "Everything ok? What are you doing down here?"

"We can't go up into the apartment." My voice shook, confusing the words. I lowered my voice and whispered it again. "We cannot go up into that apartment."

She glanced out and up through the windshield. "Is someone in there or something?"

"Or something."

She cast me a curious look. "Have you called 911?"

"No. They wouldn't–no."

"Are they–is it maintenance up there? Did they spook you like when they fixed the dead bolt?"

I shook my head.

Frowning, she gave me a minute to answer. When I didn't, her hand moved toward the door handle.

"No!" I shouted, lunging across the seat. I yanked the door shut and slammed down on the lock button. "You cannot go up there."

She let out an exasperated sigh. "You aren't making sense, Stella. If maintenance is up in the apartment, I'm sure they won't mind if we go up there. We do live there, and pay for it, and–what?"

I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose, and leaned back into the seat. "It's haunted."

"It's what?"

My eyes flew open and I jammed a finger in the direction of our apartment. "There's something up there Bronte. You remember the other night? When we talked about the shivers and you kept thinking you'd see me in the corner of your eye? I didn't tell you then but sometimes I hear stuff. Voices."

"It is an apartment," she reasoned, "so thin walls?"

"Not thin walls. I know when I'm hearing a voice through thin walls. These voices are close. Like in-the-same-room-close. Ghost-close."

Her eyes widened initially. Then her mind caught up and I could see the decision form behind those eyes that she wasn't going to believe it–not without a fight. Skepticism stole over her face. "That's absurd."

"There is something in that apartment. More than one, actually."

She rolled her eyes. "Now you're just being difficult, Stella." She reached for the handle again.

I lunged but she had an arm up, blocking me from reaching the door. She pushed it open and then, still fighting me off, retreated through her opening.

She bolted across the lawn as I flew out of the car after her. She'd always been the more in-shape of the two of us, so she beat me up the first flight of the open-air stairs. Then the second.

I made it to the top of that second flight of stairs just as she burst through the apartment door.

For a split second I thought of leaving her. Running back down to my car–just abandoning her and everything in that apartment.

My body moved before my mind finished banishing those thoughts. I ran after her, barreling through the apartment door, nearly plowing into her as she lingered near the door, taking off her winter coat and scarf.

"See?" she said, draping them on the coat rack. "Nothing's wrong."

Her voice shook slightly, her eyes darting around. She wasn't convinced either.

I pressed my back against the closed front door, waiting for something to happen. A chill. A touch. Another inhuman roar.

But there was nothing but silence.

Validation made Bronte braver. She strolled into the living room, then the kitchen. "Hello?" she called out saucily, hands on her hips.

I shushed her angrily. "Don't," I hissed.

"There's nothing here," she said, spinning around, arms out. "See?

She shivered.

We both froze.

And for a second, neither one of us moved.

"Charlotte," I finally managed to breathe, "you get your ass back over here this second."

She didn't move.

Or couldn't move.

I couldn't tell from where I stood.

But she wasn't moving.

Wide eyes, mouth open slightly. Arms still outstretched from where she'd been spinning.

Slowly, her head turned to look out at her outstretched right hand. Her fingers curled around something I couldn't see. But there was something there. Something she was molding her hand around.

I silently swore to myself, the minute I heard growling, I was grabbing her and hauling her out of this apartment. Whether or not I set the building on fire was still up for internal debate.

"There's something here," she breathed.

"No shit, Sherlock."

"It doesn't–I don't think it's mean? It's–it seems friendly."

"Great, we're being haunted by Casper."

Her eyes cut to me for a split second. "Quit being snarky."

"I'm snarky when I'm scared," I snapped. "Call it a defense mechanism. And ok, you've seen what I was talking about, so I think we should leave now. Let's go downstairs and call the Ghostbusters or something."

"But it's not mean."

I lowered my voice. "Then it's also not the only thing in here."

Her head whipped around to face me. "What?"

"Ok, we might have a friendly ghost on the premises but there's also a nasty one, Bronte. I heard it and it sounded extremely pissed off. Can we please go before it comes back? Please? Bronte just come over here. Please."

She turned to look back at the invisible thing touching her hand. Tilting her head, she squinted her eyes. "The nasty one? What did it look like?"

"Look like?"

"I think I can see a vague outline..."

I had the sudden urge to throw my hands up. I might have, if I wasn't gripping the door handle behind my back in a vice grip. "Great. Freaking fantastic. You can see it?"

"Couldn't you?"

"I heard it, Bronte. Remember? I just said that I heard it and it sounded extremely pissed off. So, I don't know, you might be holding hands with the mean one for all I know."

She jerked her hand back at that, shuffling back a few steps. Her eyes scanned the space in front of her. "I lost it–I don't–I can't see it anymore."

"Please, Bronte, can we just leave?"

She hesitated for a moment before making a decisive nod. "Yes," she said, heading for the door. "Maybe we'd better."