How many had come before us
to take the White Hall Ghost tour,
we are not told.

Two professional paranormal experts
tell us at the start of the tour:
“This is our fifth time here.”

What they don’t tell the group,
they say to me. The lead expert says:
“If we don’t pick up anything tonight…”

The second expert chimes in, saying:
“We’re not coming back.”
I nod my head as though I understand,

but I question their faith in themselves;
their dependence on expensive instruments;
& the lack of enthusiasm they exhibit.

I rush to join Ange and the students,
hanging on every word our tour guides say,
the house speaking through them.

In the upstairs master bedroom
where the original owner slept
& died & was buried on land he owned,

there is hardly room enough for our group.
I back into a small closet with no door.
The lead investigator props against the wall opposite me.

The second investigator hovers over him.
When our guides ask, “Are there any questions?
I ask, “How do you know when there is a presence?”

“There should be one touching the hairs on my arm now,” I say.
The lead investigator turns his hand-held toward me.
Its red light turns on, flashing wildly.

The investigators display renewed interest in the tour.
“Ange!” I call out, motioning for her to join me
in the confines of the closet while everyone else leaves.

She has a look on her face that I had not seen before.
“Did you feel something, too?” she asks.
“I did,” I say, placing my arms on her shoulders.

When I turn her toward the bed
& point, she also sees the two handprints
left & right of the depression of a buttock.

She is visibly pleased.
At the end of the tour,
the lead investigator approaches me.

“It is clear to us,” he speaks for the two of them,
“that ghosts are attracted to you.
We’d like to come back when you could come with us.”