The ghost’s pants is torn-up where his knee is bloody. Harvey nods. “Are you the ghost?”

It shakes its head no and laughs.

“A murderer?” Harvey asks. More shaking. “A shape-shifter or a zombie?” Harvey takes a step back.

“I’m just an old man, son. I used to live here when I was a boy. In fact, I’ve been here before but it wasn’t a good time to see the house. Remember? You came to the door with your mother but you had a different mustache.” He holds out his hand. “My name is Frank.”

“Was it a handlebar or a walrus?” Harvey asks. Jason gave him a poster with all the names, like horseshoe and chevron and Fu Manchu but Harvey doesn’t have a walrus, so it’s a test.

“Definitely a handlebar,” the man says. “And same towel. You have a green-and-white sofa in the front room—that’s all I could see that day. When I was a boy, we had a brown one in the exact same place there in front of the fireplace.” He puts his dirty hand out again. “How’s that? Did I pass the test?”

Harvey reaches and shakes the hand. He shakes really hard, like he heard his dad tell Jason to do if he wanted to get something like a job or a good grade or maybe a girlfriend. “Did you write ‘no’ right there on my message?”

“No.” The man looks at his watch, a big one like the kind that goes swimming and ticks real loud. “Must be somebody else.”

“Are you sure you aren’t a alien or serial killer?”

“Completely sure. You know a lot of dark things, son,” he says, and looks at that big watch again. “Tell me about your mustache. You seem mighty young for facial hair.”

“It’s not real.” Harvey takes off his mustache and starts to put it in his pocket with the penny and matches but the man is staring at him so he changes his mind and puts it back on. “But it will be when I’m a teenager.”

“I have a scar, too,” the man says. “Several of them, in fact. I fell from a tree when I was about your age, had to get stiches in my chin. And I’ve got a great big one like a railroad track when they went in to fix my heart.” He lifts his shirt just enough for Harvey to see part of the scar, big and purple, like on Frankenstein’s head. He points to the middle of Harvey’s Fu Manchu. “Do you know what this is called?” he asks. “This little dip right above your lip?”

“No.” Harvey knows his mom wouldn’t like him talking to a stranger, even if he did live here thousands of years ago.