This was an aboveground tomb, but where most had a flat slab of marble or stone affixed to the front with decorative fastenings, this tomb’s was missing. She could see directly into the open crypt. It looked like an oven, with a slab in the middle and space above and below it.

Carys crouched down, and Greta followed suit.

“If you look closely, you can see some bones still in there,” Carys said, pointing to the back corner of the tomb.

Something white gleamed in the dimness of the dirt, and Greta squinted to make it out. It could’ve been bone. It could also have been plastic or stone, but for the sake of the spooky vibes she wanted, she chose to believe Carys’ story.

“I’m kinda surprised no one’s taken the bones,” she said.

“Oh, babe, if you steal bones from a grave in New Orleans, on your own head be it.” Carys shivered.

“I didn’t know you believed in the ghost tour stories you tell.”

“What I like about ghost stories is that even if things didn’t happen precisely the way the story has come to be told, they still point to the fears and taboos that are real.” She shrugged. “Do I believe stealing a bone from the cemetery would immediately bring the ghost of that person down on me and spell my imminent death? Not really. But I think that the kind of person who would disturb the remains of someone who’s died—of someone’s beloved family member—is also the kind of person who would make other choices in their life that would lead to chaos, discourtesy, and negative consequences. So I guess it’s a shorthand?”

“Like a math formula,” Greta said.

“Yeah, kind of. Not that it’s guaranteed every time, but it’s suggestive anyway.”

“That was a very practical answer. But do you believe in ghosts? Or vampires or any of that stuff?”

After a minute, Carys said, “I believe there are things I don’t know or understand. I believe there’s stuff that happens that can’t be explained by the materialism that quote unquote ‘realists’ insist on. I guess I believe there’s stuff now that was unthinkable five hundred years ago, because we didn’t know about it, so why wouldn’t the same be true of five hundred years from now?”

Greta nodded.

“What about you?”

As a child, Greta had wandered along the rocky shoreline of Owl Island with Adelaide. They had stared out at the bay until their eyes crossed, trying to see mermaids emerge from the prickling foam. For a year or so, Greta refused to turn her back on the water, convinced that one of the creatures that lurked within it would scramble onto land and fell her with a single strike of its fangs to her vulnerable throat.