I heard her scratching on the back door as I started putting on my shoes, once again thanking the gods of new technologies for Velcro straps.

“Bootsie, cut it out,” I yelled. “Aunt Lyssa is going to kill you if you mark up that new paint.”

When the doorbell rang, I congratulated myself on not jumping at the sudden sound. Still, I did look through the side window before I opened the front door.

“Hey, Rog,” I said. Everything was cool now. No problema.

“Yo, Mad,” he said. There was a question in his eyes, but he didn’t ask it. “Ready to sweat?” he asked instead.

I started to say yes, but then I remembered the dog.

“Wait, gotta let Bootsie in. Darn dog always has to come in through the back door.”

Roger walked with me as I tromped through the house and threw the door open.

“Boots?” I said.

But she wasn’t there.

Roger tapped me on the shoulder.

“Maddy,” he said, pointing at something. “Man oh man? What the heck is that?”

I looked at the newly painted back door. The back of my neck tingled as I read the three words scratched deeply into the wood:

I AM HERE

5

SCARY CITY

WHAT’S THIS ABOUT, Mad?” Roger’s fingers reached out to touch the letters, which could only have been been scored so deeply by a very sharp blade—or a claw. There was a little smile on his face. I knew it was because he was getting a thrill from the creepiness of the situation.

It was the same smile Roger had on his face when I had taken him on my own special Running and Eating Horror Tour of Providence after finding out that not only was he an ace Cross-country Crazy, he was also a nut for supernatural stuff.

The two of us set out that day from Waterplace Park. We did the whole Banner Trail, up and down Smithy Hill, back and forth across the bridges, sprinting and sightseeing, taking in not just the museums and the urban architecture, but also those special places sacred to scarydom. East Side, West Side, College Hill always in sight.

I can still see him holding a Dell’s Lemonade in one hand while reaching out with the other to lightly caress the door frame of the Atheneum.

“Man oh man! Edgar Allan Poe touched this here, ah’ll bet,” he said in a soft voice as he stared through the door of the old library.