Chapter 6: Code 7 and Other Ghost Stories
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Doug Stanton – Evening Briefing
Some days, the city felt heavy before the sun even set.
Tonight was one of those nights.
The sky was too still, a bruised gradient from copper to asphalt gray. Even the pigeons seemed slower, like they were conserving energy for something no one had told us about.
I sat in the briefing room chewing the end of a pen while Grey called the roll. Jackson sat beside me, surprisingly alert. Bradford leaned against the back wall like he owned the building, and Chen was halfway into a bag of kettle chips.
"Tonight's forecast: low calls, high weirdness," Grey muttered. "We've got open patrols, a few school events, one senior bingo night, and a handful of Code 7s. Don't burn anything."
Jackson leaned toward me. "What's a Code 7 again?"
"Meal break," I whispered. "The most sacred code."
Lopez arrived last, coffee in hand, nodding toward Grey. "Word is there's a food truck downtown testing their midnight menu."
Grey said nothing, but raised an eyebrow. In Grey-speak, that meant: interesting.
Bradford muttered, "I swear, if this is another tofu taco disaster..."
Chen licked salt off her thumb. "No, that was the pumpkin hummus one."
Jackson looked at me. "Should we be scared?"
I smiled. "Terrified."
But I already knew tonight wasn't going to be about tacos.
It was going to be about stories—ghosts, old and new—and the things we bury just beneath the laughter.
---
Jackson West – 7:58 p.m.
I'd been a cop long enough to know when things were too quiet.
And tonight? Yeah. Quiet in that specific, whisper-on-the-back-of-your-neck way. The kind of stillness that came right before bad news or Bradford's karaoke.
Our "Code 7" took us to a lot behind a laundromat on 12th—known among rookies as "neutral ground" because none of the neighborhood gangs used it and most locals avoided it after dark.
But tonight, the precinct was gathered in full: Stanton, Chen, Lopez, Bradford, and even Grey—who, contrary to myth, does eat food. He had a Styrofoam box balanced on his knee and was chewing like a war vet who'd fought in the BBQ wars.
The food truck was bright orange, blasting old soul music. The owner, a guy with one gold tooth and a bowtie tattooed on his neck, handed out foil-wrapped mysteries labeled only with marker letters: "B1," "C2," "Z?"
Chen bit into something labeled "Z?" and went, "Oh. That's... spicy shrimp mochi?"
"Why?" Lopez asked, horrified.
Stanton held up his own burrito. "Mine has sweet potato and kimchi and... peanut butter?"
I tried mine. Sausage, jalapeño, eggs, mint?
Bradford coughed. "This truck is evil."
But we kept eating.
Because Code 7 wasn't about the food.
It was the ritual.
And I liked that we all stopped. Just for a little while.
Like the night owed us that pause before it got weird again.
---
Angela Lopez – 8:36 p.m.
I don't believe in ghosts.
I believe in stress-induced illusions, unchecked gas leaks, and people watching too much late-night cable.
But still—there was something about this spot. This block. This air.
"Do you guys know about the Monroe House?" Chen asked, unwrapping a second mystery burrito.
"The what?" Jackson said.
Chen leaned forward conspiratorially. "House two blocks up. Nobody's lived there in years. Realtors won't list it. It's had three break-ins, and all three perps ran out screaming before they stole anything."
Stanton grinned. "Oh no. This is a ghost story dinner."
"It's local legend," Chen said. "One neighbor swears he sees a woman in the window. Another says they hear piano music at 3:12 a.m."
Bradford rolled his eyes. "It's an old house. Things creak. Air moves. Mice party."
Grey, who had been silent until now, said quietly, "The last time we got a call from there, dispatch went dead for thirty-six seconds. No technical reason. No tower outages. Just silence."
We all turned to look at him.
He shrugged. "Could've been interference."
But none of us spoke for a few seconds.
Even the food truck seemed quieter.
Then Stanton raised a finger. "Who wants to go check it out?"
I smirked. "Of course you do."
---
Lucy Chen – 9:05 p.m.
When Stanton asked who was coming, everyone suddenly found reasons to be busy.
Grey: "Backlog reports."
Lopez: "New rookies need eyes."
Bradford: "I value my sanity."
So it was me and Stanton.
Of course it was.
We parked out front of the Monroe House and just... stared.
It wasn't grand. Just old. Two stories. Faded green shutters. One cracked front step. Porch light permanently dead.
Even the way the trees hung over it made the place look forgotten.
"I've seen scarier things in a breakroom microwave," Stanton said, stepping out.
I wasn't scared. But my instincts were loud.
Inside, the air was stale. Not rotten. Just stuck.
We cleared the first floor easily: empty kitchen, dusty fireplace, one unflushed toilet that made me reevaluate humanity.
Then we reached the stairs.
Every step creaked like it wanted to tattle.
At the top, a door sat slightly ajar. Bedroom.
"Ladies first?" he offered.
"Nope."
We pushed it open together.
Inside: dust. Old bedding. A chair by the window. And a music box—open, spinning silently.
No music.
But it spun.
And kept spinning.
Stanton walked over and gently tapped it.
It stopped.
He looked at me. "That's not weird, right?"
It was very weird.
We didn't find anything else.
But I kept thinking about that box.
Still do.
---
Tim Bradford – 9:22 p.m.
Back at the precinct, I was filling out reports while the weirdos chased shadows.
Lopez passed by, still chewing her mystery taco.
"You believe any of that haunted house crap?" she asked.
"Nope."
"But you didn't go."
"I didn't say it wasn't creepy. I said I don't believe in it."
She chuckled. "Fair."
Reyes came in from the back lot, flushed with effort. "Someone parked a scooter in the fire lane again."
Tomlin trailed behind her. "Also, someone stuffed gummy worms into the vending machine's dollar slot."
Rookies.
Lopez and I watched them for a minute.
They reminded me of Chen and Stanton when they started. Full of ideas and nerves.
"You ever think Stanton might be good for this place?" I asked.
Lopez blinked. "Who are you and what have you done with Bradford?"
I shrugged. "He makes the rookies laugh. Makes them want to show up."
She sipped her drink. "Yeah. He's weird. But he's honest."
---
Natasha Romanoff – 10:03 p.m.
I knew the moment something was off.
Doug's texts had slowed. His updates got shorter.
And when he finally sent a message, it was just one sentence:
"Back from the Monroe House. Not haunted, probably."
Probably?
I grabbed my coat.
By the time I reached the precinct, he was already back, sitting on the bumper of the cruiser with a half-eaten granola bar and a dazed expression.
"You saw something," I said.
He looked up. Smiled. "Just dust and one spooky music box."
"Want to lie again?"
He blinked.
Then shook his head.
"There was... a moment. Like I wasn't alone. Like the house was watching me back."
I sat next to him.
"You think you brought something back?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper.
A child's drawing. A man. A woman. A dog. Crayon smiles. But the mother's face was violently scratched out.
I didn't touch it.
But I knew what he felt.
The past leaves shadows.
And sometimes, we walk right through them without meaning to.
---
Later – Chen and Doug debrief in the cruiser
Back in the cruiser, Chen stared out the windshield while I finished logging the house call on the tablet.
"Do you think it was just dust?" she asked.
"The box? Yeah, maybe. But something about the room…"
I trailed off.
She didn't press.
Chen rarely did.
"Sometimes I think the weirdest part of this job isn't the people," she said. "It's how quiet some places get. Like they're waiting."
I nodded. "Or like they remember things we're not supposed to see."
She turned to me. "That's poetic. Are you writing a book?"
"I keep a notebook."
"Of course you do."
But she smiled when she said it.
---
Down the hall – Rookie whispers
Down in the hallway by the vending machines, Reyes and Tomlin stood whispering like kids around a campfire.
"I heard Chen and Stanton saw a ghost," Tomlin said.
"No way."
"Grey said the Monroe House is off-limits now."
"He did?"
"Okay, he didn't say it. But he looked at it on the map and then looked away."
They went quiet as I passed.
I didn't correct them.
Let the story grow.
Maybe it would protect them.
Maybe not.
---
Breakroom – Final pause
In the breakroom, Jackson handed me a sticky note with something scrawled in all caps:
"IF THE BOX SPINS AGAIN, CALL A PRIEST."
I posted it on my locker.
Next to Reyes' mug gift. Next to Tomlin's doodle of "Mop Squad."
These people—this group—had become more than coworkers.
They were the ones I'd take into a haunted house.
And the ones I trusted to walk back out with me.
---
One last note – Natasha's voice
As we walked to the car, Natasha paused.
"Do you think it followed you?"
"Not sure."
"If it did?"
"I'd introduce it to karaoke night."
She laughed.
Soft and honest.
The kind that filled up the dark.