There is a ghost at the top of my street. If there is no such thing as ghosts, then there is a house that contains a story on the corner of Second Street and Union: an impressive three-story red brick mansion, attached to the YMCA, sharing a garden, sharing a parking lot, office space, the laughter of children….And what purgatory that must be, if she is still there to hear it. I discovered her on a walking tour of haunted places in my new town. She was the nanny in this stately gothic home. There was a little boy, a toddler. By all accounts, she doted on him. One day, for just a few minutes, she left him alone on the stairs, playing with his marbles. He choked on one, and died. And in the terrible moments after, she hung herself, in her attic room, with the dormer window looking out over the old wooden shacks by the river, that used to be there, but aren’t there now, the distant hills, the sky. Her name was Angela.