by Erin Huss
Bottom line: there are no grounds for me to be upset.
Except, I am.
"I have to go," I say and beeline for the door.
"Don't leave, Zoe!" Brian calls after me.
When your boss tells you not to leave, especially when you’ve been at work less than an hour on the Friday before a three-day weekend, you should probably stay put. But if Brian knew there was a spirit following me around, I'm sure he'd be fine with me taking a personal day.
I slap my phone to my ear. "Come with me, Penelope." I power walk to the parking lot, my briefcase swinging at my side. "Get in my car and we'll go someplace to talk privately."
Penelope's mouth falls open when we reach my copper-colored BMW i8—a hundred-thousand-dollar car with Back to the Future style doors. "The Gazette pays really well!"
"No, it doesn't. This was a present from the last spirit I helped." I slide into the driver's seat and unlock the passenger door out of habit when Penelope appears beside me. She reaches for the seat belt several times until she realizes she can't grab anything.
"Do I have to pay you? Cause I don't have any money, and I don't have a BMW!"
"Shhhh, calm down. You don't need to give me anything." I press the start button located on the center console, but nothing happens. "Shoot." I slam my foot on the brake and try again. No such luck.
"Um, no offense, but do you even know how to drive this thing?"
"Yes. Sort of. I've only had it about"—I check my watch—"two hours." I push a few more buttons, and the dashboard lights up. I put the car in reverse and ease out of my parking space. "Let's go someplace where no one is watching us."
"Like Irky Ira?" She points to Ira who is standing beside the dumpster holding the pink box of donuts and giving me a peculiar look.
"Yes, exactly. And why is he irky?"
"It’s a nickname … wait a second. Is your last name Lane? As in John and Mary Lane, the real estate agents?"
“I'm their daughter.”
“I know you! I mean, I don't know you, know you. Obviously. But we call you Looney Lane.”
“Yeah, well, you're dead, and I'm the only one who can see you. So perhaps we don't call me Looney Lane anymore.” Like ever. Also, “Who is we?”
“Me and my friends. I heard you talk to yourself.”
“I'm talking to dead people. Hence the reason you're here.” I drive across the street to Earl Park. We appear to be the only ones here, which is perfect. I don’t need an audience. But before I can deal with Penelope, I need to call my dad.
“Hid-eee-ho there, pumpkin,” he answers on the first ring. My dad looks like Tom Selleck and talks like Mr. Rogers.
"Dad, I need you to do me a solid and be sick."
"But I have a meeting with Beth later today, and we're at an open house right now."
"I've um … had a visitor, and it's a long story. But I need you to be sick."
"Is that Zoe?" I hear mom say in the background. Mom doesn't know about my gift. Dad does. It's better that way. Mom doesn't do paranormal.
"It is," I hear Dad say to Mom. "But"—he coughs—"I don't feel good."
"No, Dad. You need to have food poisoning."
He sighs. "Okay. I got it."
"Thank you."
We hang up, and I reach into my briefcase and grab a Bluetooth. My phone is old and has zero ability to connect to anything, but the Bluetooth is a great prop. "Okay. Back to you," I say to Penelope.
"Why do you see me if I'm dead?"
"I'm a medium. It's a gift. You're not the first spirit I've seen, and you're not the last, I'm sure. But, oddly enough, you look different than the others."
"Really?" She perks up. "Like better?"
"Honestly? Worse."
She frowns.
"Typically, spirits are restored to their prime and aren't so translucent." I extend a finger, and she leans away.
"Am I, like, a sick ghost then?"
"I don't know what's going on. Let's start with the basics." I grab a notepad from my briefcase and click my pen, which is silver and engraved with Lane, a present my dad gave me on my first day of work. “What’s your last name?”
“Muffin.”
I scribble this on the top of the paper. “Any relation to Mr. and Mrs. Muffin?”
"My dad is Arnold Muffin and Michelle is my step-mother." She says step as if it's a bad word.
Here's what I know about Mr. And Mrs. Muffin: they're in their mid-fifties, both are round with rosy cheeks, she is the president of the crochet club, he wears straw hats, they own Butter Bakery. When your last name is Muffin, you kind of have to, right?
I'm not much older than Penelope, but we've never met before. I've only just entered the "real world." My parents sheltered me my entire life thinking I was a schizophrenic. Turns out I'm not—I just speak to the dead.
"Do you ever work at Butter?" I ask.
"Only in the summer and on holiday breaks. I go to Trucker Community College." Trucker is one county over, about a forty-minute drive north, and twice the size of Fernn Valley.
"Can I ask about your outfit?” Penelope says. “I don’t understand what’s … happening.” She moves her hands around helplessly.
"There is nothing wrong with my clothes." I pick off a strand of cat hair from my shirt, which is a pink chiffon blouse that I bought last week. The sales lady said it looked good with my light brown hair, dark eyes, and tiny frame. I have on jeans and a pair of checkered Vans. And just once I'd like to connect with a spirit who will easily transition to the next phase without having an opinion on my wardrobe.
"I didn't say there was anything wrong with your clothes …" Penelope holds up her palms, and I notice the paint smudged on her fingertips. "My grandma has that shirt, and I thought maybe you were old … but, like, came back young … I-I-I-I … I can't be dead! You can't let me be dead!"
"Bringing people back to life isn't one of my gifts, unfortunately." Actually, no. Fortunately. That would be a little too creepy.
"You have to help me!" Her voice reaches an ear-piercing octave. “I know I’m not dead!”
"I'm trying to help you. We’ll figure out what happened so you can transition peacefully."
"What if I don’t want to transition anywhere?”
“I know this must be shocking—”
“We can't figure anything out by sitting in the car! How many ghosts have you helped?"
"Spirits, and really just one, but—"
"That's it? You've helped one! I need a professional. Someone who knows what they're doing. I'm in trouble. I need help! Don’t you see? I’m not dead!"
"I'm trying to help you, Penelope. Please try to stay calm. I know this is difficult to take in—"
"Stop telling me to stay calm—" And poof, she's gone.
Um …
"Penelope?" I stumble out of my car and survey the park. "Penelope?" I call out. "Hello?" I check the duck pond, behind the bushes, the trees, and the gazebo. "Hello?" I close my eyes and concentrate, hoping to feel Penelope's spirit. I don't feel anything but the wind on my face and a gnat, which has landed on my nose.
I shoo the tiny insect away and walk back to my car, feeling utterly baffled. Penelope's words roll around in my mind: I'm in trouble. I need help! She sounded so bone-chillingly desperate that just the memory brings goose bumps to my arms. Then there’s her appearance. Her translucent like state, the abdomen wound, the twigs in her hair, and the cut under her eye. Clearly, she didn’t go down without a fight. No wonder she’s so frantic.
From everything I’ve experienced and read, a person will be restored to his or her prime after death. For example, the last spirit who visited me was in his nineties but looked thirty. Sure, Penelope is only twenty-one, which most would argue is your prime. So it’s not like she would appear to look any different than she did when she was alive. But why would she still have the abdomen wound and the cut under her eye?
I take out my key fob and unlock my car. The driver’s side door slowly lift
s just as a horrid thought enters my mind. When the previous owner of this car showed up and declared he’d been murdered, I didn’t believe him. He was old, and early reports stated he’d died of natural causes. I thought it was my job to help him accept this news. In the end, he turned out to be right. He had been murdered. He had known all along there was nothing natural about his death, despite my insistence, and I made a promise to never question a spirit's instinct again.
Which is problematic because Penelope did say, “I know I’m not dead!” She was rather adamant about it too. Why would she appear to me if she weren’t dead? Can a person’s spirit leave a living body …? Oh, crap.
I bend over and put my head between my knees, feeling light-headed. I’d read about this once in a book. When a spirit made contact right before their death. It’s rare, but it has happened. If I’m right, that means Penelope isn’t entirely dead. She’s not entirely alive either, which makes this situation entirely dire.
Find out what happens next in book two.
The Medium Place
erinhuss.com
About the Author
Erin Huss is a blogger and the #1 Kindle bestselling author of the award-winning Cambria Clyne Mystery series. Erin shares hilarious property management horror stories at The Apartment Manager's Blog and her own daily horror stories at erinhuss.com. She currently resides in Southern California with her husband and five children, where she complains daily about the cost of living but will never do anything about it.
A Note From Erin Huss
Hello!
I want to personally thank you. Yes, YOU, the one with the book/phone/Kindle/tablet in your hand. I appreciate you taking the time out of your busy life to read Making a Medium.
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Also by Erin Huss
Cambria Clyne Mystery Series
French Vanilla & Felonies
Rocky Road & Revenge
Double Fudge & Danger
Strawberry Swirl & Suspicion in the Pushing Up Daisies Anthology
Mint Chip & Murder (coming soon)
Find information on all of Erin’s books at:
erinhuss.com