I found him around the corner, on a semi-busy avenue, and hid behind a bush to observe him. He paced back and forth on the street, one hand to his chin as he muttered to himself. Whenever a car approached, he ran out in front of it, waved his hands wildly, and yelled gibberish like a crazy person. Each car drove right through him. Sometimes, the vehicle’s operator would shudder as they passed through Paul. Coming in contact with a ghost gave mortals and witches alike that strange shiver down the length of the spine.
“They can’t see you,” I announced, stepping out from behind my hiding spot in the bushes. “No matter how much you scream and yell.”
Paul dove in front of a minivan. One of the kids inside gasped and pressed his nose against the window.
The mother’s voice floated from the open window. “You okay back there, sweetie?”
The kid’s head turned as the minivan drove through Paul’s spirit. The kid tracked Paul the entire time. “There’s a funny-looking man back there!”
The mother glanced into her rear view mirror, saw nothing, and frowned. “Are you seeing your imaginary friends again, Nathan?”
Nathan dropped his chin in his hand and muttered, “They’re not imaginary.”
The minivan drove off, taking the intriguing conversation with it.
“Aha!” Paul said, punching the air in triumph. “You see? That little boy saw me! I must still be alive!”
I ushered Paul out of the street so that I could talk to him without the risk of being run over. “It’s actually pretty common for younger kids to see spirits. It’s because they haven’t been ruined by reality yet. The more people tell them that ghosts aren’t real, the more they’ll believe it and the less they can see things from other dimensions. Nathan will probably consider you a weird dream by the time he turns thirteen.”
Paul stood sideways behind the stop sign, as if he might disappear behind the thin metal pole.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m avoiding you,” he replied. “Kindly move along.”
I resisted rolling my eyes. “Paul, I didn’t make the best first impression, and that’s my fault. Why don’t we try again?”
He peeked out from behind the stop sign. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because I can help you find your wife.”
Paul turned his gaze to his boots. “These were hers, you know.”
“But those colors complement you so well.”
He smiled feebly. “I never used to like gardening. I hated it. One of my chores growing up was to mow the lawn and trim the edges. We lived on five acres at the time. Five acres! I had three brothers, and they all refused to help me. They told me mowing grass built character. I’ll tell you what builds character.” He wagged his finger at me, and his smile grew. “Falling in love. Ooh, boy! When I first saw Sarah, I was done for.”
“It sounds like you loved her very much,” I said.
“Oh, I do,” Paul agreed. “She taught me more about myself that I could have ever learned. Gardening was her passion. She loved tending to flowers. The ones that grew like weeds particularly enamored her. When we first started dating, she asked me to work with her in the garden. I refused. You see, I proudly employed a lawn service back then as quiet vengeance for all that mowing.” He adjusted the strap around his chin that kept his broad hat from blowing away in the wind, as if the wind affected spirits. “When I asked her to marry me, she didn’t say yes right away. She said, ‘Will you work with me in the garden tomorrow?’”
“How did you reply?” I asked.
Paul’s wrinkled cheeks spread to their fullest point. “I said, ‘Yes, dear. If you love gardening and you want me to work with you, I am willing to try to love it myself.’”
A tiny piece of my heart broke off and floated over to Paul. “What did she say?”
“She laughed,” Paul said, laughing himself as he remembered that day. “She laughed and kissed me and said, ‘Yes, dear. I will marry you.’ I worked in the garden the next day and we got married in the middle of spring in our own backyard, with all of our hard work on display for everyone to see.” Paul beamed, his eyes glistening with happy tears. “From that day on, I enjoyed every moment of working outside, as long as she was with me.”
“And the boots?” I pointed to his too-small, flowery footwear. “How did you end up with her pair?”
“Mine got stuck in the mud after a particularly nasty rainstorm,” Paul said. “We couldn’t get them out, but I hated the idea of gardening without them. Sarah gave me hers and went barefoot, her toes squishing in the dirt. A force of nature, you know? My boots stayed in that pile of mud all season, and when summer rolled around, we poured concrete around them so they’d be there forever. More proof of our love.” His happy expression fell, and he cradled his head in his hands. “I hope she never digs them up. I can’t find her to tell her not to dig them up.”
I inched closer to Paul to afford him the illusion of privacy and physical compassion. Though I couldn’t touch him, I could at least offer him some comfort. “Paul, I need to tell you something. You didn’t leave your wife. The reason you can’t find her is because she already passed away.”
Paul lifted his face from his hands. “I’m sorry?”
“You were eighty-five years old when you died,” I told him. “You suffered from late-stage dementia, so you thought Sarah was still alive. She’s not, Paul. She died over ten years ago from undiagnosed skin cancer.”
Paul’s brows knit together. “That can’t be.”
“I looked up her medical records to be sure,” I told him. “You were with her when she died. Her family wanted to put her in end-of-life care, but you refused. You kept her at home and took care of her until her last breath.”
“She didn’t want to be in that awful hospice place,” Paul said, the memories coming back to him now. “She wanted to die at home, in her garden.” He broke down in tears. “Amongst her flowers.”
I sucked in a breath and waited until the urge to join Paul’s crying fest passed. I hadn’t expected things to get this emotional. “Her gravestone is in the Yew Hollow cemetery. I could take you there, if you like.”
Paul squared his shoulders and nodded. “I would like that very much.”
The Yew Hollow cemetery was close to the edge of town and bordered the woods. Some of the oldest graves had been overtaken by the earth. Roots and vines grew over the names and dates. The covered plots were only visited by bored teenagers and the occasional thrill-seeker, rather than descendants of the old families. Paul’s surname appeared on several of these hidden gravestones. He knew where each of them was and requested I scrape the dirt off each one with the sole of my boot so the names were visible again.
Sarah’s grave was closer to the front of the ceremony, the part that was more accessible to the living. Paul had sprung for a beautiful black stone, around which tiny purple flowers blossomed from the ground. The dedication—Sarah Holland, beloved wife, sister, and daughter—was engraved in gold. Paul’s name had been added under Sarah’s, but the death date had yet to be filled in.
“She’s not actually down there.” Paul rested his hand on the headstone, or rather, let his hand hover just above it. “She wanted to be cremated and spread in the garden. Her family wanted her to be remembered like this though. I was happy to oblige. These little things” —he passed his fingers through the flowers at the stone’s base— “were all over our yard. I didn’t plant them here. They turned up on their own. They’re actually a weed, but Sarah never pulled them. She loved the color too much.”
“You can be with her again,” I told him. “All you have to do is come with me.”
Paul knelt beside his wife’s headstone. “What if I’m not ready? What if that’s why I’m here and not with her already?”
“You’re here because you thought your wife was still alive,” I reminded him. “Once I help you cross over, you won’t have to worry about that anymore.”
“What’s it like?” he a
sked. “Is it frightening?”
“The afterlife?” I unwrapped a piece of minty gum and popped it in my life. “I can’t say. I’m not dead, so I’ve never been before.”
“I thought this was your job.”
“I’m a newbie.”
Paul lifted himself from the ground and clutched his lower back with a groan. “If I’m dead, why does it feel like I need a damn painkiller?”
“We call that residual life,” I said. “If you stay here, in between worlds, it’ll fade over time. But if you cross over, that pain goes away forever.”
Paul held out his hand to me. “Screw the back pain. I want to see my life. Take me away, newbie.”
As soon as Paul gave me his permission, a new golden message on my sensus popped up: Proceed to otherworld? I gulped down my fear.
“Here we go.”
I clicked Proceed with my imaginary mouse. As soon as I did, I felt my body lift away from the earth. Instinctively, I grabbed Paul’s hand. This time, I was able to touch him, as if the sensus had put our consciousness on the same plane of existence. The earth vanished from beneath us, and we soared into the darkness of the unknown.
We landed at the back of a never-ending line. Hundreds of people waited in front of us for some unknown service. I craned my head, trying to see over everyone else, but the front of the line was nowhere in sight.
“Where the hell are we?” Paul asked grumpily.
It was sort of a reception hall, and like the line, it extended for eternity in every direction. I grabbed Paul’s hand, stepped away from the others, and hauled him toward the front of the line. We marched along for minutes, earning dirty looks from those who waited patiently, but we didn’t appear to be getting any closer to an end destination.
“This is nothing like Morgan said it would be,” I growled under my breath. When Morgan died, she’d landed on a serene pebbled beach, the first level of the otherworld. Though she’d told me not to expect the same thing, I hadn’t banked on things being so different.
A woman in a white pantsuit and white stilettos materialized in front of us. Paul let out a strangled yell of surprise, but the woman didn’t react. Apparently, she was used to reactions like this to her presence. She consulted her clipboard, also white.
“Name?” she requested.
“Gwenlyn Bennett,” I said. “I’m here to assist Paul Holland to the otherworld.”
“Ah!” The woman made a checkmark on her clipboard. “I see you’re one of our newest Reapers. Congratulations! Enjoy your trip back to the mortal world.”
She proceeded up the line. Paul and I exchanged a confused look, then I hurried after her. “Excuse me,” I said, tapping her on the shoulder. “Has there been some mistake? I’m not supposed to go back to the mortal world until I get Paul to his wife.”
“There’s no mistake,” the woman in white said. “Your job is to escort your target to the otherworld. You’ve done that, so you’re contract here is over. Paul, please head to the back of the line. I’m afraid we have a lot of souls to process, and I don’t play favorites.”
Paul stared open-mouthed at the endless queue. “Are you kidding me, lady?”
“I assure you I am not.” The woman in white clutched the clipboard to her chest and extended her hand. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Petra, and if you want to skip that line, you have to go through me to do it.”
“I don’t even know what the line is for!” Paul protested.
“Entrance into the otherworld’s levels,” said Petra. “Each level has its own morality meter. We can’t let people in all willy-nilly. There has to be order!”
Paul clasped his hands together. “Please, ma’am. I just want to be with my wife.”
Petra pursed her lips then flipped through a couple pages on her clipboard. “It would appear your wife is on our paradise level. You must have been a lucky man.”
Paul’s smile practically radiated light. “Paradise, huh? Doesn’t surprise me at all. She was always destined for heaven. How do I get to her?”
“I’m afraid you can’t,” Petra replied. “I have your stats here, and it appears you didn’t perform enough good deeds during your lifetime to earn a spot in our paradise level.”
Paul’s smile vanished. “Are you kidding me, lady?”
Petra plugged her ear. “I’m sorry, sir, but I would prefer if you didn’t raise your voice at me.”
“I’m dead!” Paul shouted. “I expected one thing out of death.” He shoved his index finger in Petra’s face. “To be reunited with my wife! This is an outrage! What’s the point of dying if you can’t be with your loved ones?”
“It is not my fault that death is portrayed so poorly in movies and media,” Petra said, squaring her shoulders. “I’m afraid eternal happiness isn’t always guaranteed here. It depends on how you acted in your life before this one.”
“But Paul was a saint!” I argued. “All he did was garden and dote on his wife.”
“Precisely.” Petra tapped her clipboard, and a full page of notes appeared on the blank page. “We’ve noted Paul’s dedication to his wife. Your devotion to her won you a few points. However, you never volunteered in the community or performed other good deeds unless they were convenient to you.”
“Did I kill anyone?” Paul demanded.
Petra checked her list. “No.”
“Did I steal?”
“A chocolate bar from the corner store when you were in the first grade.”
“Before I knew better,” Paul snarled, “but I never took from anyone else. Nor did I hurt anyone in my path during the course of my life. I am not a bad man.”
“I didn’t say you were a bad man,” Petra claimed. “You’re simply not a good enough man to receive access to our paradise level.”
As Paul gave Petra a piece of his mind, something caught my eye. A corridor appeared to my left that hadn’t been there before. I glanced up and down the reception hall. The entrance to the dark corridor was the only break in the monotonous decor. I nudged Paul.
“Run,” I muttered in his ear.
Without allowing him time to process, I seized his hand and dragged him toward the corridor at top speed. He caught on quickly and got his feet under himself. Thankfully, our transfer to the otherworld had ridden him of his physical ailments, so we sprinted full speed away from Petra and her ridiculous clipboard.
Petra wasn’t so easily lost. As I glanced over my shoulders, she sprouted two enormous white wings from her back and launched herself into the air.
“Holy crap, she’s got wings!” I pushed Paul, urging him to speed up. “Run faster!”
Petra buffeted us about with the air from her wings. “No one leaves the first level without my consent. Stop this nonsense at once!”
“Don’t listen to her,” I puffed. We were almost to the corridor. “I’m going to get you to your wife or die trying. Keep running!”
Petra’s shadow loomed over us. She screeched like an enormous raptor, and when I looked again, her face resembled more of a bird than a human. She folded her wings and dove, reaching out with giant yellow claws to rip us from the ground. I yelled at the top of my lungs, wrapped an arm around Paul’s waist, and took a flying leap into the corridor. Petra’s claws clipped my left ankle. Then everything went black.
When the lights came back on, Paul and I found ourselves in a regular old bar. The light was low, the air was smoky, and music pulsed from invisible speakers. The patrons happily sipped beer and drinks, watched football games on the big screen TVs, or played billiards in the corners.
“This is more like it!” Paul said, nodding in approval. He flagged the bartender. “Can I get a stout, please?”
The bartender obliged and slid a perfectly foamy jug of dark beer across the bar. Paul caught it, took a big sip, and let out a satisfied sigh. As we took both took a seat on the stools, Paul clapped me on the shoulder.
“I have to admit,” he said, beer foam on his top lip. “I thought we were goners there for a s
econd.”
“You’re already dead, remember?” The bartender offered me a cocktail, but I shook my head. “She couldn’t have killed you again, but she probably could have sent us off to some horrible place on another level.”
Paul peered around the busy bar. “This isn’t how I pictured things. I always imagined the afterlife would mimic my real life: Sarah and I sitting on the back porch and enjoying our garden.”
“That might be what the paradise level is like,” I said.
He bowed his head and stared into the depths of his mug. “If I ever get there.”
“Let me tell you something about the otherworld, Paul.” I swiveled my stool around to face him. “It’s full of creatures that love to enchant, fool, and manipulate other souls. There’s no list of good and bad people. That was all a crock of crap. To travel between levels, all you have to do is be smart enough and strong enough to make it through.”
Paul flexed his wrinkly bicep. “I’m not sure that’s going to work out for me.”
“I didn’t mean physical strength,” I said. “I meant you have to have the willpower to do it.”
The bartender stalled in front of us again. She resembled a girl named Billie I’d known before I moved to Yew Hollow, but I bet the bartender looked different for everyone else who passed through.
“Hey,” Billie said, nodding at me. “Don’t I know you?”
“Do you?”
She snapped her fingers in realization. “You’re that girl who resurrected Morgan Summers. Man, that was legendary.”
“You know Morgan?” I asked.
“Sure,” Billie said. “I was here when she first passed through. I can’t wait to see her again. Not that I want her to die, of course.”
“Right.”
Billie looked around for eavesdroppers then leaned across the bar. “Did I hear you two correctly? You’re looking for a shortcut to the paradise level?”
I examined Billie’s expression. It wasn’t easy to tell who in the otherworld was on your side and who wasn’t. “So what if we are?”
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