by Morgan Brice
Simon walked into the Conch and found a booth near the back where he could see the door and the diner’s patrons. He knew he wasn’t the only one with psychic abilities in Myrtle Beach, but his gifts were among the strongest and the best trained of any he had discovered. Simon kept track of the others he had met who had traces of magic or supernatural talent, building a loose network of allies.
He thought of them as his “skeleton crew” because most worked the night shift. That kept dreams and premonitions at bay, and assured they were rarely alone in the wee hours, that time of night poets called the “hour of the wolf.” Most of the crew struggled with their abilities, turning to whatever distractions could give them peace, dial down the psychic shitshow, mute the very real voices in their heads. Simon did what he could to help, but most of his crew had survived this long by being wary, and they valued their privacy and independence with fierce, if sometimes self-destructive, pride. Now, he feared that if his crew’s gifts gave them glimpses of the Slitter and his victims, it could endanger them, all the more so since many of them were also seasonal help.
“Haven’t seen you for a while.” The server’s blond hair had blue and green streaks, and her earrings shimmered with iridescent spangles. Tasha Ilicseu was a long way from her home in Bucharest, and her hit-or-miss telepathic abilities put her on Simon’s radar.
“Been busy,” Simon replied. “How are things?”
Tasha shrugged. “Things are what they are,” she answered in heavily accented English. “Romanians, we understand this and have made our peace with it,” she added with a nonchalant fatalism that never ceased to surprise him.
“Pick up any interesting news?” This time, he met her gaze and made certain that his foremost thoughts projected the Grand Strand Slitter and the missing seasonal workers.
“No,” she replied, and Simon felt the barest touch of her power against his mind, something he would not notice or recognize for what it was without his psychic gift. “But I watch. And I listen. You know something?”
“Not yet,” Simon replied. “If you ‘hear’ anything, let me know.” He paid her two dollars for the coffee she brought and left a twenty for the tip.
“Of course,” Tasha answered. “People like us, we have to stick together.” She pocketed the tip and left Simon to drink his coffee, watching the crowds pass by the windows.
Of all his crew, Tasha was one of the most level-headed. Her telepathy was unreliable and her training minimal, but she’d learned the basics of shielding to keep out unwanted intrusions, and that meant she might live long enough to get her gift under control.
Simon sipped his coffee, killing time to make sure the next person he wanted to see would be on shift. The diner smelled of burger grease and vegetable soup, along with the aroma of pot roast laden with onions. Outside, the weather had changed from the morning’s rain with the seaside’s characteristic fickleness, and the nice night meant that being on foot was the best way to navigate Myrtle Beach’s crowds and traffic. By the time he made the rounds, he’d have gotten in a few miles and hopefully tired himself enough to sleep without thinking about a certain troublesome detective.
A few more blocks brought Simon face to face with a life-size, roaring Tyrannosaurus Rex. The Lost Paradise mini-golf course was lit up brightly enough that it could probably be seen from space, and the velociraptors, pterodactyls, wooly mammoth, and stegosaurus howled and snorted and flapped in all their robotic glory. Dramatic music heightened the stakes for the laughing families and teenagers who played the multi-level course, and the lush palms, hibiscus, and oleander gave the attraction a jungle feel.
Simon tried to remember how long it had been since he had played a round or two of mini-golf and decided it must have been a year ago when friends from his old job in Columbia had come to visit. Myrtle Beach’s mini-golf courses achieved a whole new level of epically themed entertainment, offering pirate adventures, shipwrecks, ancient sunken cities, and ferocious wild animals.
He stood in line behind a group of five college students who were almost too caught up goading each other about the upcoming game to pay for their balls and clubs. When they moved on, Simon glanced around to see whether anyone else was behind him, and then grinned at the harried young man behind the counter.
“Just another day in paradise?”
Quinn Radnor glared at him. “Come over to this side of the counter and say that,” he grumbled, though his tone lacked heat. Quinn was tall and lanky, with skin the color of molasses and hair cut short and dyed bright red. A gold chain with a hamsa charm stood out against his dark skin. Unlike many of the workers in the beach town, Quinn was a true local. He huffed in exasperation and then offered a tired smile. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”
“Fishing for information,” Simon replied. “I know what my gift is picking up, and there’s a storm brewing. Wondering what everyone else’s ‘radar’ is saying.”
Quinn read auras, which meant he had an inborn ability to size up people far beyond surface impressions and body language.
Quinn leaned toward him and dropped his voice. “Tourists are fat and happy. Locals, man, locals are scared. Leastwise the ones working the Strand are.”
“The Slitter?”
Quinn nodded. “Yeah. People talk. Sayin’ crazy stuff. Some I believe, some I don’t, ya know? But couple of girls I know had themselves some near-misses, with this Slitter. Almost got grabbed, that kinda thing.”
“And let me guess, no one wanted to call the cops?”
The man favored Simon with a withering look. “What do you think?”
“Got anything useful? Anything that could help people protect themselves?”
“How is this your problem?” Quinn asked warily. “Are you investigating this?”
Was he? Simon decided the answer could wait for another time. “I’m getting some disturbing visits from ghosts. And if there’s anything people like us have picked up on that might keep the J-ones from getting killed, I figure we’re all better off.” He used the slang for the visa type that most of the foreign student workers carried, a term many employers on the Strand substituted for “seasonal worker.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Quinn said. “I think you’re crazy to get involved. But…if I pick up anything really strange, I’ll let you know. Hard enough being a wage slave around here, without having a sicko running around.”
“Thanks.” Simon moved aside as another group crowded toward the counter, and he slipped past them into the night.
He dodged the throngs of vacationers who crowded the sidewalks. Simon decided to check in with one more of the crew on the way home, and leave the rest for another night. Quinn’s ambivalence made him re-think his sudden involvement, but then he remembered Iyrena’s ghost, and his resolve hardened. What’s the point in having talents if we don’t use them to help?
A few blocks away from the shop, Simon turned down an alley, walking away from the bright lights of Ocean Boulevard. The bars on the side streets catered to a different crowd than the neon-lit pubs and restaurants along the main thoroughfares. Bars like Crawdad Jim’s pulled in a rough crowd. Some were local, others just passing through on the cheap. These watering holes weren’t the kind that showed up on the Chamber of Commerce maps.
Out in the parking lot, Rennie puffed a cigarette. Her blue-black hair was as unnatural as her cherry red lips and the kohl that lined her flinty gray eyes. Rennie’s outfit might have passed for club gear if the attitude didn’t ask for a down payment before a trick ever got down to discussing business. Simon had no idea what her last name was, or whether “Rennie” was even her real name, but they had crossed paths when she had dropped by the shop for protective charms, and Simon had realized he’d just met the Grand Strand’s only other true medium.
“Slumming isn’t like you,” Rennie said when she saw him approach. She took a long drag of the cigarette, then tipped her face toward the sky and blew out a plume of smoke.
“Maybe I just
took a walk,” Simon replied.
“Then you’ve got lousy common sense, wandering dark alleys. Ain’t your mama ever told you to stay clear?”
“She said a lot of things. I only listened to some of them,” Simon replied with a wry grin.
“So what you brings you out here? I know I don’t have what you’re looking for.”
“Just wondering what you’ve been hearing…from the others.”
Rennie dropped her cigarette and ground it out on the asphalt with her heel. “As little as possible. That’s what the pills are for.” Tattoos covered the scars from cutting and needles, but no matter what she used to numb her gift, nothing could hide the weary look in her eyes. He’d offered more than once to get her into rehab, and she’d turned him down.
“Has Iryena come to you?”
“Fuck,” Rennie spat, giving him a baleful look. “What do you know?”
“Not much,” Simon admitted. “Except that someone’s killing J-ones, maybe others. Iyrena showed up in my reading today.”
“Then there’s nothing you can do for her,” Rennie said. She lit up again, but Simon could see her hands shake. “Tell her to move the fuck on.”
“There’ve been others. Have they told you anything?”
“I’m not like you,” Rennie countered. “They don’t show up and have proper conversations. I get flashes,” she said and took a deep puff. “Godawful pictures. Drank myself shit-faced, and it still didn’t stop them.”
“Tell me,” Simon said.
“What will it change?” Rennie argued. “If the cops cared, they’d have done something besides sit around with their thumbs up their asses.”
“Then maybe if those of us who have a little talent work together, we can take care of the matter ourselves,” Simon replied, his thoughts starting to come together.
“You’re fucking serious,” Rennie said, eyeing him. “Really?”
“At worst, maybe we come up with the anonymous tip that makes a difference. Because we notice things other people don’t.”
“I saw a blue fish, and some gibberish words, and a lot of blood,” Rennie said, looking away. “Then another one—blond, sounded Russian or something—was all cut up, and all she showed me was fake palm trees all covered with lights.” Another puff. “Seen other ghosts, but none you’d care about. Now get outta here. Gotta make my rent.”
Simon left Rennie and headed toward the Ocean Boulevard, doing his best to tune into the party vibe of the tourists around him to lighten his mood. He hesitated outside Night People’s Place, one of the better gay bars on the strip, then walked on. Cruising for a hookup wasn’t something he felt comfortable doing even in the best of moods, and tonight he couldn’t imagine anyone thinking he would be good company.
He headed home, a small blue cottage several streets removed from the beach. The 1950s bungalow had a tidy, retro look, with a tiny patch of grass and a carport for the silver Camry he rarely drove. His Aunt Karen and Uncle Jay used to winter in Myrtle Beach, until age and health made the trip less fun than it used to be. When he’d left Columbia, Aunt Karen had heard via the family grapevine and offered him the cottage with a sweetheart deal to buy them out. He’d taken it as a sign and snapped it up.
Usually, coming home after a day’s work gave him a sense of peace. Simon had blended the house’s vintage furnishings with what he’d kept from his apartment in Columbia, and the eclectic mix made him happy, from the kitschy cat clock with the wagging tail to the brightly colored Fiestaware dishes. But tonight, not even his favorite lime green pod chair raised his spirits.
Simon turned on the TV, but nothing held his attention. He poured himself a Jack and Coke and tried to read, then gave up, switched on music, and stared at nothing as he sipped his drink.
If Vic’s phone hadn’t rung when they were in the coffee shop, Simon felt sure they would have exchanged numbers, and maybe Vic would have asked him out right then. He hadn’t imagined the chemistry between them, then or later at his shop. And if the second ghost had just minded her own business and stayed away, Vic might have been wary, but things still might have worked out between them.
Whatever the second ghost said did more than rattle Vic, and Simon had the sense the cop didn’t scare easily. The ghost might have offered absolution, but whatever had happened, it seemed clear that Vic still bore the scars and the guilt.
“Cockblocked by a ghost,” he muttered. “Just my luck.”
To Simon’s surprise, the library seminar room was nearly full. Apparently “Unlocking Your Psychic Potential” was a popular topic, or maybe Mrs. Conrad’s spread of cookies and coffee had done the trick, but the twenty-five people who filled the space hung on Simon’s every word. The presentation wasn’t the difficult part; navigating the Q&A afterward required remaining polite even when faced with some of the most bizarre questions and assumptions.
“When you write your books, do you ever get the feeling that you’re accessing the memories of past lives?” one woman asked. Her bottle-blond hair remained piled atop her head with what appeared to be real chopsticks.
Simon kept a smile plastered on his face. “Uh, no. Pretty sure that’s all me. Current me.”
“You write books about ghosts. Do any of the ghosts ever charge you to tell their stories?” a portly man in the second row piped up.
“I’m not sure how that would work since they’re dead,” Simon replied, feeling his face freeze with the effort to keep smiling.
“My astrologer told me that I’m the reincarnation of Judy Garland. Shouldn’t I be getting royalties from all her songs?” another woman called out from the back of the room.
Simon fought the urge to smack himself in the head. “I really think that’s something you should take up with a lawyer.”
“And we’re almost out of time,” Mrs. Conrad chirped from the doorway, rescuing Simon. “Simon will have his books here at the front of the room if you’d like to purchase them, as well as information about his ghost tours and his fabulous shop down on the boardwalk.”
Simon seized the verbal lifeline and left the podium to stand behind a table with his books and materials. The attendees filed past, most taking a brochure about the tours or a card with the shop’s address. Two people bought books, and a few others snagged the last of the cookies on their way out.
One young woman lagged behind, obviously waiting for the others to go. Simon had noticed her in the back row, sitting quietly but paying close attention to everything he said.
“Dr. Kincaide—” she began.
“Simon, please.”
“Simon,” she repeated with a blush. “I’m Katya. Do you think it is possible to learn to, how you say, turn your…abilities…on and off?” The accent sounded Eastern European to Simon, and he wondered if she was a J-one.
“I know it is, Katya,” he said with a smile, hoping she wouldn’t rabbit. “I’ve had to learn how to set mental boundaries to keep from being overwhelmed.”
“I can’t help overhearing other people thinking,” Katya confessed, avoiding his gaze. “It’s not meant to be rude.” She struggled for the words. “I’m afraid if my bosses knew, they would be angry or think I do not tell the truth.”
“They don’t have to know,” Simon replied.
“But sometimes I know things, and I shouldn’t,” Katya went on. “I dream things, and then I find out they actually happened, only I dream them first.”
“What kind of things?” Simon asked, his voice gentle. Fortunately, Mrs. Conrad busied herself cleaning up, so he and Katya could speak privately.
“Bad things,” Katya said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I see strangers get hurt, killed. Sometimes, later, I see it on the news. Nobody I ever met, so how did I dream of them? I don’t want to dream anymore.”
“Take this,” Simon said, grabbing one of his books. “It’s my gift. Chapter twenty talks about ways you can teach yourself to shut the door in your mind. You can’t leave it shut forever—that would cause other problems�
�but it can help you get some sleep, and keep from being overwhelmed.”
“Thank you, thank you so much,” Katya said, clutching the book against her chest.
“If you want to talk, come by the shop anytime,” he offered. He grabbed one of the cards from the table, and then tore a strip from a piece of paper and wrote his cell phone number on it. “That’s my personal phone. If it’s an emergency.”
“Thank you,” she repeated, then glanced at Mrs. Conrad and scurried from the room.
“You’re never going to get rich giving your books away,” she mock-tutted as Simon gathered his things to leave.
“Nah,” he teased back. “I give ghost tours for that. It’s where the real money is.” Not.
“I hear you,” she laughed. “I’m making out like a bandit as a librarian!”
They chatted a few minutes longer, and Simon thanked her for the invitation to speak, then he hefted his backpack and started for the shop. The ten-minute walk offered a chance to clear his head. A pleasant breeze ruffled the stray hairs that had pulled loose from where he’d put it up in a knot, and for once, the humidity hadn’t risen to stifling.
Simon admitted that he had hoped maybe Vic would show up to the library presentation. He knew it was a long shot, but part of him had remained optimistic, all the way to the end. Now, he felt down. He knew Vic’s rejection had to do with the ghosts of his past, pun intended, but it felt personal.
Come on, snap out of it. Stop at Night People’s Place, have a drink, get a little somethin’ on the side, blow off steam, he thought. And just as quickly, he remembered how much he hated anonymous encounters. Maybe see if there’s someone new on the dating app—