“No time like the present. Let’s go.” As she followed Jimmy into his room, she felt a surge of pride at how far the kid had come, and how far he was willing to go.
Chapter Five
The line at the coffee station was long, and Chris wished she’d gone to Starbucks instead. She’d pulled into QuikTrip on an impulse after being hit with a sudden craving for a breakfast pizza. Holding said pizza in one hand, she worried that it would turn cold before she got her coffee and made it back to the car. She was debating eating it while she stood in line, but the old couple in front of her kept glancing back at her, and it made her self-conscious.
Finally, the couple reached the coffee dispenser. As the white-haired woman became focused on filling her cup, Chris raised the pizza to her mouth. Just as she was about to take a bite, the old man turned to look at her full on. Chris’s appetite cooled faster than the pizza at the sight of the gunshot wound that had ruined one side of his face.
She gasped, and the woman turned to look at her as well. Chris took in the couple before her. The woman appeared lively enough, giving Chris an angry look as she pushed the button to dispense half and half into her cup. She didn’t appear to notice the man’s presence. Chris forced herself to smile at the woman and nod politely. As she did, the man leaned in to scrutinize Chris with his good eye. “Do you see me?”
Chris gave another nod as the woman moved over to finish doctoring her coffee. As Chris stepped up to the coffee dispenser, the man asked, “Will you tell her something for me?”
She sighed. “Sure.”
The woman looked at her. “Excuse me?”
“I was, um, talking to myself,” Chris said, but the woman didn’t turn away. Neither did the man, whom Chris was beginning to suspect was the woman’s late husband. “Tell her for me,” he said, and detailed his message as the woman scrutinized Chris.
“You were on the news last night,” she said, her voice accusing. “You’re that psychic.”
“I’m not a—” Chris started to argue, but sighed, realizing it was futile. “Yeah, whatever.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, convincing people you can talk to their loved ones.” She stood there, shaking her head disapprovingly. At the same time, her husband stood next to her, watching Chris expectantly.
She looked at him and said, “You realize this is, like, the worst possible timing, right?”
“Excuse me?” said the woman again. The ghost shrugged as though it couldn’t be helped.
Chris sighed again, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “He’s sorry,” she said.
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean you’re sorry?”
“He knew about you and Stephen,” Chris blurted. The haughty look vanished from the woman’s face as though someone had slapped it off her, and she turned pale. Chris kept going. “He wanted to punish you, but now he’s seen what he put you through, and he knows you really loved him. He forgives you, and he wants you to know he’s sorry.”
The woman just stood there, staring at Chris in shocked silence. “Thank you,” her husband said, a weepy smile spreading across his ruin of a face. “Thank you.”
Chris said nothing. She set the coffee and pizza on the counter and hurried out of the store.
Back in the safety of her car, she sat there, gripping the steering wheel with an iron grip as she blinked back hot tears and concentrated on her breathing. Her encounter inside had left her feeling both humiliated and deeply sad.
She also felt angry. Angry at Derek Brandt for putting her in this position of having something to prove. Angry at the old man and the rest of the dead for always being present, always needing her, never leaving her in peace. Never just letting her get coffee. Not giving her the option to just quit and live a normal life.
The woman came out of the store and stood on the front walk, scanning the parked cars. Chris put on her sunglasses and started the car, backing away before she could be spotted. Or at least confronted.
She had half a mind to go back to Derek Brandt’s house and tell him off for much more he’d complicated her life with his story, which was already pretty dad gum complicated. But he’d probably be glad to hear it, and he’d likely make good on his threat to call the police. And then he might take out a restraining order. And don’t forget how he could report it all on the evening news, which would make things about a million times worse.
In the privacy of her car, Chris let out a scream of frustration and pounded on the steering wheel. Feeling only slightly better, except for a raw throat, she pulled out into traffic in the direction of home.
Joe was alone in the house. Again. Except, of course, for the pets, but they were asleep and indifferent to his presence. The cat was pretty much like that even when she was awake, anyway.
For more than a century, he’d been in that house—or at least on that property—and in all that time, he’d always had company. Sure, they’d all been murdered and enslaved by the twisted, vengeful spirit of the girl he’d accidentally killed, but at least he’d always had somebody to talk to.
Not that he wasn’t glad they’d all been set free to move on. Still, he missed them. He was grateful to still have Ron, but when she was on a mission, even when she was there, she wasn’t all there. And it never seemed to occur to her that he might miss her, too.
He tried—unsuccessfully—not to dwell on all of this as he sat at the kitchen table and flipped through a home decorating magazine that had been left there. He’d already looked at this one, but at least it was something to look at besides the furniture.
He was re-reading an article on the pros and cons of paint chips versus paint samples when he heard the front door open and close. That sound was followed by footsteps coming toward the kitchen. Joe shut the magazine and shoved it back in its resting place as Chris appeared, carrying a paper bag with a pair of golden arches on the front.
“Hey,” she said at the sight of him.
“Mornin’.” He eyed the bag. “You know, one of my biggest regrets about dyin’ when I did is that I never got to know the joys of a McDonald’s breakfast.”
“You never got to know the joys of clogged arteries, either.” She set the bag on the table. “I’d say you broke even.”
“So how’d it go?” he asked as she went to the sink and retrieved her coffee cup.
“About as well as you’d expect,” she said, filling the mug from the carafe and popping it in the microwave. She leaned against the counter as it heated. “I met Jimmy. He seems like a good kid. I made promises that I probably can’t keep, and then Brandt came home and threatened to call the police.”
Joe winced. “I told Ron she should keep out of it, you know.”
Chris smiled. “I know. Thanks for trying.”
“Where is she, anyway?”
“She stayed behind to work some more with Jimmy. She asked me to let you know, by the way.”
“Of course she did.”
Chris seemed to note the irritation in his voice with a raised eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise?”
“Wouldn’t know. Can’t get there. Can’t get anywhere that’s not this house.”
“And Ron keeps taking off and leaving you behind.” The microwave beeped, and she brought her mug over to the table. “Have you talked to her about it?”
Joe shrugged. “Got to catch her when she’s in a mood to listen.”
“Do you want me to talk to her?”
He considered this as she unpacked a considerable variety of wrapped sandwiches from the bag. “Nah,” he said, “but thanks. Is there something you want to get off your chest?”
“Why do you ask?”
He nodded to the pile of food before her. “I’ve been observing your habits for a while now, and one thing I couldn’t help but notice is that you eat an impressive amount of fast food whenever you’re upset.”
Pausing in the middle of unwrapping a McGriddle, Chris looked down at all the food. “I was hungry,” she said, defensiveness creeping in
to her voice. “Ron was in such a hurry for me to go talk to Jimmy that I didn’t get breakfast. Anyway, I wanted to get a breakfast pizza, but that didn’t work out.” She took a sizeable bite of her sandwich and chewed it angrily.
“Okay,” said Joe. “If you’re sure there’s nothing wrong.”
“What could possibly be wrong?” The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable. She swallowed her bite, looked at her sandwich as if considering another, then laid it down with a grimace. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she said, her voice softer. “Let’s talk about you. I know Ron means well, but she can be pretty dense and needs to have things spelled out for her sometimes. You should tell her how you feel about her taking off and leaving you here.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Joe flattened his hands out on the table, for want of anything better to do with them. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful. The woman gave up heaven to stay here with me.”
“You’re assuming,” said Chris. He looked at her, surprised she’d suggest otherwise, but she winked and smiled.
“She gave up seeing her mother again. Being at peace. Eternal rest. What right do I have to ask her spend every minute in this house?”
“None,” Chris agreed. “But you do have a right to express your feelings, and it’s only natural for you to feel left behind. Ron needs to know that and take it into account.” She retrieved her sandwich and stared at it a moment. “Besides, are you sure you can’t leave? I mean, have you tried?”
“I . . .” Joe let his voice trail off as he realized that he had never actually tried to leave the premises. Sarah had kept him and the others shut up inside for decades. He’d never even been as far as the front porch before they’d managed to beat her. He’d just assumed that anything further would be off limits. “No. I haven’t.”
“Well, then. If Ron’s so good at teaching others how to ghost, maybe she should start with you.”
“Yeah. That’d really be something.”
“Anyway, you’re kind of being an idiot about something else, too.”
“What might that be?”
Chris folded her arms on the table and leaned closer. “Ron loves you, you big dummy. She stayed because, as great as I’m sure it would be to see Mom, heaven wouldn’t have felt very heavenly without you there.” She leaned back and took another bite of her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully this time. After swallowing, she added, “I sure hope I don’t have to die to find what you two have together.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he said.
“Trust me, I’m right.”
Joe smiled at her certainty. “Still, it feels selfish. Like I stole something from her.”
“That sounds to me like a century’s worth of guilt talking.”
“Yeah, well. It’s a hard habit to break.”
“So you’ll talk to her?”
“I—”
“Talk to who about what?” Ron’s voice asked from behind him. She slid into the chair between him and Chris and leaned over the pile of food. “Ooh, McGriddles.” The wistfulness in her voice made him ache.
Chris gave Joe a prompting look, but he only shrugged. Rolling her eyes, Chris said, “Joe was just telling me that he’s never even tried to leave the house. I’m surprised you’ve never shown him how.”
Ron sat back and blinked at her sister before turning her stunned expression on Joe. “You know, that honestly never even occurred to me. And you’ve never asked me to.”
“I just sort of figured it couldn’t be done,” he said.
“Well, we’ll never actually know if we don’t try. Not now, though. I’m beat.”
Joe nodded, surprised at how much this pleased him. “Whenever you feel up to it is fine.”
“Anyway, Chris, you should get ready. You’ll probably be hearing from Derek Brandt soon.”
Chris was about to take another bite, but instead, she tossed her sandwich down with the same disgusted look as before. “What now?”
“No, it’s a good thing! I promise you, by tomorrow morning, he’s going to come crawling to you, begging for help with Jimmy.”
Chris looked sideways at her sister. “You guys got through to him?”
“Almost. And Jimmy’s got a plan that’s sure to smash through that stubborn man’s crumbling walls.”
“I hope you’re right, but I won’t be holding my breath.”
Joe smiled to himself as the sisters carried on their discussion. The other ghosts—the ones he missed—they’d been good company. But these two women, they were family. In all his years of haunting the place, it had never felt like home the way it did with them there.
Selfish or not, he could hardly remember a time he’d been happier, and he said a prayer of thanks to God—just in case the good Lord still listened to the likes of him—for bringing these women into his afterlife.
And he prayed desperately that He wouldn’t take them away again.
Derek woke up from a sound sleep. Again. He lay there a moment, listening. The house was quiet.
It was always quiet. Except when it wasn’t. He was no longer sure which was worse.
The house was dark. He looked groggily at the clock and saw that it was almost midnight. He’d lain down for a nap after getting home from work earlier that evening, only intending to grab some quick shuteye before dinner. But a whole week of getting woken up every night must be getting to him, and he was even more tired than he’d thought.
His mind raced as he lay there, clutching the covers and waiting for the inevitable. His heart started to pound with anticipation.
Finally, it happened. Something yanked the covers off him.
Derek sat up, his heart hammering. His breath came a little too fast as he squinted toward the foot of the bed. The bedroom windows were hung with blackout curtains, so only the dim light of the LED clock penetrated the darkness. Pushing away thoughts of phantom hands grabbing his and dragging him out of bed, he reached over as quickly as he could and snapped on the lamp.
The room was empty.
It was always empty.
Next, he did what he’d done every night since this had begun. He picked up his phone and dialed Christine Wilson’s number. Her land line, not her cell.
It rang. He waited. Then a sleepy voice—her voice—answered. “Hello?”
Derek hung up. He’d known she would be there. He knew that no matter how much he wanted to blame all this on her, it simply wasn’t possible.
And after a week of investigating her, really looking into her methods and practices to the point that he’d almost begun to feel like a stalker, he knew that this wasn’t her style.
He turned the light out and lay back down, pulling the covers stubbornly up to his chin. He squeezed his eyes shut—not out of fear, but something else.
Actually, it was fear—not of whatever was creeping in the dark, refusing to let him sleep, but of what would happen if he opened himself up to possibilities he’d laid to rest long ago. If he let himself entertain the notion, even for a moment, that the thing that kept pulling his covers down wasn’t a thing at all—but a who. A who he so desperately wanted to be real.
Again, the covers were torn out of his grip and yanked down to his feet. Derek lay there, feeling exhausted and defeated. He felt dampness trickle down his temples and pool in his ears, and wiped his eyes. He took a deep breath to steady himself and let it out slowly.
Then he spoke to the empty room. “Okay.”
The bedroom door unlatched and swung open.
That was new.
Derek sat up. He stared at the open doorway and the dark hallway beyond it, and swallowed. He waited, and wondered, but not for long. After a moment, loud voices and music blared from the living room. He drew his knees to his chest, covered his ears and shut his eyes, and hoped it would go away.
After a minute or so, he uncovered his ears and recognized the voices of his co-workers. Steeling himself, he got out of bed and padded into the hallway, whe
re the flicker of TV light bounced off of the walls.
He made his way to the living room, where he found the TV turned to the nightly news and the volume cranked up to eleven. He found the remote and shut it off, then stood there a moment in the dim lights of the street lamp that filtered through the curtains, slowing his breath and waiting to see what would happen next.
He didn’t have to wait long. He heard a door click nearby and creak open on rarely-used hinges. It was the door to Jimmy’s room.
Derek sighed. Of course it was.
He tossed the remote on the couch and retraced his steps slowly toward the hallway and the open door. Once there, he flipped on the light and examined the room. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. He turned the light off and grabbed the door to close it when Jimmy’s old stereo came on. The Foo Fighters started singing about their hero on a CD that had been in that player since before Jimmy had died. Derek stood there a moment, listening to the chorus and thinking that it hit a little too close to home.
At last, he crossed the room and shut it off. He closed his eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and then said in a loud voice that, thanks to years of training and practice, sounded bolder than he felt, “All right. You’ve got my attention.”
Something crashed behind him. He hurried back to the light switch, then spun around to see a stack of games from Jimmy’s bookshelf spilled all over the floor. Monopoly money lay scattered everywhere, mixed with Risk soldiers and Scrabble tiles. Out of reflex more than anything else, Derek knelt to pick up the mess. But as he reached for a handful of the letter tiles, they each started to flip over of their own accord, arranging themselves face up.
Derek sat back on his heels and watched in a dreamlike haze as the tiles gathered themselves into a neat pile on the floor. Then, one by one, they rearranged themselves into a message:
HEY LITTLE BRO
Derek’s throat tightened. He put his hand over his mouth to hold in the tidal wave of mixed emotions that welled up. When he was able to speak again, his voice came out in a shaky whisper. “Jimmy? Is it really you?”
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