Just Kill Me

by Adam Selzer

  It’s all real. I am in a car with a murderer. Who knows way too much about me and is quite likely taking me out to turn me into a ghost myself. He doesn’t know that I know the truth, so I have the upper hand, but still. Shit. It’s not the same dread I was feeling a couple of days earlier, but the squirrels in my stomach are doing a regular ballet.

  I try to calm myself down, repeating my best historical rude words to myself in my head.

  Ordure (1390).

  Hinder-fallings (1561).

  Pilgrim-salve (1580).

  The park is sort of crowded when he pulls over next to it. If he’s been planning to kill me there, he’s off to a bad start. It’s full of dog walkers. Witnesses.

  “It’d be tough to do a ghost hunt here,” I say. “So much else in the environment.”

  “If we get a filming permit we can kick them all out,” he says.

  He glances around, like he’s trying to find an out-of-the-way place where he can kill me without anyone noticing. I spot a few places myself, little clusters of trees in the tiny park.

  I can see him eyeing them too.

  “What about Tooker Place?” he asks.

  “What’s that?”

  He points to an alley half a block down Dearborn. “That alley. Used to lead to a hole in the wall you’d climb through to get to the Dil Pickle Club. You know about that?”

  “Sure. The indoor Bughouse Square. Lillian hung out there, too.”

  ”Why don’t we go check that out? I’m not sure if the old building is still there.”

  I nod, even though I’m sure the building is gone, and I’m sure that he knows it.

  There’s only one reason he can be leading me into that alley.

  This is it.

  I notice Punk Rock James’s car idling on the other side of the park. Cyn isn’t in it.  As was the plan.

  My nervousness takes over my body and I have to force myself to take each step.  As I text “Tooker” to Cyn, OED swear words race through my head. I lock in on them, letting them distract me enough from what’s happening to keep me moving.

  Fex. Commixtion. Coney burrow.

  Gong. Tantadlin. Rutting.

  I think I see Cyn moving in the shadows as we cross over Dearborn.

  There isn’t much to see in Tooker Place; it’s just a regular alley now, all garages and garbage cans. The mansions beside it are pretty fantastic, though. It’s like we’ve stepped into a Charles Dickens novel. There are even gaslights flickering on one of the garages.

  “You know,” he says, “your new haircut makes you look even more like Lillian.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Addle. Fling-dust. Croupon.

  Crepitate. Nodcock.

  “In fact,” he says as he comes to a stop in the middle of the empty alley, “people might even say you look just like her ghost right here.”

  Tewel. Emiction. Mig.

  Shit-breech. Shit-fire. Shit-sack.

  If that’s not confirmation, nothing short of actually dying will be.

  “So, listen,” he says. “I want to know. Do we have a deal?”

  I start to step away, not turning my back until I’m out of arm’s reach. Then I start to run.

  “Hey,” says Ed. “Where are you . . .”

  His voice cuts off mid-sentence, and I stop in my tracks.

  Then I hear Cyn’s voice say, “Shit, that was too close. He was getting in position.”

  Then Punk Rock James says, “Megan, come here. We’re gonna need a hand with this.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Usually, when a man shoots a woman, he attempts his own life. When a woman shoots a man, she seems to think that’s enough for one day.”

  —NELLISE CHILD (LILLIAN COLLIER), CHICAGO MURDERS

  Live from the Allstate Showcase Studio in Tribune Tower on Michigan Avenue, you’re listening to Pretty Late with Patti Vasquez on WGN. It’s Halloween in Chicago, and after the break we’ll be back with more from the crew of Mysterious Chicago Tours, as well as the group from Diciotto Pizza, the south Loop’s hottest new spot.”

  Patti takes off her headphones and smiles. “Awesome,” she says. “Have some more pizza. Please.”

  I take off my headphones and take a bite of the cold pizza that some new local pizzeria brought to the radio station. It’s delicious. Everything is delicious. The world is delicious.

  It’s the end of October. The good cider is in stores, along with Franken Berry and Boo Berry, which only ever come out around Halloween. Trader Joe’s has an entire section of pumpkin things. Pumpkin granola. Pumpkin crepe mix. Pumpkin popcorn.

  My vocal chords feel like raw hamburger; I’ve run two tours a day all through October. Not always on our own bus—we’ve had to book extras to fill the demand, and the microphones don’t always work like they should. I sound like I’ve been a smoker since I was two. I’m exhausted.

  And I love it.

  Now we’re sitting in the radio station that operates out of the Tribune Tower, talking to Patti Vasquez, a whip-smart stand-up comic who has her own nightly talk show.

  We start filming the TV show in December.

  And according to Brandon, I’m going to be the star. The “breakout character.”

  Rick is fine with this. He says he’d rather be in the background, build contacts, and just be the court jester on the show. It’s perfect for him.

  While Patti goes to talk with Craig, the radio show’s producer, for a second, one of the guys from the pizza place leans over.

  “So, did you guys know Edward Tweed?”

  “I used to work for him,” says Rick.

  “I was on one of his tours a couple years ago,” says the pizza guy. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard he’d disappeared. Do they really think he killed that one guy who worked for him?”

  “It’s complicated,” says Rick. “It looked like a suicide at first. Then Tweed just disappeared a few days later, right after the cops got a tip that Tweed had been seen around the site where the guy died before the body was found.”

  “So, you think he’s off in Mexico or something?” asks the guy.

  “Probably. But some mysteries you just never get to solve.”

  Cyn sips a beer. Patti slips back into the booth, all smiles.

  “Back in sixty seconds, one live read,” says Craig.

  Patti gives him a thumbs-up, then turns to us. “You guys are terrific,” she says. “You mind staying for the second hour?”

  “Sure,” says Rick. The two of them chat about the local stand-up scene for a second, then the producer gives Patti a signal and she reads a spiel about an insurance company into the mic—a “live read,” it’s called. There’s a minute or so of news and traffic, and then we’re back.

  “All right, we are back on Pretty Late with Patti Vasquez. We’re talking to Luis, the chef at Diciotto on Eighteenth Street, who has brought us some fantastic pizza, and with the crew of Mysterious Chicago, the authentic ghost-tour company. Now, Ricardo, you’re trained as a stand-up.”

  “Correct.”

  “Is being a tour guide a similar skill set?”

  “Broadly, yeah,” he says. “There’s a different sort of research, and you have to rewrite your act based on traffic patterns and whether any ghosts show up, but it’s a similar skill set to stand-up, yes. We got really lucky when we hired a new girl who turned out to be a natural. Megan is why we got the TV-show deal. I’m convinced of it.”

  “Nah, man,” I say. “You would have gotten it without me.”

  I keep myself from saying, Especially now that Tweed is gone.

  “No,” says Cyn. “It’s pretty obvious that you’re going to be the focus of the show, Megan.”

  “Now, one thing I see in your online reviews,” says Patti, “is that people really have been seeing a lot of ghosts on your tours. And not, like, guys in costumes, but actual ghosts.”

  “We see some weird stuff,” says Rick. “Some things that I’ve really got no explanation
for. It’s not always like ghosts in movies, but sometimes it’s pretty close.”

  “Shadows that shouldn’t be there,” I say. “We hear disembodied voices. It could all be just how our brains react to things, though.”

  “Yeah,” says Patti. “I think that part of why we perceive things as ghosts is that our minds can never really wrap themselves around the concept of death. We look for reasons to think that life goes on.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “And if we don’t find them, our brain manufactures them.”

  “Or, you know, they just actually are ghosts,” says Cyn. “Let’s not put ourselves out of business saying they’re just optical illusions.”

  Everyone laughs a bit. It’s such a warm, friendly vibe in the studio. I could hang out here all night.

  “And you really do the research on these places, so you know who they’d be the ghost of,” says Patti.

  “Usually we do,” says Rick. “I mean, we always do the research. Like, deep research. We never take mythology at face value. But sometimes we find ourselves in a location that sure seems haunted, and we aren’t sure why. Like Tooker Place.”

  “Tooker Place,” says Patti. “I love it. Like, ‘I took ’er to Tooker.’  Where’s that?”

  “It’s a little alley that used to lead to the Dil Pickle Club on the Near North Side,” I say. “Which was a bar for anarchists and weirdos right near Bughouse Square, which was a park for anarchists and weirdos.”

  “My kind of bar,” says Patti. “Anarchists and weirdos.”

  The woman who reads the traffic reports isn’t in the room with us, but I see her on a monitor, and she chimes in with “Yay, anarchists and weirdos!”

  “There’s not a lot of data on the park being haunted,” I say. “But it seems like it ought to be, so we’ve been going there now and then.”

  “It’s a good historical story any way you cut it,” says Rick.

  “There’s a flapper I like to talk about there named Lillian Collier,” I say. “She used to have a bohemian tearoom about two blocks from here, and she hung out at the Dil.”

  And I tell the whole story of Lillian Collier, live on the air. Patti’s face is lit up the whole time, and I feel like I’m doing a good deed, telling Lillian’s story live to thirty-eight states and parts of Canada.

  “So, long story short,” says Rick. “We started parking the bus on Tooker Place to tell her story sometimes. And we aren’t sure why, but that alley is freaking haunted.”

  “You sound like you’re on Ghost Encounters,” Cyn teases. “‘That place is freaking haunted, bro!’”

  “I do not,” says Rick. “And I’m being for real. We’re seeing this silhouette against a garage there that just appears and disappears. There are stains on the ground that appear and won’t wash away, and then they’ve vanished in five minutes, but they still show up in pictures. We hear footsteps. It’s crazy.”

  “So who’s haunting it?” asks Patti. “Any theories at all?”

  “That’s the real question,” I say. “We’ve heard rumors of there being some cholera victims buried on the site of the Newberry Library, which is right nearby, so that’s one option.”

  “People got killed at the park now and then, too,” says Rick.

  Rick, of course, has no idea what Cyn, Punk Rock James, and I did at Tooker Place two months ago. We’ll never tell him. It’s better all around if he just thinks the ghost sightings there are of a victim of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 or something.

  “Hang on,” says Patti. “We’ve got a caller.” She checks her screen and says, “Okay, this looks like it’s actually a call for Megan. Megan, this is Zoey on the line. Zoey, what’s up?”

  I look at Cyn. She looks and me and shakes her head. Rick looks shocked and Cyn whispers something in his ear.

  There’s nothing but breathing on the line for a minute.

  “Um, hi?” I say.

  More breathing.

  “Zoey?” asks Patti. “Are you there?”

  And then a voice says, “Megan . . . help . . . ,” and hangs up.

  “Okay, sorry about that,” says Patti, as I keep my poker face. “Craig, did she say what she wanted?”

  “Just that she had a question for Megan.”

  Patti nods and just moves on. “We’ve got another one on the line who wants to talk about the ghosts here in Chicago. Dave in Orland Park, you’re on the air.”

  Rick fields the usual questions about the Excalibur Nightclub having been a morgue once (just an urban legend), while I pull up my phone. I haven’t logged in to any of the services I used to use to chat with Zoey in a few weeks, and I don’t see any messages now.

  Cyn gives me a look, like, We’re on the air. Do it later, and I put the phone down.

  I never looked at Edward’s phone records that Cyn downloaded, but she confirmed that he’d gotten e-mails from Zoey telling him all about me.

  And she says she found out exactly who Zoey was, too. All she told me was “You dodged a bullet, but trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  Between prep for the show and how busy we ended up being in October, I’ve barely had time to think about Zoey. I haven’t written one story about the Emperor and the Evil Queen since summer. Or about any other villains, either.

  I didn’t even start taking classes like I planned to. I pulled out of the junior college. I figure I’ll get to that when I have more time. Even Mom thinks college is a waste of money for most people today; and if I’ve got a chance at a career without it, I should take it. I’m getting more education on this job than I probably would in school, anyway.

  Plus, I get to go on radio shows that broadcast out of Tribune Tower, the gothic skyscraper on Michigan Avenue. Which would make a perfect castle for a villain.

  After the show wraps for the night, we take some photos with Patti, then walk out to the parking lot below the building, where Cyn’s truck is parked. It’s a beautiful night. Sweater weather.

  “So, that was weird,” I say. “Zoey.”

  “It can’t have been her,” says Cyn as she steers us out of the parking lot and onto Lower Michigan. “Trust me.”

  I nod and try not to worry too much as we get into the city and wind through the nightclub zone. It’s way too cold for some of the outfits the girls on the street are wearing. I wouldn’t want to slut-shame them or anything, but I bundle-shame them. It’s cold. Get a jacket.

  “Hey,” says Cyn. “I’ve got something I want to show you. You up for a minor expedition?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where are we going?” asks Rick.

  “You, Ricardo, are going home,” says Cyn. “This is a girls-only trip.”

  “Ah,” says Rick. “You know, you can go online and see all those movies that were just for the girls in health class, so I know all about what’s in them.”

  “Glad you’ve solved that mystery,” says Cyn. “But this is still a top-secret girls-only mission.”

  “Whatever.”

  The interstate is empty, and in five minutes we’re in Humboldt Park to drop Rick off. He waves good night, and Cyn starts turning the truck around.

  “So, where are we going?” I ask.

  “Magwitch Park.”

  “What’s out there?”

  “Morticia.”

  She pulls onto the interstate and I stare over at her. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I sort of need to come clean about all that.”

  “What?”

  “She’s an old friend of me and Rick. I had her come on that tour so she could slip out at the old cemetery grounds and we could say she was a vanishing hitchhiker in front of Brandon. Rick thought it was the dumbest thing ever.”

  “Yeah, I remember he seemed kind of embarrassed.”

  “Not Rick’s style, but you have to fight dirty sometimes to get where he’s going, and I’m the one who does the fighting.”

  “So you know her?”

  “Yeah. She’s awesome. And she won’t stop asking me
about you. I didn’t even ask her to come that second night.”

  “Seriously?”

  “She’s basically nocturnal, too. She’ll still be up.”

  Cyn drives along through the streets and I try to process this. I’ve had plenty of dreams and fantasies about Morticia. She’s the crush I’ve focused on to get over Zoey. I keep checking my e-mail, hoping she’ll track me down. The only thing is that I didn’t want another long-distance relationship.

  Magwitch Park isn’t too far away, though.

  I text Rick:

  MEGAN:

  YOU KNEW MORTICIA?

  RICARDO “THE RASCAL” TORRE:

  Ah! That’s the trip! Yeah, I thought it was a lame stunt.

  RICARDO “THE RASCAL” TORRE:

  But yes, she’s great. And I guess you’re “in” enough now to know all the secrets. Tell her I said hi. Her name’s Enid, by the way.

  Enid. It really is Enid.

  How charming and old-fashioned.

  My knees start to shake, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies take up residence in my stomach. That’s what you call a group of butterflies. A kaleidoscope.

  I wonder why they didn’t come clean on this before.

  “Will she be okay with my stories?” I ask. “And . . . what goes on in them?”

  “She can outdo you. Trust me. You won’t freak her out.”

  While I’m thinking, I notice a newsletter for the nursing home on the floor and catch a stray item about their beloved receptionist, Shanita, dying.

  “Wait, Shanita died?”

  “Yeah,” said Cyn. “Couple weeks ago. It was quite a shocker.”

  “You didn’t tell me?”

  “We’ve been so busy, I forgot.”

  Cyn steers the truck out of Humboldt Park and turns on the radio. I’m actually—and I hate to say this—sort of relieved. I liked Shanita. But she knew way too much about what we were doing. It makes me nervous that anyone knows anything.

  I’m excited, but at the same time I’m feeling bad about Shanita and worried that maybe Enid will find out about my stories and stuff and decide to stay away from me. And a bit upset that Rick and Cyn tricked me and didn’t let me in on the secret until just now.