[sic]

by Scott Kelly

  My heart pumped ice water. Microphone feedback from the graduation’s PA system whined behind me. A line of black clouds stood guard of the horizon; chill tinged the edge of the breeze.

  At last I reached the peak; my fingers clutched the rusty aluminum railing that lined the outer rim of the tower. Blue paint flaked away under my hands. Panic rose, beginning with a tremor in my legs and working up to my fingertips. A few more deep breaths steadied me. Hundreds of feet in the air with no railing, no safety if I tripped. A straight fall to the ground.

  David stood near the far edge of the platform. Just the two of us, facing each other ten feet below heaven. His arms were outspread, fingertips extended, like he was grabbing handfuls of the wind.

  There were only inches between his feet and the edge of the tower. I knew immediately that he planned to jump.

  I watched the wind whip brown hair around an exhausted face, eyes squinting into the force of the gale that wailed around us. “You don’t have to do this. Things can change,” I yelled, words ripped to shreds as they fought through the wind dividing us.

  “You were right. About Kent, about the girls, about everything. I started this experiment, and it was a stupid thing to do, but I wanted to prove I could. For whatever reason, you guys follow me. And I abused you, and I fucked everyone’s lives up. I’ve done more; things you’ve never heard about. And it’s all right, Jacob. I don’t feel anything, I don’t mind being dead. It’s better than hurting people. This is the only thing I can do to try and make things right. I can take this tag to the grave with me. Goodbye, Jacob.”

  My friend took a small step backward toward the end of the water tower, then hobbled into another, then spun his arms as the final stumble sent him careening over the smooth edge of the construct.

  I blame the death of David Bloom on myself.

  All I could do was stand there in disbelief; I didn’t have the courage to run to him. Instead, I just pretended he’d looked good dying.

  If I was a good me, I might have told him he was full of himself, that Eureka was bigger than him, that we might play anyway.

  But, I’m not a good me. We’ve established that. Besides, those words would have hurt him even more. Had to be all David, or none at all.

  So, I haven’t been perfectly honest with Mr. Aschen. Steven hadn’t been at the tower, only David and I. The rest has been true, though. One tiny fabrication—a conclusion I let Mr. Aschen come to on his own.

  I am the one who planted Steven’s cigarette. The pack that the detective has now—those are Steven’s brand, and the messages are in his handwriting. It will put him at the scene. Let him be interrogated; make him sweat a little bit. He’ll lie, try to manipulate them, and maybe even wind up in prison.

  Someone needs to teach Steven how a framing is supposed to work. And if anyone is guilty, anyone other than myself, he pushed David the furthest. He transformed David’s life into something that couldn’t be walked away from.

  I made sure to be arrested; I had to act first. Steven has framed me twice already, and he’ll twist David’s death into something cheap. I mean, Mr. Aschen is right. I can’t let people walk all over me anymore: gotta learn to say ‘no’ some time.

  The streets of Kingwood are wet. I can only hope the rain washed away my fingerprints on the ladder rungs. If not, I always have the suicide note as a trump card. I can always tell them the truth.

  I’d just rather not.

  Kingwood rolls by; Nora turns onto the familiar slick, black road leading to Broadway. Grackles line it, watching us with interest, respectfully silent for once.

  Thing is, telling my story to the detective, talking with Mr. Aschen like that—it does clarify things for me. Really puts my life into perspective, but probably not the way my counselor wants.

  Even after all this, I’m not sure Eureka is a bad idea. Some good has come from Eureka. More good can come. But, can we handle it?

  Nora brings the car to a stop at the trailer. I get out and walk around to her window to say goodbye. Against all hope, I lean in to kiss her. She slaps me lightly across the cheek. “Yeah, right,” she says. “I’m still pissed at you. It’ll be a while.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll see you, though.”

  “We need to get you into college,” she tells me. “Give me a call in a few days, when I’m done punching things that have your picture on them. We’ll work on your finances.”

  “We’ve gotta have a long talk about that,” I say, realizing I don’t actually want to go. I figure, as long as I have the chance of a fresh, truthful start with Nora, I might as well go all out.

  “We’ll see,” Nora replies. She hits the gas; the front wheels spin on the gravel for a moment before she’s carried away.

  I watch her car meander over the makeshift dirt roads of the trailer park. I turn; my eyes scan the dilapidated set of RVs, a graveyard of slain metal monsters and the secrets they hold. All is silent. The big dogs are sleeping in their makeshift fences and the high drama has at last turned down.

  Then, somewhere in the distance—the sound of glass breaking, a cursing man, a screaming baby. Grackles burst from a tree in unison, synchronized madness. So it goes. If you squint your eyes just right, it even starts to make a little sense.

  If I’m going to keep playing, I’ll need people to play with. That instruction manual David wanted to write, you know? That might work, if everyone knows what to expect. If I can teach people not to make the same mistakes as Kent and Steven.

  Or, maybe not. Maybe, let it all rest.

  But, in the strictest sense, I can’t leave Eureka, even if I try. There will always be an Emily.

  Emily will come for me in one form or another. She’ll come for everyone. Whether or not this is done personally, rest assured: everyone will meet their Emily. She might have the face of a fire, flood, tumor or drunk driver—but she’ll be there, and she’ll change everything. What people call their own, they’re only stealing, and Emily is coming to take it back.

  Eureka or not, that’s life. Revel in the chase, or live with shackled legs, stalked by chaos and her cracked smile. Change, or be changed. Tag, or be tagged.

  Help me

  Hey. This is your author speaking.

  I'm an independent novelist in every sense of the word. I write, promote, and sell these books myself, in my free time, when I'm not at my day job. I'm driven to do this, and I’ve been writing novels since I was a teenager. But, I want more time to write. I want to bring you more stories. So please, click here to join my mailing list and come along on this journey with me.

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  Now, stay tuned for the first act of KEEP THE GHOST.

  Keep the Ghost by Scott Kelly

  Enjoy [SIC]? How about another?

  Presenting…

  KEEP THE GHOST by Scott Kelly

  Kayla is about to commit pseudocide. She's met a couple of experts, and they've sold her on faking her death - wiping the slate clean, emerging a new person. But, she needs a witness. When Kayla begs, Sean gets roped in. I mean, nothing too serious: just lie about when he last saw her.

  Except, things fall apart in a hurry. The police don't see an accident
, they see murder - and Sean is their suspect. She's vanished, and he's facing prison.

  His only hope is to chase Kayla's trail and reach out to the enigmatic strangers who make a life out of pretending to be dead. They call it enlightenment, but Sean calls it crazy. But at least they have a plan, even if the first step is to kill himself. Will Sean have the strength to take the plunge? And if he does, who will come out the other side?

  Click here to purchase Keep the Ghost

  1. Lacuna

  The dead don’t die. Death is something a living person suffers through, once the dead are gone from here. The departed don’t know anything about dread, or longing, or the inevitable. They leave that to the survivors.

  Kayla wants to give everyone her death, and I’m supposed to help.

  A damp wind blows in from the gulf, and I catch the storm front in my teeth. The world is dark blue, in the tones of a sunrise swathed in wet clouds.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I remind her. “A lot of people are going to miss you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not one of them.” Kayla’s mouth moves independent of the rest of her, which is otherwise focused on a cell phone. She clutches it with both hands, pale face squinting into its blue glow.

  She stands on a long arc of South Texas coast that stretches into the oblivion of low light. Salt-born spears of tough gulf shrubs rise behind her, clawing at the sky. The land is half swamp, half shell-covered sand, a primal place defying any postcard expectation of what a beach should be.

  The phone tips down, and she glares over it. “If you would mind your own business, you wouldn’t be worrying about me now.”

  This is true. Still, I found a duffel bag full of money in Kayla’s room—how could I not ask her about that?

  “You need to allow for human curiosity,” I explain. “And hide your shit better.”

  Gray waves roll over the tops of her pink water shoes, depositing sand between the laces. While her thumbs twitch over the keys, she speaks: “Just help me siphon the gas.” Then she looks beyond the phone again, eyes meeting mine for a moment. “Please.”

  I walk to the trailer and climb on it, using the jet ski’s handlebar as leverage. Once up, I crouch, so that my face is even with the little watercraft’s tank. Waves tug at my legs, sucking the sandals from my feet, draining out between my toes. Cold.

  When the clear plastic tubing drops into the tank, I blow on the other end. My breath hits resistance, bubbles to the surface. I suck hard on the tube then pull my mouth away, and gasoline spills into the Gulf of Mexico below. The little cloud of rainbow pollution is drained away by the falling tide.

  Gradually, the stream slows to a trickle. The jet ski is empty, or close to it. I pull out the tube and toss it into the bay.

  “You know what to do, right?” she asks. The phone is gone, and instead she holds her waist-length brown braid. The eyeliner streaks down her cheeks, black tears for a dark day.

  “I know,” I reply. I almost tell her not to go again, but then reconsider. I’ve told her a dozen times, begged her to think about it, about her parents, about what I’ll have to do. But, here I am. Things will only be worse if I don’t help. “Be careful. Make sure and call me.”

  Kayla pulls a neon blue life jacket across her chest, buckling the lowest of three straps first, then working upward. “I’ll be fine,” she says with a quaking voice. “I just need to kill my shadow.”

  “It’s still dark,” I remind her. “It’s all shadow.”

  The last clasp snaps shut. “This is when they talk.”

  “I don’t think you understand how light works,” I say.

  “It’s a metaphor, dumbass. Use your brain.” Kayla turns her head to watch a pelican as it takes flight from a fern-shrouded pond, beating big wings against the sky before gliding over the bay.

  She pulls a dark gray duffel bag from the dry part of the beach and dusts small shells from the bottom while peering inside. Stacks of twenty dollar bills, bundled with rubber bands and stuffed inside plastic bags. In goes the cell phone she’s been using—a cheap, disposable thing I’ve never seen her with before. Her smart phone is in the truck, where it will stay. That can’t follow her across the gulf.

  Kayla rifles through her satchel, ensuring the seals are tight on the waterproof bags. Satisfied, she zips it up, then swings the duffel bag over her shoulder.

  With one hand on the grip, she lifts a leg over the jet ski’s seat. She twists the key and pushes the ‘start’ button.

  Kayla is really going through with this.

  But, nothing happens. She tries again, and again, nothing. And then Kayla is staring at me, this panic in her eyes, and I’m a stupid boy doing the same thing I always do when a girl looks at me that way—I help her. The key isn’t all the way in, so I jam it down with my palm. I twist, then push the starter. The jet ski rumbles to life, and I step down.

  I turn the crank on the trailer, and the watercraft lowers into the bay until it floats, and is lifted gently clear by a wave.

  “Now you can go kill yourself,” I say, trying to smile.

  A seizured curve grips her lips—she’s also trying to smile. It doesn’t work.

  “You guys are going to miss me so much. See you at my funeral.”

  Kayla revs the motor, running the jet ski on what little fuel is left in the lines and at the bottom of the tank. She rides away, bouncing over the white-foamed tips of the chop. I watch until she disappears into the gulf.

  *

  Staring at my phone doesn’t make it ring. Neither does holding it in both hands, squeezing it, or shaking it. Kayla is supposed to call, to let me know she’s made it to the other side.

  Except she’s not calling, and I’m losing my mind. We didn’t plan for this. It’s been four hours. Four hours of pacing the beach and staring at the horizon for any sign of her. Four hours of almost calling the police, or her parents.

  I stare out at the bay one last time, hoping to catch some glimpse of her on the water, hoping maybe she’ll change her mind and come back. Hoping I can avoid the next step.

  But it’s not happening. It’s been too long; she could be in trouble, trapped between worlds.

  I turn back to her red truck, let myself in. I sit on the seat with the door open, my foot propping it up.

  I came to America to find myself, but this is what I’ve got—a girl who believes that if everyone thinks she’s dead, she’ll finally get to live.

  It’s time to break protocol. I call Kayla’s parents.

  Deep breaths, and then I get ready to lie. Lie because if I don’t, things will be even worse. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

  The thoroughly pleasant woman who has been hosting me for the past year answers the phone.

  I talk: “Mrs. McPherson? I’m at the beach. Kayla wanted to take the jet ski out early, before it gets crowded. But, something went wrong. She hasn’t come back.”

  I pull the phone back as a flurry of worried expressions explode from the tiny speaker. My pulse pounds so hard I can’t listen. I did it: I set Kayla’s death loose on the world.

  2. The search

  From blue morning to black night. We caught the edge of the front, storms bursting around us. The wind cuts across the gulf, slings saltwater up from the bay into my face. My clothes and hair are stiff with it, skin raw: I’ve been at the beach for twenty-one hours.

  A whistle blows three times in quick succession, faint over the sound of waves on the shore. In response, the dozen flashlights within a hundred yards of me become alert, unwavering glare focusing on the source of the sound. Satisfied, they return to their task—dozens of them, bobbing in the dark, great hollow eyes hunting the ground for any sign of Kayla.

  I push through the gnarled mass of oceanside bush, almost losing my footing in the process. The sand glows faintly in the moonlight, and miles of raw Texas coast stretch out around me. After hours of searching, I am returning to the pier where the police set up a checkpoint. It’s two in the morning, and the
whistle means we’re supposed to quit.

  I stop at a knotted log, half devoured by sand. No way around—I can only climb, or swim.

  Too tired to do either; I take a moment to shine my light on the glistening bay. The surface is black gloss, a dark skin pulsating. Port Lavaca’s causeway stretches across the water, lit by dim yellow street lights in perfect intervals. A single black car rolls across, soundless in the night.

  “Let me give you a hand.”

  I turn to see one of our friends from school, who turned out in droves as word spread. A foot long black flashlight is clenched under his arm, and he’s got one leg on the log. He pulls himself up, then offers a hand to me. We grip each other’s wrists and use the tension in our arms to balance as we cross the waist-high obstruction.

  “Kayla!” he yells out as we reach the other side, the next pocket of beach. The only response is a rising chorus of similar calls, as other searchers are reminded to keep crying out to her.

  “I hope she’s okay,” I murmur.

  “We all do,” he says, patting me on the back.

  Our two lights meet a third, a girl who graduated with Kayla—I can’t remember her name. We walk wordlessly to a fourth light, and our constellation grows.

  A loathsome wail tears across the beach, the sound of a woman shrieking the lost girl’s name. We can’t see her, but we know the source: Kayla’s mother.

  As we trudge back, our numbers grow. Mostly Kayla’s or my friends from school, and a few police officers and firemen. People rub my shoulder, turn to me and offer broken smiles of encouragement. The assumption is that I’m taking it especially hard, because I saw her last, and because for the past year I’ve lived under the same roof as Kayla.