by Dima Zales
Still, maybe I should sleep with two guns underneath my pillow. A girl can never be too cautious.
2
“Order up for Tables 6, 10, and 14!” The head chef’s voice beckoned me back to the counter where the steaming portions of fried chicken, grits, corn on the cob, and greens sat waiting for a hand to carry them to the customers. I finished refilling the sweet tea for a gentleman reading the paper on my left before heading back to where the chubby cook bellowed.
The Sweet Spot was a tiny but well-known Southern cuisine restaurant. Odd to have one in Albany, but it was pretty popular. The place was owned by Colton Banks—a South Carolina native who moved up North when he married a New York resident. I’d known him for going on three years and secretly felt a little proud of how the place had bloomed since we met. Not on my account, of course.
I scooped up the three plates and balanced them on my flat, round tray before gliding towards the tables. They were each labeled with little plastic outlines of the state of South Carolina. Corny but memorable, as Colton always said. Work hours were odd for me because I basically went through them with my brain turned off. The hand gestures of writing orders, carrying trays, and pouring drinks came unconsciously. No matter how fast the chef rang up orders, I could get them to tables, no sweat. Most people had a career or were in college in their twenties, but I was dancing the elegant dance of a waitress.
After the plates had been passed out, I set about clearing off the table of a couple who had just left. The pair was currently on the sidewalk giggling obscenities in each other’s ears. Something in my chest ached as I watched them from the corner of my eye. I couldn’t remember what it was like to have a life, let alone a boyfriend. Must’ve been nice.
“Jordan?”
I turned my head to the left to find my best friend and fellow waitress Lauren Yi waving her dishrag at me. She shook her head, biting back a smile.
“You were cleaning the same spot for like a minute. Something on your mind?”
I shrugged. “Not much.”
“There’s a surprise,” she teased, her brown eyes flashing with mischief. That might have offended some people, but Lauren had an abrasive personality. She seemed like a bitch when you first met her but beneath the attitude was a richer, more interesting Lauren. Besides, how many Korean girls worked at Southern cuisine kitchens? Maybe I’d Google the statistics later.
“I’m just saying that you’ve been moodier than usual. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do,” she continued, holding up the salt and pepper shakers while I cleaned underneath them. Maybe I should have told her the truth—that not twenty-four hours earlier the archangel Gabriel was in my kitchen marking off souls in my own personal Penance Book. She’d probably just rent me a nice white padded room and a jacket to match.
“Just tired and ready to call it a week,” I said as earnestly as possible.
She wiped her brow, ruffling her pin-straight black hair. “Aren’t we all? When’s your shift over?”
“Soon. I’ve got a few stops to make and then I’m passing out for the weekend.”
Lauren arched an eyebrow at me. “For a girl with no life, you sure have a lot of ‘stops’ to make. You’re always late for work. What are you doing all the time?”
I met her eyes with a dead serious expression. “I’m Spider-Man.”
She burst into giggles, slugging me in the arm before moving on to the next table. “Get back to work, you moron.”
Her insult seemed to be just the pick-me-up I needed because I finished off my shift with a genuine smile. I waved good night to everyone and headed out of the door into the cool August evening. If I got lucky, I would spot another ghost to finish off my debt. Gabriel seemed to have confidence in me. I could only hope The Big Guy did as well.
Fifteen minutes later, with keys dangling in my hand, I walked up the short stairwell to my apartment only to stop halfway there. The cute guy from the park was leaning against the wall to the left of my door. Shock and fear rolled through me. How did he know where I live? How should I react? Could I get to the gun in time?
Finally, I decided to play it cool and continued up the steps as if nothing had bothered me. When I got closer, I could see him more clearly. He was even more handsome up close. His longish dark brown hair was parted down the middle, hanging low over his forehead and along the side of his neck. Intense sea-green eyes held my gaze.
He smiled at me with those full lips when I walked over. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I replied, not sure of what else to say. “Can I help you?”
“Actually, yes. Mind if we step inside for a chat?”
I glanced around in the narrow, empty hallway. No witnesses. Shit. “Uh, I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”
The stranger raised his hands. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I swear. You can even pat me down if you want to.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
He grinned. “No comment. So how about it? I’ll be quick, I just don’t want an audience.”
I took a deep breath. This was a terrible idea. I knew that. He probably knew that. Still, according to the law I couldn’t shoot him outside of my property and claim self-defense so I might as well go inside. After all, I was a small relatively cute girl and he was a big strapping fellow. The cops would probably believe me over him if I claimed he assaulted me. Morally questionable but effective.
I stuck the keys in the door and nodded. “Yeah, come on.”
When the door opened, he didn’t try to rush me. He stepped inside and watched me close the door. I was careful not to lock it in case I needed to escape. I tossed my duster on the chair by the round kitchen table and headed for the fridge. The key was to act casual. The guy had no idea I owned a firearm, nor was he aware that I knew self-defense.
“So what’s up? I saw you in the park the other day.”
“Yes, you did. I was surprised.” That made me look at him. He seemed serious.
“Why? Were you pretending to be invisible?”
The stranger chuckled, walking towards me. I froze, pulse thundering in my ears as adrenaline shot through me. He stopped a few inches short of actually touching me and murmured:
“You have no idea.”
Still meeting my eyes, he reached up into the cabinet and brought down my favorite green coffee mug. “You were going to make coffee, right?”
The truth hit me like a lightning bolt. How could he have known where that was unless he had been in the apartment? I felt a paralyzing jolt of fear grow in my stomach and spread through my body like cold poison. Then, out of almost nowhere, I got angry.
“You—? You were in my apartment? How the fuck did you get in here? Why? Are you some kind of sick freak or something?” I searched for the nearest weapon I could reach. He didn’t even try to defend himself as I discovered a dirty kitchen knife and brandished it at him.
“You and I have something in common, Jordan.”
“You have three seconds to get out of here before I call the cops or stab you, not necessarily in that order.” I held the knife inches away from his throat.
His smile widened into a smirk.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I am not playing with you. Get. Out.”
“Y’see, there’s something you can do that other people can’t.”
“Now.”
“And that’s how and why I tracked you down.”
“Time’s up. Now get out!” I punctuated the last word by slashing at his arm. The blade met resistance but no blood came out. It just sort of…bounced off.
“I’m dead…and you can see me.”
My mouth dropped open. “You…you can’t be a ghost. You can touch things.”
“I’m a poltergeist. I can touch whatever I want, whenever I want.” He reached a hand out towards my cheek. I flinched, expecting to be hurt but instead it felt like touching some sort of metaphysical barrier. The skin on my cheek tingled, though not in the same way that a ghost passed by me. Th
is sensation was more constant, as if energy were rushing from him to me.
“I need your help. I want to know what happened to me, and you’re the only person in this entire city who can help me.” His voice was gentler now. The teasing smile vanished, leaving his face vulnerable, serious, maybe even wounded.
I shook my head, taking another step back and kept a loose hold on the knife just to make myself feel better. “You were stalking me and now you’re asking for my help? You’re out of your damn mind.”
“I don’t have a mind to be out of. I can’t remember anything. All I know is that you’re the only person in Albany who can see and hear me. That’s all I’ve got to go on.”
“Give me one good reason to help you,” I shot back, crossing my arms underneath my chest.
The poltergeist paused, softening his tone. “What if the reason I’m dead is that I did something terrible? I can’t go wandering around for the rest of eternity not knowing. Wouldn’t you want to know?”
Something in my chest stung when he spoke those words. He couldn’t possibly have known about what happened to me, but the question wasn’t lost on me. I often wished I hadn’t killed an innocent man or that I could forget about it, but at least I was working to make up for it. If I denied him the same chance, what would that say about me?
“I…I can’t guarantee anything, but I can give it a try,” I said after a long, tense silence.
He sighed in relief. “Thank you.”
A few minutes later, I had rummaged through my duster to find my notepad and the mystery dead guy had perched himself on the counter by the sink. My hands still shook a bit as I smoothed down the paper enough to write. How embarrassing.
“What’s your name?”
“Michael. I can’t remember my last name, oddly enough,” he said, his brow wrinkling a bit with worry. I started the page.
Michael
Caucasian, possible Mediterranean background
Brown hair
Green eyes
6’1’’
Athletic build
No accent
Apparently a poltergeist
“You’re Jordan Amador, right?”
I looked at him in surprise. He pointed to the counter behind me where there was a stack of bills. “It was on your mail.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, that’s me.” I cleared my throat and started off with my official preliminary questions for a new spirit.
“When did you ‘wake up’?” There seemed to be a prominent process where troubled souls would recover after their death either at the site or nearby hours, or sometimes days, later. They never immediately remembered how or why they died. In my experience, it took between twenty-four hours to two weeks for a ghost to remember his or her death. Perhaps Michael would have that sort of luck.
“About two days ago. I was lying on a bench outside of some sort of club.”
“When did you realize you were dead?”
“At first, I thought the couple outside were just ignoring me, but then I started to notice they couldn’t hear me no matter how I shouted. Even when you’re ignoring someone, you flinch if they scream right in your ear. The weirdest part is that I could still touch them even though they couldn’t see me.”
He paused to chuckle. “Found that out the fun way, though. I flipped up this chick’s skirt in the middle of the street just to test out the theory.”
I rolled my eyes and wrote “horny dead asshole” below the last line. “Can you remember anything about your life yet?”
“Nothing more than my name so far.”
I snapped the notepad shut and took a good long look at him from head to toe. “Based on your face and body, I’d say you’re not out of your twenties. The clothes you died in are the clothes you’re wearing now, and that makes it a little harder to figure out what you did for a living.”
Michael wore a modest attire: a black button up shirt with the sleeves tucked back, dark blue jeans with a chain hanging off the back pocket, and black Timberland boots. The reason ghosts wore clothes was that their souls retained a self-image. Since human beings wore clothes at nearly all times, it was only natural that the way they saw themselves as spirits was represented that way as well. The fact that he had feet was what threw me off the most, which explained why I hadn’t recognized him as dead sooner. I made a note of his wristwatch and the silver chain with a small padlock around his neck before moving on.
“By the way, how did you know you were a poltergeist instead of just a ghost?”
Michael shrugged. “Well, think about it. The definition of ‘poltergeist’ is ‘noisy ghost.’ I figured that’s what made me different from a regular ghost since in most legends and stories, they can’t touch stuff.”
That actually sort of made sense. Hell, I’d only remembered what a poltergeist was because of the 1982 movie. Despite his somewhat immature behavior, the knowledge of the term suggested Michael may have been well-read when he was alive. It could come in handy later.
“Tomorrow, we’ll try to find the place where you woke up and see if anyone has discovered your body. With any luck, your memory will return and we can find out your soul’s final wish,” I said as I set the pad on the counter.
He nodded, raking a hand through his hair to push it out of his face. “How…how do you know all this stuff?”
I let a small, tired smile cross my lips. “That’s a long, complicated story. It’s late. I don’t want to get into it tonight so why don’t you go wander off and I’ll see you in the morning.”
I started to walk away but he jumped in front of me, seeming confused. “Wander off where? And what am I supposed to do all night?”
That made me pause. There was no reason why I should have trusted him enough to let him stay in my apartment overnight, but then again I couldn’t let him go around making trouble for other people. In the end, I just sighed and flourished a hand at the apartment.
“If you promise to behave yourself, you can just stay here. In the den. If you come in my room while I’m asleep, I’m going to start researching ways to get rid of you.” I ended this statement with a harsh glare.
He held his hands up in supplication. “I’ll be a good boy. Scout’s honor.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
With that, I sidled past him with great care not to bump into him. I wasn’t ready to feel that odd sensation again. I shuffled off to the bedroom and shut the door with a sigh, feeling much more tired now that everything slowed down enough for me to process it. I kicked off my shoes, peeled away the skirt, and unbuttoned the shirt most of the way before searching for my nightclothes. Once I redressed, I flopped down on the bed face-first, allowing a frustrated groan to tear from my throat.
“I cannot believe I’m having a sleepover with a dead guy.”
3
I smelled coffee. Coffee and bacon. What the hell?
My body reacted before my mind could catch up—arm poised at the door, gun in hand. Then, I remembered I had a houseguest and I let my arm drop. A dead houseguest.
After scraping myself off the bed, I threw on a robe, some ratty blue slippers, and stopped to check myself in the mirror. I was halfway through fixing my mussed black locks when I realized I had been preening for a freaking dead guy. I shook my head at myself and walked out of the room.
“I got bored waiting for you, so I decided to make breakfast,” Michael told me, shaking the pan a little to get the bacon a nice even brown. He was a picture of nonchalance, as if it wasn’t unusual that he was a dead guy cooking breakfast for a girl he hadn’t known a day yet. It made my head hurt just thinking about it.
“Though I can’t believe you don’t have any eggs. Even poor people have eggs. That’s just depressing.”
“You’re dead. What do you care?” I yawned, grabbing my mug and the fresh pitcher of coffee.
“I’m merely remarking upon the fact that you’re pathetic.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Go rob a bank and get me some cash. Then
you can have your damn eggs.”
He clucked his tongue at me, turning off the stove. “We’ve got to work on your people skills. Sleep well?”
“No, but that’s normal for me.” After adding cream and sugar, I sipped away at the delicious beverage while searching for a plate to put the bacon on.
Michael watched me with his arms crossed. “Well, the good news is that I apparently know how to cook. Maybe that will help us.”
“Yep, you’re a regular Emeril Lagasse. Bacon a la bacon, with bacon garnish.” I smirked when he scowled at me. We’d known each other for less than a day and we were already arguing. That had to be some kind of record for me.
“So I was thinking,” I continued, biting into the first strip. “If you’re a poltergeist, shouldn’t you be able to change between being solid and intangible?”
“I tried that out last night. I’m not very good at it. It sort of…comes and goes,” he admitted, staring at his outstretched hand as if it would change. Nothing happened. Poor sap. “So you’ve really never met something like me before?”
I shook my head. Michael scratched his head. “That’s just…weird. I wonder why I’m not a regular ghost…or why I didn’t just go to Heaven or Hell.”
“I don’t know either. I’ll ask Gabriel about it the next time I see him.” I moved to the kitchen table with the coffee and bacon, scooping up my notepad to review what I’d written last night.
Michael followed, sitting opposite of me. “Who’s Gabriel?”
“The archangel? God’s Messenger? Doesn’t anyone read the Bible any more?”
“I had to make sure. What’s he want with you? Do you two have a—wait for it—heavenly relationship?”
I rolled my eyes again. “He keeps track of all the souls I assist. I can’t exactly just call on him. He’s always in different parts of the world helping people.”
“Oh, I get it. You help ghosts find their final wishes so they can pass on to Heaven or Hell.”
“Exactly.”