Call Me Dreamer

by Ryan Maitland

  Call Me Dreamer

  By Ryan Maitland

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Reintroduction

  Halloween is weird…

  I mean, at any other time of the year, parents tell their kids to beware of strangers, but at Halloween? Parents take their kids to strangers’ houses after dark to beg for treats! Tell me that isn’t weird!

  Then there are the ghosts…

  Ghosts tend to get stronger around Halloween. To my eyes, they look more solid and are more talkative and animated. Take the ghost that has been staring at me for the last two hours as an example…

  I was working the cash register at Anne’s Antiques, one of a handful of antique shops in the tiny town of Amana. The store is really just an old house that has been converted to a store by removing the furniture and adding a bunch of shelving. This was going to be my second Halloween since moving to this town and my plans for Halloween night mostly consisted of hunkering down in my house to wait out the horror that is Halloween, largely because of the ghost in front of me, and others like him, that would not leave me alone…

  This ghost, whom I’ve decided to name Mr. Roadkill, looked like he had been the victim of a bad motorcycle accident. He was wearing leather pants, heavy black boots, what used to be a nice leather jacket, and maybe some leather gloves. He was also missing at least half his face! The left side of his face was mostly white bone, the skin and muscle scraped away by the asphalt, and he was missing his jaw, though his tongue somehow managed to survive mostly intact. It was grisly, for sure, but I’ve become a bit desensitized to this kind of horror.

  Now, having said that, that doesn’t mean I was okay with the situation…

  I figured Mr. Roadkill was a fresh ghost, having died recently, since most ghosts that have been around for a while tend to take on how they looked in life, not how they looked immediately after death. Ghosts can appear to be any age they want, along with any clothing, and can even alter their overall appearance to some extent. They can take any blemish they might have had in life and erase it in death, something I was wishing Mr. Roadkill would do… posthaste…

  As near as I could tell, this ghost must be anchored to an item in the store, but I couldn’t tell what, though I’ve been searching for it. Ghosts tend to be anchored to a person, place, or object. They can’t really move all that far from where they’re anchored. If the person or object that they are anchored to moves, they move too.

  I’ve tried asking the ghost which object he was anchored to, but the most I’ve gotten from him are a few wet moans… I haven’t tried, since, as it’s generally, a bad idea for me to interact with ghosts too much. I tend to make ghosts stronger by dint of my being able to see and hear them. Think of ghosts like Tinkerbell. The more you believe in them, the stronger they become. Being able to see and hear ghosts means that just by looking at them, I can make them stronger. Talking to them, or interacting with them in any way, can make them poltergeist strong.

  With some ghosts, this is okay; with this one, though… I didn’t want to chance it.

  I should probably explain.

  My name is Jane Doe. Yes, this is my real name! Yes, I’m that Jane Doe! I’ve decided to write these memoirs, at the age of eighty-five, to clear up some of the hero worshipping I’ve seen in biographies, movies, and documentaries. Why did it take me so long to write these? Well, for one thing, I had to get approval from a number of different intelligence and law-enforcement agencies. For another thing, the Jane Doe foundation has kept me busy, what with all the new psychics that are emerging more and more. In short, writing my memoirs is my hobby, not my job…

  One word of warning when reading this book: there are only two names that have not been changed. The only names that are real are mine and Mr. Fluffybutt. This is to protect me as well as them. Every other name is one that I’ve made up for them. Some names are flattering, others… less so. Call it writer’s prerogative.

  Now, where was I? Oh, yes! Mr. Roadkill…

  Mr. Roadkill is only the latest ghost I’ve seen on my way between my house and the antique store. The others, thankfully, have gotten past their grisly phase and have moved on to aimless wandering and semi-coherence. A few relive their deaths over and over, often screaming all the while. Not for the first, or last, time, I am grateful that not everyone that dies leaves a ghost behind. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.

  I was studiously avoiding looking at Mr. Roadkill when I heard a scream coming from one of the upper floors. I locked the register and made my way up the stairs as quickly as I dared, not being one for aerobic exercise on account of my anemia. The scream had turned into little whimpers of fear as I made it to the second floor, trying to isolate which room it was coming from.

  I came across two middle-aged women that looked to be one cat away from making the news as cat hoarders. They were staring, wide-eyed, at one of the metal shelves. I turned to see what was causing the commotion and found a large black spider investigating a set of ceramic figurines.

  “Silly spider,” I cooed at the arachnid. “I’m sure those figurines look tasty, but trust me when I tell you that there are much better morsels for you elsewhere!”

  I gently coaxed the spider onto my hand, figuring I’d relocate it to the space over the cash register, which faced the front entrance of the little shop, where there were bound to be more bugs for it to rid the store of.

  I turned to the ladies, with the spider crawling around my hand, and saw what looked like sheer terror on their faces!

  “Now ladies,” I chided gently, “George, here, isn’t going to hurt you! He’s more interested in flies and mosquitoes!”

  “Kill it! Get it away!” one of the ladies shrieked! The other lady, oddly enough, only looked at me curiously, like she wasn’t sure of what she was seeing.

  “Okay! Calm down!” I assuaged the frantic woman. “I’ll give him a nice new home! You ladies just please continue shopping!”

  “Ladies?” the formerly-terrified woman asked, looking around. “But… you and I are the only ones here…”

  She didn’t notice the other screaming lady? Dammit! The woman that was giving me the odd look a moment ago must be a ghost! She’s probably anchored to the other woman…

  I made my way hastily out of the room in a desperate attempt to avoid having to explain what just happened. As I left, I’m sure I heard the woman muttering, “What a strange girl…”

  I made my way somewhat slowly down the stairs, not wanting to frighten George too much, and back to the cash register. I saw Beth, the realtor, waiting for me. Beth is a middle-aged woman and is somewhat on the plump side. She’s the town’s local realtor and the woman that sold me the house I now lived in. She’s always recognizable by her wardrobe, which is color coordinated, from her shoulder-padded top down to her sensible shoes. Today’s color was turquoise, in sharp contrast to the oranges and browns that decorated everything else this month. She’s also a bit of a gossip, so I’ve had to be careful what I say and do around her…

  “Oh, what a neat decoration!” Beth cooed, looking at my hand.

  “What decoration?” I asked as I reached up to the rafter area just over the cash register, trying to coax George off my hand and, hopefully, into a nice living space for him. When I turned back to Beth, her face was one of stunned silence, which is somewhat rare for her.

  “What?” I asked, staring at the woman with a turquoise purse over her shoulder.

  “Was that a real spider?” she asked, a slight tremo
r in her voice.

  “Yep!” I declared with a smile. “I’ve decided to name him George! I’m hoping he’ll keep the flies off me!”

  Beth stared at me for kind of a long time, like she was trying to decide whether I was playing some kind of prank on her. She eventually shook her head a little and asked, “How would you feel about having a party at your place?”

  “Um, what?” I asked, nervously.

  “You know! A Halloween party!” Beth enthused. “Your place would be absolutely perfect for it! It’s got the whole ‘haunted mansion’ vibe to it! You don’t even have to do anything! I’ll bring all the snacks and the entertainment!”

  Beth was looking disturbingly cheerful at the prospect of having the party at my place… I didn’t really know how to tell her that parties aren’t really my thing, much less how I’ve never even been to a party before…

  “Um, okay!” I chickened out…

  I know… I’m a coward… pure and simple…

  “Great!” Beth cheered! “Oh! And I’ve got someone I think you’ll love! His name is Tim Foyle and he’s a journalist!” Beth was practically squealing at this prospect! “How about tomorrow evening? That will make it just a few days before Halloween! Oh! And, of course, you can invite anyone you like!”

  “Okay…” I stammered, trying to stem my rising panic.

  “Great! I’ll see you Friday, then!” Beth waved as she exited the store…

  Hell and blast! What was I going to do?

  Chapter 2

  Friendly Advice

  Before leaving, I made sure to ask Anne to come to the party that Beth was holding at my house.

  “Wait, Beth is holding a party at your house?” Anne asked, sounding slightly confused.

  “Well, she, sort of, foisted it on me…” I hesitated, feeling embarrassed.

  “And you didn’t know how to say no…” Anne finished for me with a sigh.

  “Yeah…” I affirmed, squirming a little.

  “Okay, I’ll be there,” she told me, smiling a little. “It’ll be nice to introduce my husband, Ben, to you. He’s heard so much about you already!”

  “He has?” I asked, panicking a little. I was remembering that Anne knew about my ability to enter people’s minds by touching something of theirs. I hadn’t told her about the fact that I can see ghosts, though… That would make things weird…

  “Only good things,” Anne promised, reassuringly. “And none of your secrets. I’ve told him that you’re an industrious young girl and a hard worker!”

  “Oh, good,” I sighed, breathing easier and blushing a little at the flattery.

  I left for the day, unchaining my bike from the back and making my way down the main street back home, thinking of how I was going to do this… It was while I was stopped to catch my breath that I realized that I would need some advice from a woman I looked up to, my adopted mother, Sarah Foxx.

  She was a member of the board of directors of the Magus foundation, an organization that promotes skepticism and rational thinking. She was the one that took me in after I ran away from home to take their challenge, proving my paranormal abilities, and quietly winning their million-dollar grand prize.

  She had spoken up for me when it looked like I might be given back to the evil people that had kept me prisoner up until then. Through some legal wrangling, she had made sure that I would never have to face my step-mother, Billi Rubin, and my biological father, Jack Offerson, ever again if I didn’t want to.

  She also knew of all the weirdness about me…

  If anyone would understand my predicament, it would be her…

  After one more break to catch my breath, I was home again. My home is actually a fairly sizeable mansion, of sorts. It was built by a wealthy family in the Victorian style, with three above-ground floors (and one basement) with windows in nearly every room. Leading up to the house is a tall stone wall with an iron gate and a gravel driveway. I had managed to buy the house outright for cheaper than it would normally have gone for, due to its reputation for being haunted, not to mention how much work it needed to become livable.

  To be fair, the house actually is haunted, but I made a deal with the resident ghosts that lets me stay in it, mostly undisturbed.

  Peter waved to me as he opened the iron gate, letting me onto the property, before swinging it back shut with a loud clang. The gate has a lock, but I seldom use it, as I sometimes have visitors coming by and it’s a long walk between the house and the gate and I often get winded walking so far. It seems impractical to lock the gate when unlocking it means I need to lean against the wall for a few minutes to catch my breath, then walk back to the house, where I would need to catch my breath again…

  Besides, I’ve got Peter and Wendy for security…

  Peter and Wendy are the ghosts haunting the house. When I first came to town, it was just Peter in the house scaring everyone away to keep out people he saw as intruders into his home. Peter had died of pneumonia searching for his lost sister, Wendy, in a blizzard. Wendy had died almost a mile from the house after getting lost in the woods and freezing to death. Both ghosts had anchored to the place of their death, but neither knew where the other one was or why they hadn’t come back to them.

  Since that time, Peter was sure that Wendy wouldn’t come back as long as others were in their home, since Wendy is a bit shy, especially around strangers. It was because of this belief that Peter kept scaring off anyone he saw as an intruder by banging objects at all hours of the night, moving important items, such as keys, to odd places, like the fridge, and opening and closing doors randomly.

  Mind you, he was only able to do this because people remembered the story of the boy that had stayed out longer than he should have to find his beloved sister and the grieving family that had fallen apart after the loss of their only two children. The belief that the house was haunted gave Peter more power, which he used to solidify the belief that the house was haunted, resulting in a vicious circle that left him pretty powerful even before I came along. He’s become considerably stronger since I moved in.

  I might be more afraid of him if I hadn’t made a deal with him. I promised to find his sister, and bring her back, in exchange for him letting me stay there. It had taken me the better part of an afternoon, but I eventually found his sister, Wendy, huddled and shivering in a winter coat in the middle of summer. As far as she was concerned, she was still freezing to death, unaware that she had died so long ago.

  That she had been reliving her death, over and over, made her what some call a death echo… From my experience, most ghosts start off as death echoes before moving on to what I think of as more civilized ghosts that realize they are dead, have accepted it, and are considerably more coherent.

  Using my odd ability, I had anchored Wendy to me, temporarily, and relocated her back to her home, much to the delight of Peter.

  Ever since then, Peter and Wendy have been my stalwart companions and guards. More than anything, they fear that something will happen to me and I won’t come back to them, so they tend to be a little overprotective of me, and tend to harass anyone coming into their range that I haven’t expressly cleared. I’ve heard rumors that postal workers draw straws to decide who delivers mail to my house…

  I park my bike in its own little shed before heading inside, greeting Wendy as I do. Today she’s looking about eight years-old, roughly the same age as Peter looks, and is wearing a simple blue dress. She has dark auburn hair held away from her forehead with a ribbon that matches her dress. She’s floating maybe a foot above the floor, bringing her to head-height with me and looks shy with her hands clasped behind her back.

  Most ghosts I’ve ever met at least pretend to walk or run on the ground, but Peter and Wendy are the only ghosts that have given up this pretense and have decided to fly everywhere they go. Honestly, if I was a ghost and I could fly, I’d never walk again!

  I head to the kitchen to get a pot of coffee going before powering up my laptop in the dining room. O
ne of the odd things about Victorian houses is that every room was designed for a specific function, be it the kitchen, the dining room, the reception room, the library upstairs, a room that I think was a smoking lounge, and the nursery I’ve converted into a special room for me and the kids. The idea of an open floor plan must have been appalling to the people of that era!

  Once the laptop has booted up, I pour my first cup of coffee for the evening, unafraid of not being able to sleep because of it, and add enough sugar to take the edge off the bitter. For some reason, coffee doesn’t really affect me the way it affects others. I don’t get jittery and I have little or no problem getting to sleep after drinking it. I confess that I like to drink it largely because it warms me up, as I am almost always cold, and is more socially acceptable than carrying around a hot-water bottle…

  I open up my video messenger application and use it to call up Sarah, holding the mug in my hands to soak in the warmth while I wait for her to answer. After a minute or two she answers, her face showing a casual sort of concern, seeing as I don’t often call her unless I’m asking for advice. She doesn’t look too concerned, though, since I’m using this method of reaching her, rather than the more secure way that uses my psychic ability and a gold bracelet of hers she loaned me. I really only use that method when I worry about an intelligence agency listening in, which happens more often than you might think, at least with me… I wasn’t too worried about anyone listening to this call, since it would be slightly embarrassing, but not dangerous or incriminating.

  “Jane! So good to see you!” the middle-aged woman smiles at me. She has taken to wearing glasses in the evenings rather than contacts because of a warning from her doctor that she was leaving the contacts in too long. She had dark, almost black, hair that matched her eyes (and now her glasses). She was in her late-thirties or early-forties, but her easy smile made her look considerably younger.

  “Hi Sarah,” I greeted genially. “Sorry I haven’t called sooner to thank you for the dehydrator you got me for my birthday!”