Page 11 of Malice

“Yeah, there was this car accident this morning and, um, everyone thought I was hit, so I got sent to hospital.” That sounds plausible. “Turns out I’m fine.”

“What are you talking about, Aster? I just saw you two hours ago at your desk.”

“I’ll definitely be—what?”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No. Of course not. You saw me at work?”

“You conducted the staff meeting. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Uh. Right. Yeah. Was I late or anything?”

Brad scoffs. “The day you come in late, I will be worried. Did something happen on the way home? Bumped your head or…”

Thinking quickly, I blurt out what I hope is a plausible answer. “You know what? I’m sorry. I took some allergy medicine and must have drifted off and had one of those weird lucid dreams. Ignore me. Sorry again.”

“It’s no problem, but I can stop by if you need some help.”

“No, really, I’m fine. Promise. I’ll drink some water.”

“Okay. See you in the morning.”

“Yeah. Night, Brad.”

After hanging up, I rub my forehead. Maybe it was a dream. What else makes sense? Dying and becoming a Soul Chaser while my life didn’t skip a beat sounds a lot wilder than just a bizarre dream delusion.

I walk to the kitchen to give Otto his wet food while straining to recall my workday. How would I forget it considering I didn’t take any allergy medicines or drift off to sleep? But Otto is fine and Brad said I was at work. Did I somehow black out and forget reality for eight hours?

After I give Otto his food, there’s a knock at the door. When I open it, there’s a black figure standing there, faceless, devoid of anything human. A chill moves down my spine.

The figure hands me a manila folder then dissipates right before my eyes. Okay. Not a dream. I really did die, but how did life just go on without me?

“They aren’t very good at providing details, I’m afraid.”

I gasp, swinging around to see a young man standing behind me. Otto is staring at the man, unusually quiet for a dog known to alert to every person he sees.

“How did you get into my house?”

The man chuckles. “Page forty-eight of the handbook.”

I’m suddenly hit with images of the pages I read earlier in my head, flickering past at a rapid pace, until they stop on the page in question. Okay, good to know I didn’t have to memorize that.

Detecting the dead: Purple, hazy glow, clear blue eyes, slight scent of sulfur.

I look back at the man and sure enough… “You’re dead.”

“You could say that.”

“Are you my assignment?”

“Oh no. I doubt this interaction would be so pleasant if I were.” The man kneels and actually pets my dog, who wags his tail but makes no other sound.

He’s wearing regular, if somewhat outdated, clothing—a chunky gray knit sweater and acid washed jeans rolled at the ankles, with slouchy white socks and white canvas sneakers. His light brown hair is feathered and cut short on the sides, like those guys in the eighties movies my high school friend’s sister used to tell us were amazing.

“Who are you?”

“Page one hundred and seventeen.”

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