Page 1 of Ghosted
ONE
Scratch,scratch.I huff out a breath and roll over in bed, desperately clinging to the dream I’m having. Something about a hot pirate and shivering his timbers.
Creeeaaaaak.My eyes snap open against my will. Without moving my head, my gaze slowly roves around the darkened corners of my bedroom. A chill rolls down my spine in an infuriatingly wakeful wave. I defiantly close my eyes again and try to summon thoughts of Jack Sparrow.
“I know you’re awake,” an elderly man’s voice half-whispers. I screw my eyes shut even tighter. Sometimes, if I ignore them, they’ll leave me the hell alone. “Hey, I’m talking to you. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to find someone who can help me?”
At that, I heave a sigh. Being helpful is my drug of choice. I have a downright Pavlovian response to the phrase, “I need help.” Even if the recipient of said help is, well… dead. However, I usually prefer to be helpful in the light of day and not while I’m having a sexy pirate dream in the middle of the night.
I sit up in bed, clutching the covers a little closer. The room really does drop a few degrees when the dead make their appearance known. Hollywood gets a lot wrong, but that at least is correct. My mom’s theory is that they need to pull as much energy from the room as they can, and since heat is a form of energy, they suck it out of the space like a phone plugged into its charger.
“Okay, okay. I’m up.” I squint at the face of my alarm clock on my nightstand and grimace when I see it’s just after four in the morning. “Couldn’t you have waited until like, seven? That’s when I have to be up for work, anyway.” I shoot a glare at the older man standing at the foot of my bed.
He looks like any other octogenarian. Pressed slacks, tucked-in green polo shirt, and a wrinkled face topped with thick wire eyeglasses. Despite what TV wants you to think, not all ghosts are from the Victorian era. Most of them are indistinguishable from the people around us.
It’s only if you pay very close attention that you’ll see the odd things about them. Only then would you guess that something wasn’t quite right. For one thing, the environment never affects them. Their hair doesn’t blow in the breeze, and they aren’t bothered by the temperature. They also have a slightlynot-therequality that’s hard to notice unless you know where to look. They’re a bit hazy around the edges, but only if you concentrate a little too hard on them.
I have what I like to think of as extra cones in my eyes, letting me see a frequency that others can’t. Like a spider seeing ultraviolet light. Just because others can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.
“I’ve been waiting forever to find someone who can help me. Excuse me if I didn’t want to wait for you to get your beauty rest.” He crosses his arms over his pudgy middle and scowls at me. Men. Always inconsiderate, even in death.
I scrub a hand over my face, chug the half-full glass of stagnant water on my nightstand, and click on the bedside light. “Okay. I’m awake. I’m listening. What do you need?”
He shifts his weight a little when my full attention is on him. I raise an eyebrow, and he says, “Sorry, you can’t imagine how strange it is to have a two-way conversation with the living. It’s been so long… I’m used to talking to people who can’t hear me.” I nod my understanding and relax a little. Being a medium means I’ve had some iteration of this conversation more than a few times.
Even though it’s inconvenient for me, I can’t imagine being on the other side. Being unable to move on, and then finally finding someone who can see and hear you. That’s why I help as many as I can. I don’t know what comes after, but it has to be better than being stuck in limbo.
He looks off somewhere behind me, and his face crumples before he says, “I just—I need you to tell my son that I buried…” His eyes narrow at me as he trails off. “Wait, you aren’t going to con me, are you? Is there some code you sort live by?”
I scowl, annoyed at being awoken and accused of criminal activity in the span of less than five minutes. “No. Just my own personal code of ethics. There’s not exactly a rule book for these kinds of things. I promise I won’t scam you, though. It’s not my style.” I watch him take in my space and me. From the fraying wallpaper of my old studio apartment above my aunt’s mystical occult shop, The Veil, to my numerous visible tattoosand my “boo-nana” sleep shirt featuring a cartoon banana wearing a sheet.
Judging from the face he’s making, he’s reached a conclusion about me, and it isn’t favorable. I grumble under my breath and say, “Look, you said I’m the first person you’ve come across who can help you out. I’m offering. Take it or leave it. If you aren’t interested, fine. Let me go back to sleep.” I reach my hand toward the lamp to turn it off, and suddenly he’s in my face, watery brown eyes only inches from my own.
“No! Please,” he begs, and I can feel the cool phantom breeze of his breath puffing against my face. Sometimes, when a spirit gets really agitated, they can affect the environment around them.
“Okay, just back up.” I make a shooing motion with my hand, and in a fraction of a second, he’s at the end of my bed again.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. I swallow to avoid laughing. My tolerance for all things scary is very high after being me for almost thirty years. I gesture for him to get on with it and pull my covers up over my shoulders.
“I just need you to tell my son that I buried gold bars in the backyard under the old oak tree. He can use the money however he wants, but I would love it if he spent it on my grandbaby,” he finishes softly.
My own brows draw together sympathetically. “Okay. I can do that. We’ll figure out a plan after I finish my shift at work.”
“Thank you…” he says, trailing off.
“Rae,” I offer with a tired smile.
“Thank you, Rae. I’m Leonard. I’ll wait here until you're ready. Abraham’s home is just a short walk from here,” Leonard says, gesturing vaguely towards the window.
So much for getting another couple of hours of sleep.
It’s one thing to know youmightbe watched in your sleep by the dead. It’s another to see a member of the deceased puttering around in your bedroom, making themselves at home.
“Okay. I’m… just going to get ready for the day, I guess. Don’t follow me, please,” I ask, not wanting an audience while I relieve myself and take a shower. He nods and with a shimmer, disappears into the ether. If I concentrate, I can still sense him. It’s like a vague impression. That feeling you get when you know someone is watching you. A shiver rolls down my unwilling spine as I shuffle out of the room.
TWO
“Onyx, labradorite, amethyst, clear quartz…”I mumble to myself as I stock the various crystals my aunt likes to have on hand at The Veil. After arranging each type into artful piles, I tick off the corresponding box on my stock sheet. Believe it or not, Wednesday afternoons are not particularly busy for an oddities and occult shop, so I get through the rest of my restocking list without a single customer interruption.
