Chapter 11

YOU DON’T have to go?

Fuck. One day in, and I was already offering myself up like a hooker. Not even one of those Pretty Woman types. A cheap one who used a “pay by the hour” motel. I winced as Danny disappeared inside the house and the screen door banged shut behind him. Was it too impolite to kill myself on his porch? Even if I did it neatly and quietly?

I really wasn’t in the mood when Ethan drifted up the deck steps. I groaned. Humiliation was never complete without an audience. It was like buying a two-piece chicken dinner without a biscuit. Still edible, but why?

“Tough break.” Ethan leaned against the crosscut railing and folded his arms. “You and Mr. Muscles going at it on the deck? Yeah. I’d pay money to see that. Too bad he wasn’t interested.”

“He was interested,” I snapped before I could stop myself. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” He should have looked ridiculous in his leather jacket in that kind of weather, but he managed to pull off skinny-rocker chic. I was being stalked by the lead singer of a ghostly boy band.

He sent me a wink. “Don’t worry about it. You’re still hot. I’d hit it. Still can if you want.”

“I’ll pass on the ghost dick, thanks,” I said dryly as I levered myself out of the chair. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“You know what I want you to do.”

“Something that won’t get me fired or sent to the loony bin? No?” I shook my head and headed toward the house. “Good night, Ethan.”

He appeared in front of me before I could take another step. “I didn’t come here to rehash the same old argument. I figured I could help you out. And maybe if I help you… you’ll be willing to help me.”

I tilted my head. I should walk right into the house and not look back. I should put on my pj’s and fall into bed with a small—maybe medium-sized—tumbler of liquor. I should not go quid pro quo with a ghost. And yet I heard myself asking, “Whatcha got? The treasure of the Knights Templar? The heart necklace the old lady threw off the ship in Titanic? Lotto numbers?”

An exasperated sigh ghosted across the deck. “Not even close.”

“Those weren’t guesses, Eth. They were suggestions.”

I dumped the rest of my beer over the railing, crossed the deck, and set the bottle in the recycling bin. I hooked an empty, forgotten mug with one finger to take it back to the kitchen and turned on the motion-sensor bulb that Danny only used when we went inside. Otherwise it went off and on all night long.

“Read the directions,” I’d lectured Danny as I thumbed through the small leaflet to find the right language. No matter how I unfolded it, the Japanese set kept popping up. “I don’t need directions,” Danny maintained around a mouthful of wood screws. And voilà. We wound up with a retina-scorching, improperly mounted searchlight that had crossed the line from helpful to lighthouse-level intrusive.

I bit my lip. I had a ton of stories like that about that house. But I didn’t live there anymore. I briefly wondered how long that would continue to surprise me. It took me a moment to realize Ethan was still talking.

“I have something better than that stuff,” Ethan said. “Something you’ve actually been looking for.” He made a beckoning motion with his hand.

I gave him a look. Follow a ghost into the darkness? “No offense, but the Grim Reaper’s going to have to come get me himself.”

Ethan sighed heavily. “Wait here.” He disappeared in the darkness, and before long he reappeared on the porch, towing a figure from the blackness to the light. A nervous-looking girl in her late teens or early twenties. Dark hair hung in her face and down her back, long and thin with razor-cut bangs.

I folded my arms. Even under the dim light of the porch, I could see it was another fucking ghost. “That’s not a lost Picasso I can list on eBay,” I said mildly as I rocked back on my heels.

“This is better,” he insisted.

“Ethan,” I said, tempering the anger in my voice. “Bringing me another ghost does not endear you to me. In fact it kind of makes me want to build one of those machines from Ghostbusters.”

“Just hear me out.” He gave the girl a gentle push forward, into the light. “This is Amy.”

Amy. The mug fell from my suddenly nerveless fingers, landed with a clank, and rolled across the deck. It felt like someone had slammed a fist into my gut, and suddenly I realized how much I’d wanted her to be alive.

But it was her. There was no question. I’d seen her picture enough.

She was a tiny little thing. Couldn’t be over a hundred pounds soaking wet. The jacket dwarfed her and made her look even smaller. Her skin was so alabaster and smooth, she could have been a statue. Her dark brown eyes watched me somberly. Waiting. As though to see what I would do.

“Amy?” I asked. For the first time I could remember, I was glad I could see her. Speak to her. Let her know that it was going to be okay. Even if I had no idea if it would be. “Are you all right?”

“I… I guess so.”

“God, do I have some questions for you.” I glanced around for my iPad and my notes and cursed when I came up empty. I didn’t want to risk going inside and having her disappear. “Can you tell me where you are? And who did this to you? Where did you go after work on the day you disappeared?” I patted my pockets. I didn’t even have my phone with me. “What’s your passcode on your email account? I’ve been trying to hack that for days….”

“My email?” She blinked at me rapidly. “Razzle dazzle…. I’m sorry. Who are you again?”

“Rain. Rain Christiansen. I’m the agent assigned to your case.”

“My case,” she repeated. She reached up to her pale, smooth face and touched her jaw. Her cheek. Her nose. When she finally dropped her hand, there were bruises where they had been. Her nose was crooked and bloody, and I swallowed hard.

“What happened to you?” I asked. “Where’d you get those bruises?”

“Brock. He just used to get so mad.” Her hands fluttered. “So mad.”

“Did Brock kill you?”

“I went to his house after work. I—” She blinked at me, clearly startled. “I’m dead?”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to scare her off. But I didn’t think lying would be very beneficial either. “Yes,” I said finally. “I think so. Did you know a man named John Travis?”

“Oh my God.” Her voice was higher this time. “I’m dead?”

Oh boy. I’d gotten so used to Ethan that I’d forgotten that not all the ghosts were quite as lucid. “I’m here to help you.”

“Help me do what?”

I have no fucking idea. “To move on. To go toward the light,” I guessed. Ethan snorted, and I glared. I’m guessing here. I tried again. “Can you tell me where you are? Who did this to you?”

“You never told me I was dead.” She whirled on Ethan. “You lied to me.”

“Just calm down,” he said harshly.

Her mouth opened into a soundless scream, and a dark cloud of butterflies flew out and flapped mindlessly. The sound in the air was thick and sick as the soft beat of one light wing became the heavy flutter of many. I stumbled back into the corner and covered my face.

“Why?” she screamed. “Why am I dead?”

“You’re scaring him,” Ethan snapped. “If you keep that shit up, he’s never going to help us.” He grabbed her arm and towed her backward as she clawed at him. “I’ll be back,” he assured me.

I took in a shaky breath. Take your motherfucking time.

I moved to the top step of the deck stairs and sat in silence. I stared out into the darkness. There was nowhere I could go to escape myself, and truthfully, I was tired of trying. By the time Ethan returned, I was still debating on how many pills it would take to forget this particular episode and if chasing them with beer was worth feeling fuzzy all the next day.

As he leaned against the deck railing, Ethan seemed to sense my brooding mood. For once, he had nothing sarcastic to say. “Are you planning to talk to me ever again?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Something about whatever’s making you look at me like that.”

“I’m just….” A hundred words raced through my mind. I picked the one that was the most appropriate and the least tiring. “Processing.”

“Maybe it’s time you actually learn your craft.”

“My craft.” I didn’t need a mirror to know my eyebrows were just about in my hairline. “I don’t have a craft.”

He made a frustrated noise. “’Course you do. You’re a bridge.”

I closed my eyes and rubbed at them with the heels of my hands. I’d been far too busy thinking I was insane to be bothered with honing my craft. I’d never asked for any of it. And damned if I had any desire to increase my contact with ghosts. I wanted to be normal. I wanted them to leave me the fuck alone. I wanted peace of mind. I wanted to never have to see or speak to a ghost as long as I—

“Umm… Rain?”

I immediately opened my eyes, mostly because it was the first time Ethan hadn’t bitchily referred to me by my last name. “Oh, God.” I blinked and glanced around at the suddenly crowded deck. “What the hell did you do?”

“Me?” Ethan looked at me indignantly. “Uh-uh. This was all you.”

At least thirty people crowded around me in different colors, shapes, and sizes. Judging from some of their clothing choices, they weren’t even from the same era. The only thing alike about them was the way they all peered curiously at me. I flapped my hands a little frantically. I didn’t even know what I’d done to bring them out of the woodwork.

A grandmotherly type wearing some sort of caftan leaned in a little closer. Her eyes were soft with concern. “He looks a little gray.”

“And pale,” a tanned surfer-looking dude piped up helpfully.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“Skinny,” Ethan supplied.

The surfer nodded. “And a little sweaty.”

“Thank you,” I said loudly. See how you would look being the guest of honor at a surprise specter party. “You can all go now.”

A dark-haired woman in ’80s disco wear propped a hand on her hip. “Look, blondie. We’ve been waiting a long time for you to get your shit together.” She used the other hand to fluff up her perfectly shaped afro puffs. “Now you call us here for no reason and you’re the one who’s annoyed?”

I sucked in a few deep breaths, expanding my lungs until they hurt. My therapist said that would help. Deep breaths out and cleansing air in. Think clean thoughts. Healthy thoughts.

My therapist was a liar. Or an optimist. Either way, the situation clearly needed pharmaceutical assistance. I fumbled in my pocket, hoping I’d brought my pill caddy with me. When I finally pulled out one fuzz-covered pill from my pocket, I wanted to dance a little.

Before I could contemplate doing my version of Gangnam Style right there on the deck, Ethan sighed gustily. “Those aren’t good for you. Or for your state of mind. They serve as neural blocks. They’ll just make you muddled and confused.”

“They also make you go the hell away.”

He didn’t look offended. “It’s only temporary.”

“Do you have another idea?”

“Yeah, I do. You need to learn real ways to block your channels.”

“My channels?”

“Yes. Your channels,” he said firmly. “There are certain things you can do to become less accessible to a different plane.”

I stopped trying to pluck fuzz from the pill and popped it in my mouth. The horse-sized tablet threatened to choke me for a second before it finally went down as I swallowed it dry. Why some pills got to be the size of a Tic Tac and others the size of gumballs would just have to remain a mystery.

I felt better knowing that Ethan was going to disappear any minute. “This is my home,” I murmured, ignoring the fact that it wasn’t. Not anymore. “You can’t just invade my home.”

Ethan tsked sympathetically. “Once they understand you’re not ignoring them indefinitely, they’ll learn to respect your boundaries.”

“Respect my boundaries,” I repeated. “That’s it? I can only temporarily block them? I can’t just get rid of them and it’s up to them to go away? How is that fair?”

“Life isn’t fair, beautiful.”

Beautiful? I blinked and took in the way he suddenly refused to meet my eyes. If he wasn’t a ghost, he’d probably be… blushing? “You crushin’ on me, Casper?”

He ignored that. “All I know is that we’re stuck here until we find a bridge to help us cross. A bridge like you. You’re rare. Special. Or whatever.” He cleared his throat. “The point is I’d get on board real quick. Because as long as there’s an open bridge, you’re going to be swimming in ghosts.”

“That’s not what I was hoping to hear.” He started to get wispy, and I began to feel mellow. It wasn’t the good-weed type of mellow. It was more of a “too much trouble to have facial expressions anymore” kind of mellow. I went with it anyway.

Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

I AWOKE with a soundless gasp and sat up in one smooth movement. I blinked in the darkness and tried to calm the heartbeat that thundered in my ears. I felt unsettled. Uneasy. I swiped a hand over my face, and it came away damp. That’s what happened when you had a front row seat to Angry Ghost Theater.

I stared into the darkness, not sure what time it was. I’d fallen asleep out on the deck, firmly in the grasp of my medication. I was still in my trousers and undershirt, but apparently Danny took off my loafers and put me to bed. Guess he didn’t hate me quite as much as he said he did. Although, to be technical about it, he hadn’t exactly said he hated me. He was just done with me.

I didn’t know which was worse.

I trudged down the hallway to the bathroom and almost bumped into something. Something big. I stopped short and blinked blearily. I finally placed the wide-shouldered form in the hallway and muttered, “Sorry, Irish. Just a little sleepy is all.”

When Danny didn’t respond, I squinted at his still form—and then froze. I palmed the wall as I searched blindly for the light and flicked it on. We both squinted as it illuminated the hallway and a dark-haired man I’d never seen before stood before me. He smiled sheepishly.

I gingerly stuck out a hand and stared as it passed right through him. Okay. So just another stalker ghost and not an intruder. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. “Not tonight,” I warned him firmly as I headed for the bathroom. I closed the door on his hopeful face and quickly used the facilities.

I didn’t know if I’d ever get used to just seeing them like that. Anywhere. Everywhere. It was hell on my nerves. For the first time in a long while, I wanted to talk to Ryder, our departmental shrink. He might have been irritating as hell, but he certainly knew how to calm me down.

After I washed my hands, I stood at the mirror, gripped the counter, and stared at my own wide-eyed reflection. Tried not to let the anxiousness overtake me. I fished the pill caddy from my pocket and flipped open the Friday lid, even though it was Tuesday. I don’t know why I even bothered to put them in different day slots. It only made me more aware of how quickly I went through a week’s worth. Only….

I froze.

I wasn’t crazy. The ghosts were real. And I was… what did Ethan call it? Some sort of bridge?

I flipped up the remainder of the pills, which sent them vibrating in their plastic beds. I didn’t need them anymore. I held the caddy sideways over the toilet and debated if that conclusion was really true. One of the pills fell, clattered on the rim, and fell into the blue-tinged water.

Now for the rest. Do it, I commanded myself. But I remained frozen with indecision. My doctorate was in academia, not medicine, but I knew enough to know cold turkey was a bad idea.

I took just one and then I closed the tiny lids and slipped the caddy back in my pocket. At least I wouldn’t try to fish out the rapidly dissolving pill in the toilet bowl. That’s how people wound up on Intervention.

The ghosts were real. I rubbed the tension knot on the back of my neck. The ghosts were real, and I wasn’t batshit crazy.

Yet.