Chapter 2
I’M NOT psychic, which is what most people assume once they know that I can see ghosts. I can’t read minds. I can’t even read palms. Come to think of it, I have a hard time understanding my phone bill. No, I was merely born with the Gift, which makes me sensitive to paranormal phenomena. Lots of people have it in one form or another. Some don’t have it at all, and if a ghost was standing right in front of them, they wouldn’t see it. Some people born with the Gift lose it over time because they convince themselves that their eyes are playing tricks on them. After all, there are no such things as ghosts, right? Some have the Gift so strongly that they not only can see ghosts but can sense other paranormal creatures, such as vampires or demons. Oh yes, vampires exist. Always have, as far as I know. So do demons, zombies, witches, warlocks, and goblins. It’s a fun old world, if you only open up your eyes and your mind.
Robbie and I originally met at a party up in Lafayette. He’d just graduated from high school, and I was finishing up my studies at IUPUI (which stands for Indiana University/Purdue University at Indianapolis, in case you were wondering). A few minutes into our conversation we discovered that not only did we both live on the west side of Indianapolis, but we even lived within a few blocks of each other. This ended up being a good thing as when we left the party, Robbie’s car refused to start, and I ended up giving him a ride. It was on the sixty mile trip home that we bonded over our love of science fiction television shows and a deep, abiding passion for the Mel Brooks movie Young Frankenstein. By the time we pulled into his apartment complex, we were fast friends. The differences—he was a jock, I was a geek; I was a voracious reader, he only read Spider-man comics, etc.—didn’t seem to matter. Neither did the few years age difference. We soon became lovers and found that we matched each other perfectly in bed as well. As soon as his lease was up, he moved in with me.
At that time I was renting a small house not far from campus. When I’d signed the lease, I was surprised that the house had been empty for so long, since it was perfect for students, and the rent was very reasonable. I soon learned the reason. A horrible murder had taken place there in the 1950s, and the house was reputed to be haunted. My first week there I found the reputation was well-earned. The ghost of a forlorn-looking young man walked the halls and would occasionally creep into my bedroom to tickle my feet in the night. I never learned why he enjoyed this activity. The spirit, I discovered, was named Sam, and he had been murdered by his girlfriend. She had been unreasonably jealous over one of his co-workers and had ended up shooting poor Sam in the head.
A few days after he’d moved in, I related the tale of the haunting to Robbie, leaving out the part about my contact with the ghost. Robbie found the prospect of living in a haunted house exciting. “Have you ever seen anything?” he asked.
I knew I could trust Robbie, but I still hesitated. I didn’t want to come off as a raving lunatic. Finally trust won out, and I told him about Sam and the tickling. “I’ve always had an affinity with ghosts and the supernatural,” I told him. “Growing up, it almost seemed like ghosts sought me out to tell me their woes. It got me into a bit of trouble because I thought that everyone talked to ghosts. When I got to school, everyone thought I was a loony.”
I could tell Robbie was skeptical but anxious to find some proof that Sam really existed.
We soon learned that Robbie was unable to see Sam, although he would often catch sight of a shadow out of the corner of his eye. When he turned there would be nothing there. Robbie often felt cold spots in the house, though, and woke up several times feeling that his feet had just been tickled. On several occasions he’d walk into the kitchen to find every cabinet door open. Objects often went missing for days, only to show up in a totally different part of the house. Before long, Robbie was a firm believer.
We never knew what caused the fire that burned our little house to the ground. The fire department put it down to faulty electrical wiring, but I wasn’t so sure. In the days prior to the blaze I’d catch sight of Sam, looking sadder than ever, fiddling with the stove or other appliances. My guess was that he was unable to move on while the house was still standing. After the fire, I never saw or heard from Sam again. If Sam was some sort of arsonist spirit, at least he picked a night when Robbie and I were at the movies. Got to give him credit for that.
With most of our belongings now ashes, Robbie and I began apartment hunting. After we found one (the apartment I still call home), we decided to get a dog to cheer ourselves up. At that time Daisy was just a normal, exuberant little bulldog. Things changed for her a few years ago, but I’ll go into that later.
The new apartment was spirit free, something that made Robbie and me a little sad. We had gotten used to dealing with Sam and his problems. By this time I had graduated from college and was working for a large detective agency. Robbie delivered pizzas. We were annoyingly happy.
Then one night a van full of drunken teenagers rammed into Robbie’s car. He was killed instantly.
My grief was profound and lasted up to the day of his funeral—which Robbie attended. I was sitting in the front pew, crying my eyes out, when I noticed a drop in temperature around me. Before I could react Robbie was sitting next to me, wearing the suit he was about to be buried in. He looked around him with a mischievous little smile.
“Good turnout,” he said.
As there were no screams or people rushing to the exits, I assumed I was the only one who knew he was there. I lowered my head and whispered, “What the hell are you doing here?”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s gratitude for you! I come back to keep you from crying incessantly, and you give me attitude. You know I can’t stand to be away from you for long.”
I have to give him credit. The tears stopped. It was too difficult to deal with Robbie being at his own funeral service and cry at the same time. I said between clenched teeth, “You need to get out of here. What if someone here manages to see you?”
Robbie shrugged as the minister strode up to the podium and gazed out at the mourners. It seemed to me that he paused a second as his eyes passed over the spot where Robbie was sitting, but that may have been my own paranoia. The minister cleared his throat loudly. “It’s always tragic when a life is ended too soon, and the life of Robert Randall Church certainly ended much too soon.”
“You’re telling me,” Robbie said. “Now I’ll never be anything except a pizza delivery guy. I won’t get to find out what career I would have had! And by the way,” he leaned in to me and continued, “the accident was so not my fault. That van came out of nowhere. They must have been going at least eighty miles an hour when they rammed me.”
“Ssshhh!” I hissed.
Robbie paid no attention to me. As the minister continued with the eulogy, Robbie kept up a running commentary. He actually was pretty funny. By the end he had me smiling.
He’s been with me ever since.