The Matchmaker's Medium

Good lord, so cliche.

“I wouldn’t be with you, even if you were alive, or I was already dead. Face it, Jamal. The only thing you’re good for is being a dead—pimp—ghost.” I shoved my finger into what would’ve been his chest on each of the last three words, and I might be crazy, but it seemed like he actually flinched each time I did it.

His smile dropped, making his face look a little saggy and kind of old-ish. Then it turned into a sneering, lips pulled back, rage-filled mask of hate.

“What the hell did you just say, you bitch?”

Uh-oh. Shit.

I darted away from him, running around the furniture like a kid playing freeze tag, weaving in and out of the familiar layout. After a few minutes, I felt my sleepless night fall onto me like a tangible weight, huge in its effect. Wait, he can’t hurt me, he’s a ghost, for cryin’ out loud. With that, I stopped.

Breath heaving in and out, I silently vowed to get back in shape (yeah, right), bending over, hands on my knees, trying to get more oxygen into my lungs.

“Not so fast, white girl.”

I heard a scraping-sliding sound, just behind me, quickly developing into a huge rumble. Turning around, I saw the huge dark cherry wood entertainment center coming after me.

“What the hell?” I blurted, then took off running, again.

Oh my God, he really can move things. How long has he been doing this?

“Couple of years,” he boasted, smiling with pride, as the couch joined in the pursuit.

“Would you knock it off, already? How do expect to win me over? By assault with deadly furniture?” I yelled, trying to maneuver around the love seat, while simultaneously expecting it to jump up and run after me.

“Nah, I just figured I’ll crush you to death, then you can join me over on my side. Hang out in my crib for a minute.”

Oh, my God, he’s serious.

I raced around to the front table, desperately trying to get to my phone, but it floated out of my purse, hung there for a second or two, then flew across the room and crashed into the wall, falling to the floor in a bunch of tiny pieces.

Well, that’s gonna kill my replacement deductible, I thought automatically.

“Your what?” he asked, confused.

“Never you mind, you big seventies dummy!”

Knock-knock.

“Amber? Is everything okay in there?”

Esteban!

“No! Come in! Help me!”

Banging on the door, rattling the knob.

“I can’t, it’s locked!”

I didn’t lock the door.

“I did,” Jamal said, casually strolling over to the door, turning to look at her, then disappearing through it to the outside.

“Showoff!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

The furniture dropped back to the floor, no longer the sorcerer’s apprentice-type of possessed furniture out to kill me.

“NOW!” I shouted, hoping Esteban would understand.

He did.

The door cracked and splintered as he burst into the house, the door knob still in his hand. He looked down at it, surprised, and tossed it to the floor, running over to me.

I grabbed him, clutching at him with all of my strength, terrified to let go.

“What happened? What’s going on?”

Where the hell is Jamal?

“He trapped me in here! He was trying to kill me so I would, you know, be his chick forever!”

“What? Who? Did you hit your head?” he was looking all around the room, while trying to scan my face for scrapes or bruises.

“No, I didn’t hit my head. The story I told you about Marcus—I left something out.”

“Yeah, what?”

“The ghost that helped me, Jamal?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s still here.”

Esteban pushed away from me, protectively shoving me behind him, looking desperately around the room to see where the threat might be coming from.

“You won’t be able to see him, Esteban.”

“So, this ghost-guy, Jamal, has been around since the Marcus thing? For almost four years?”

“Um, well, it might be a little longer than that, even.”

“How much longer?”

“Since October 2008.”

“Almost half a decade?”

“Yep.”

“Talk about leaving out the important details,” he said, walking around the room, looking under and behind stuff, like he might find Jamal hiding there. “Were you rearranging your furniture or something?”

She laughed, in spite of the fear and worry. “No, Jamal was actually making the furniture chase me.”

He turned to look at me, incredulous doubt written all over his face, “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. I know it sounds uber-retarded, but—“

“No, no, I get it. One of those obsessive-love ghost things. I’m down with it.”

I giggled. Then I remembered Jamal was still missing.

“I don’t know where he went. I don’t trust it.”

“I’m right here, girl.”

He was standing right behind me, whispering into my ear. I considered my options, without forming an actual thought, then started crying.

Obviously, Jamal didn’t expect that, because he jumped right into my line of sight and asked, “Hey, what’s wrong? I didn’t mean to make you cry, stop that.”

I instantly shut off the waterworks, cut my eyes to Esteban as if to say ‘move back’, and yanked an old talisman hanging on a thin string around my neck out of my blouse.

“Go back to the other side, Jamal!” I yelled, holding it directly in front of his face.

At first, he just looked at me. Then he started laughing.

“What’s that? Some junk jewelry from the mall? You gotta be kidding!” he roared with laughter, ghost-tears shining on his cheeks.

I kept holding it, smiling a sweet, secret smile. Like I was waiting for something.

“Are you all right, Amber?” Esteban asked, standing over by the front door.

“I will be in a minute,” I answered, my voice steady and confident.

What Jamal didn’t know, and I purposely expelled from my mind, was the ancient secret of those with the ‘gift’ (or the mark, or whatever name it had): ghosts don’t actually belong on earth. So, presenting them with something that exists inside and outside of this earth—simultaneously—forces their stubborn soul to go where it belongs.