The Ghost and the Goth

Oh, God, I couldn’t even stand to watch this. The chin-rubber would have Killian in restraints within a week, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“I know, I know, and you may be right, this could be an isolated event, but the last eight or nine months … I care, Julia. So I’m worried.” He hugged her again, his bulkier body nearly swallowing her smaller one whole.

“Skeevy bastards, that’s what they all are. Wake up, Julia,” I shouted right at her.

Disgusted, I pressed against the wall to scoot past them. Seriously, what was I supposed to do now? My one and only brilliant idea was currently gorked out of his brain and probably drooling on his pillow. And the information he’d given me? Not so much of a help.

I stomped soundlessly down the hall through the kitchen and into the living room to flop onto the plaid couch. As eye-piercingly ugly as it was, it felt pretty comfortable. Maybe that’s why they’d ignored all good sense and kept it around.

I needed a plan. Killian was out of the game, probably indefinitely. Bargain or no bargain, he wasn’t going to risk helping me, not with his freedom on the line. I almost couldn’t blame him. Unfortunately, the other dead people I’d met didn’t seem to have any clue about how to get out of here or else they’d have already done it, so I was on my own. No biggie — I’d been going it alone pretty much since I was thirteen. Though, paying the bills and keeping my mother sober enough to attend parent-teacher conferences once a semester didn’t quite equal determining the fate of my eternal soul, but whatever. I could do it. I always got what I wanted, one way or another, right? You just had to keep pushing until someone or something gives in. She who quits last, wins. I used to have a cheerleading camp T-shirt that said that.

First things first. I needed a pen and some paper. Things always look more manageable when they’re written out. I didn’t win homecoming queen three times without a little effort and planning, you know. Kicking my legs out, I let the momentum pull me off the couch and to my feet. In the process, one of my ankles passed through a beat-up brown leather briefcase leaning partially against the side of the sofa.

Miller’s. It had to be. It hadn’t been in here when I’d first come in … well, fallen in. The main zipper pocket strained around a massive number of manila file folders and black-and-white composition notebooks, all jammed in unevenly and at odd angles. The nylon carrying strap had broken off on both sides, and the remaining bits of strap had sprouted tufts of brown fuzz. The briefcase looked like some kind of strange creature caught in midchew.

I grinned. Perfect. No good chin-rubber would ever be caught without a notebook and a multitude of pens. With just a bit of concentration …

Bending down, I focused on the briefcase, imagining the worn leather under my fingertips and the cool metal of the zipper teeth.

The briefcase creature flopped on its side and promptly barfed up its contents. Pens, the thick expensive kind, rolled free, along with a multitude of files. I grabbed for the least battered-looking composition notebook … and my hand passed through it.

“Dammit.”

I tried again with the same results. This time, concentrating on making the notebook solid, I reached for it and my hand touched the corner of it, but only for a split second.

“Oh, forget it.” If it was this hard to pick up a notebook without Killian right next to me with his personal voodoo or whatever, how would I manage to hold a pen, let alone write? “This sucks,” I said aloud to no one in particular.

All right, so no pen and paper. I could still work strategy in my head. I sat down on the floor, crossing my legs. Killian said this was about unfinished business, issues I needed to resolve. Actually, he’d said I didn’t have any issues. Showed what he knew.

But how was anyone in my condition supposed to resolve anything? No one could see or hear me, other than Killian, and I didn’t seem to have gained any sort of afterlife-related super powers, like haunting people’s dreams or whatever. I did have the whole passing-through-solid-objects thing working for me, but that seemed decidedly less than useful at the moment.

I drew my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs, blinking back the sudden and unwelcome sting of tears. It seemed kind of an unfair test. Sure, you can move on to heaven if you can do the impossible. Otherwise, you’re stuck here … forever. Alone.

No. I shook my head and straightened up. I wouldn’t let this beat me. There had to be a way to win. I always won.

Thinking, I chewed on the side of my thumbnail for a second before catching myself. Dead or not, ragged and spit-covered nails are unacceptable.

If Killian hadn’t been unconscious, I could have given him messages to deliver for me. I imagined him walking up to Chris and passing along the fact that his dead girlfriend was not so happy with him these days. Yeah, Killian would really need a stay in the hospital after that.

Staring down at Miller’s tipped-over bag and the mess of files, folders, and papers on the floor in front of me, I got an idea. Maybe I was thinking too literally. Communication from the great beyond, even if it was actually not- so-great and not-so-beyond, should be subtle.

Concentrating on the topmost file, I gave it a shove, and it slid down the mountain of paperwork before settling on the carpeting. From there, moving it across the carpet and into position with little jabs was actually pretty easy. I figured I’d need about five or six more files to make my point.

Fortunately, Miller was the long-winded type — no surprise there. They’d started down the hall toward the kitchen a while ago, but he’d stopped there to schmooze further, and I could hear bits and pieces of their conversation as I worked.

“… Encourage you to reconsider, Julia.”

“I appreciate that, Max, I do. But he’s my son and …”

“What if he’d been driving during this last attack? Have you considered that?”

Julia’s response was a low and seemingly angry murmur that I couldn’t hear. Good for her. Therapists aren’t the be-all and end-all of knowledge. Sometimes they’re just another way to lose money.

Out of breath from the effort required, I shoved the last composition book into place — I’d mixed it up a little between notebooks and folders for effect — and stepped back to admire my work. Very nice, but maybe a little more was needed? A little artistry perhaps?

Kneeling down again, I pushed at another folder. Only this one, much heavier and thicker with more paper than the others, spilled its contents instead of sliding across the floor. The uppermost document looked like a letter and the rest were … chapters? Neatly typed pages with dialogue and headings …

I leaned closer for a better look. The letter on top was from Page Seven Books and addressed to Dr. Miller.

Dear Dr. Miller,

We are most intrigued by the partial of your book, The Dead Don’t Speak. We like the illicit romance between the psychiatrist and the afflicted boy’s mother as well as the mystery of whether the boy, young Billy, is truly haunted or just mentally ill. Did his father commit suicide or was he killed by the same spirits that now haunt his son? We also think you have an excellent platform, as a psychiatrist who has treated many of these kinds of cases.

Please send a complete manuscript at your earliest convenience.

Regards,

Roger Fillmore

Senior Acquisitions Editor

Oh, my God. Unbelievable. Miller was turning his life into a book. No wonder he was pushing so hard for Killian to be put away. He needed to write the end. Not to mention the freedom to openly mack on Killian’s mom. Ew!

I reached over to flick aside the letter and read the chapters beneath, but then I heard Miller’s voice getting closer.

“I’ll just collect my bag and be on my way now. I have other patients waiting,” Miller said stiffly. Evidently, Killian’s mom had put him in his place, at least for now.