Pen Pal

“Now listen carefully,” says Fiona, turning businesslike again. “I need to tell you something important.”

“What is it?”

“No matter what happens, don’t tell the ghost it’s dead. They have no idea they’re no longer living.”

I’m convinced we’re both in a padded cell somewhere having this conversation. That’s really the only reasonable explanation.

When I sit there staring at her in disbelief, she continues.

“Ghosts are simply souls with a story to tell. When a person dies tragically or violently, their spirit often can’t move on. They have unfinished business that keeps them tied to this realm. Until they get closure, they will remain here, haunting the people and places that meant the most to them while they were alive.”

“Are you even listening to the words coming out of your mouth?”

She arches a brow. “I’m aware this is difficult for you, dear, but there’s no need to be snippy.”

Chastened, I sigh. “Sorry.”

“As I was saying… What was I saying?”

“Ghosts need closure.”

“Yes, that’s right. And until they get it, they’re stuck here, wandering the earth in misery.”

She stares at me expectantly.

“You’re saying we need to help this ghost who doesn’t exist and definitely is not haunting me get closure.”

Fiona beams. “Well done.”

Stupendous. She wants me to give up art and become a guide for lost spirits. “I hope you won’t be offended by this, but that is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

I can tell by her expression that she’s definitely offended.

She sniffs, lifting her nose. “All right. If you don’t want my help, I can’t force you to take it.” She stands, takes her mug to the sink, and dumps the rest of her tea down the drain. Rinsing out the mug, she says over her shoulder, “Do you need your office cleaned today?”

“Really? We’re just going to act like this conversation never happened?”

She turns to level me with a cool stare. “I was under the impression that wallowing in denial is where you’re most comfortable.”

“Ouch. That was harsh.”

“I’m not one to sugarcoat things.”

I say drily, “Gee, I couldn’t tell.”

We gaze at each other across the room, until I finally give in.

“Okay, even if I did go along with this insanity—which I’m not, I’m just saying if—what then?”

Her expression softens. She sets the mug in the drain rack next to the sink and returns to her chair. “Then we attempt to contact the spirit to see what it wants.”

“You’re back to the séance thing again.”

“Correct.”

We gaze at each other across the table as I attempt to retrieve my brain from outer space where it went for a nice rest from this ridiculous conversation.

“Or maybe I should just go see a therapist. That seems as if it might be money better spent.”

“Oh, there won’t be a charge, my dear. She could do it as a personal favor.”

“Who’s she?”

“My sister. She’s a medium.”

By this point, that new tidbit of information doesn’t even faze me. “Of course she is. And how does one get into that line of work?”

“Well, you’re born into it, aren’t you? It’s a gift.”

I repeat doubtfully, “A gift.”

“Something that comes naturally, like your artistic ability.”

“Only with dead people.”

“Exactly.”

“And she can guarantee this non-spirit who isn’t haunting me will leave after that?”

“Oh no. That’s entirely up to the spirit. And there’s always the chance that…” She chews on the inside of her cheek.

“Don’t leave me hanging. I’m strung out enough as it is.”

“Well, not all spirits are friendly ones. Some of them are vengeful and full of rage.”

I chuckle. “So they used to work at the DMV.”

Her blue eyes glitter. Her voice drops. “This isn’t a joke, my dear. One must exercise extreme caution when dealing with beings from another realm. They’re very unpredictable. If provoked to anger, they’re quite capable of violence.”

The shiver of fear I felt earlier returns, skimming over my flesh and leaving goose bumps in its wake. “How can a ghost be capable of violence if it doesn’t have a body?”

“The same way it can rearrange furniture or knock something off a shelf.”

“I don’t understand.”

She gathers her thoughts for a moment. “A spirit is energy manifesting itself, akin to an electrical storm gathering force until it discharges a bolt of lightning. When a spirit is upset, that emotion—that energy—is transformed into a physical outcome. Hence your open cupboards and drawers.”

She glances upward. “Or your flickering lights.”

I stare at the ceiling in trepidation, half expecting to see a grinning green goblin floating over my head. “So…theoretically speaking, not that I believe any of this…the spirit who lives in my house is mad?”

She replies softly, “I’d say the spirit who lives in this house is bloody furious.”

When I look at her, startled, she adds in an offhand tone, “Or spirits, plural. This house is very old. There’s really no telling how many restless souls are lurking about. Could be dozens.”

“Dozens? You’re saying I’m living in hell?”

“Hell is a state of mind, my dear. Reality is simply what we believe it to be. Each of us makes our own truths, even ghosts.”

That statement is the most unsettling thing she’s said so far. “Okay, but I still don’t believe in ghosts. Wouldn’t that put a damper on a séance?”

Fiona lifts her brows. “Do you suppose God is affected one way or another if people don’t believe in him?”

“I mean…maybe his feelings get hurt?”

She sighs. “I can’t make cookies without sugar, my dear.”

“Great. Now you’re speaking in code. Also, you totally can make cookies without sugar. They’re called sugarless cookies. Diabetics eat them all the time.”

She regards me balefully. “My, what a wonderful chat we’re having. I’m so glad for this chance to get to know you better.”

“Ha-ha. Back to the cookie thing. What did that comment mean?”

“It means your skepticism won’t interfere with a medium’s ability to connect with a spirit, but I’m afraid it would cause you to interpret anything you might experience as a byproduct of indigestion or some such. You’d rationalize it away.”

I think about that for a moment. “That does sound like me.”

“Just as I thought. So perhaps you should take a while to mull it over.” She smiles. “See if any more pranks from your ghost might open up your mind.”

“Pranks? I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Well, from what you’ve told me, so far it seems your spirit has been acting relatively well-mannered…”

She trails off and stares at me, unblinking.

I say, “That pause has got to be the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m simply suggesting that ghosts, like people, have moods. I’d be willing to bet you haven’t seen the worst of it yet.”

I press my cold fingertips to my closed eyelids and heave a sigh. “Fine. Let’s assume for argument’s sake that there is a ghost or ghosts living in this house. What other things should I be on the lookout for?”

Fiona cheerfully ticks off a list. “Orbs of light. Whispering voices. Strange dreams. Shadowy forms glimpsed in your peripheral vision or unnatural shadows where there shouldn’t be any. Misplaced items. The radio or television changing stations on their own. Feeling a touch—”

“A touch?” I interrupt, horrified. “A ghost could touch me? Gross!”

She purses her lips, gazing at me as if I’ve gravely disappointed her.

“I said feeling a touch. It’s a sensation. If you recall, dear, ghosts don’t have bodies. So naturally, it would follow that they don’t have hands. Please pay attention.”

I swear, I’m going to give this woman such a smack.

But I get distracted from that thought when she says, “Another thing that could happen is that you begin to be physically influenced by the presence of the spirit. So you might begin to experience headaches or lapses in memory, things like that.”

Headaches? Lapses in memory?

I stare at Fiona with my mouth hanging open.

Perplexed by my expression, she says, “What?”

When I find my voice again, I say weakly, “I think I just had a revelation.”

Eyes bright, she leans eagerly over the table. “And?”

“There’s no and. Just…there was this little boy.”

She blinks in confusion. “Boy? What boy?”

“I saw him through my office window playing out on the back lawn, but when I went outside to find him, he was gone. And the security feed was all static when I reviewed it, as if it had been erased. Or hadn’t recorded at all.” My throat arid as a desert, I swallow. “Because he wasn’t really there.”

Fiona is wearing such an odd expression, it makes me nervous.

She asks, “What did this little boy look like?”

“Blond. Maybe five years old. He was wearing a red rain slicker and little yellow boots. And he seemed happy, running around and laughing.” I shake my head in disbelief. “I thought he got lost and wandered into my backyard.”

Fiona looks down at the table. She spreads her hands flat over the top. She appears to be calculating something.

“What’s wrong?”

After a beat, she puts on a bright smile. “It’s only that I’ve never heard of a happy ghost. Typically, spirits who linger on this plane are here because of a tragedy they haven’t gotten over. They’re usually sad or angry.”

“Oh.” My laugh borders on hysterical. “Well, the other guy definitely fits the angry slot.”

“What other guy?”

“I saw this man spying on me from behind a tree in the backyard. He looked really pissed off. He bared his teeth at me and everything. But he didn’t leave any footprints in the mud, and now I’m thinking the only people who don’t leave footprints in mud are people who don’t have bodies.”

I cannot fucking believe I just said that.

Blinking like an owl, Fiona repeats slowly, “Bared his teeth.”

“Yeah. He freaked me out. Though I couldn’t really see much of his face, just that weird grimace. He was tall and gaunt and had a trench coat and a hat on, pulled low over his eyes.”

I gasp, sitting up straighter in my chair. “Oh God! Do you think he might have hurt the little boy? Like maybe that’s why they’re here, because they’re linked somehow?”

A strange expression crosses Fiona’s face. After a moment, she nods. “Perhaps. Maybe they lived in this house long ago. Maybe they were father and son. Or maybe they’re from two completely different time periods and something tragic happened to each one of them. The possibilities are endless. Sometimes ghosts are drawn to one another and wind up haunting the same area, even though they didn’t know each other in life.”

We stare at each other. Finally, I say, “Not that I believe in ghosts.”

“Of course not.”

“Right. So when can your sister come and do the séance?”

“I’ll ask her and find out.”

“Great.”

We stare at each other again. Then she says urgently, “The most important thing, Kayla, is for you to remember what I said about not telling a ghost it’s dead. If you see these spirits again before we can arrange a séance and hopefully assist them to the Other Side, just allow them to do whatever they’re doing undisturbed. Don’t try to interact. And especially don’t do anything to anger them.”

Feeling chilled all over again, I ask, “Why is that so important?”

“Because a spirit lives in a world of its own making. It only sees what it wants to see. It’s blind to reality. Wandering spirits must be ready to accept that they no longer inhabit the world of the living. They must be gently coaxed to that understanding and accept it through their own free will, or they might retreat further into their fantasy world, dooming themselves to be locked in the darkness for eternity, beyond all hope of reaching the Other Side and thus achieving peace.”

She pauses, then adds quietly, “In effect, they’ll be damned.”

I don’t want to be the cause of any random spirit being damned, so even though I don’t believe any of this and am probably dreaming this entire conversation, I say solemnly, “I promise I won’t tell them they’re dead.”

“Good.”

She gives me a reassuring smile and rises from the table, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my figurative and literal ghosts.

Then I walk into my office, take the letter I wrote to Dante out of the drawer, and grab an umbrella from the stand next to the front door. I go outside in the rain, headed to the mailbox.

If I’m being haunted by the spirits of a happy little boy and a hostile dude in a trench coat, I might as well commit to having a pen pal in prison.

At least he’s alive.

It’s not until I’m raising the red metal flag on the mailbox that something Fiona said comes back to me like a slap across the face.

“When a person dies tragically or violently, their spirit often can’t move on.”

My heart pounding, I whisper, “Michael.”

As if in response, a crackling burst of lightning rips jagged claws of brilliant white through the dark and stormy sky.