by Tee, Marian
"Oh my God!"
The words that I had been half-heartedly reading from the email finally started sinking in.
"What is it?" Mary Priscilla excitedly floated off the window sill to peer over my shoulder. "Holy—-"
I glared at her. "Mary Priscilla!"
The brat made a face. "Oh, fine. Holy mackerel. Happy now?"
"My house, my rules," I retorted.
"Whatever." She snatched my cellphone out of my hold and flew away before I could catch her. "Lemme read...wow. You really did find a job!" The little girl sounded so shocked, it was more than a little insulting. "Who knew an old woman like you—-"
I threw one of the square pillows at her, but Mary Priscilla made herself incorporeal just in time, and the pillow simply went through the lacy white ruffles of her dress.
"Cheater!"
But the kid only snickered and stuck her tongue out. Damn brat. Why was I letting this brat haunt rent-free in my apartment again?
DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS extra special. While I'd never admit this out loud, finding a job had been even more difficult than I anticipated, and it had me celebrating with a rare indulgence of one whole can of Pringles.
Employed again, finally!
Believe me guys, hopping back into the employment merry-go-round for a second ride is no walk in the park. It's pure ego-demolishing hell, and especially if you're a forty-year-old made semi-famous locally for being dumped.
I had started by trying to ask for my old job back, but the advertising company I used to worked for already had a makeup vlogger "collaborating" with them on call. Failing that, I had tried to apply for other similar openings, but half of them turned me down without even sparing my portfolio a glance. They tried couching it in more polite terms, but it was pretty easy to read between the lines: they all thought I was too old. So that thing about 'life starting at forty'? Yeah, well, clearly the job marketplace hadn't gotten the memo on that one.
As for the other half...they were willing to give me a try at least, but things ultimately always went south the moment they asked me for the URL of my (nonexistent) YouTube channel. A few - liking enough of my before-and-after shots - had been willing to sign me up if I had an Instagram following. Which I did not...since my account had always been set to private.
The writing on the wall was impossible to ignore by then, but it was still a hard pill to swallow at first. I couldn't understand why everyone seemed to think I had lost my skills just because I wasn't in my twenties. It was as if they thought my brain shed off IQ points with every candle added to my birthdday cake.
But...anyway, moving on.
That was my #1 mantra these days. No dwelling on things that were out of my control. If something didn't work, I would simply move on, like I was doing now.
Life started at forty, right?
MARY PRISCILLA FLOATED around my average-sized bathroom while I moved on to Step #3 of my skincare routine. Just between you and me, I used to be the one-soap-cleans-all kind of girl, but now that majority of society insisted on reshelving me under MILF even though I had never given birth?
I put the cap back on my spot-correcting serum and moved on to my moisturizer.
Yeeaah.
I freely admit it. Their judgmental looks had gotten to me, and I've decided to take a proactive approach to wrinkling.
Mary Priscilla poked her head inside the bathroom. "Jason texted you again."
"Pri...va...cy...brat!" It was hard to speak while I was busy spreading moisturizer on my cheeks with the pads of my fingers in slow, circular motions, just like what it said at the back of the box for Step #4.
Mary Priscilla continued nagging me about Jason even as we got ready for bed. Or at least I was. I wasn't quite sure if dead people still needed sleep, and I had never found the courage to ask any of the ghosts about it.
"Hey, Saoirse?"
I had just switched the bedlight off when Mary Priscilla's voice played out in the darkness.
"What?"
"I have something important to say to you."
"Uh—-"
"Spinsters can't be choosers, spinters can't be choosers!"
Horrible little brat. I should really just stop listening to my conscience and throw this kid out of the window.
"Spinters can't be choosers, spinsters can't be choosers!"
"I'm so not a spinster—-'
"You are from where I'm standing," the forever-young ghost sniggered.
I grabbed my pillow from both ends and pulled it close to cover my ears, but it still wasn't enough to block Mary Priscilla's singsong voice. Impertinent, pint-sized smartass. How dare she call me the S-word?
"Spinsters can't be choosers, spinsters can't be choosers."
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Whatever.
I was so going to show this brat that age was just a number, and I could still be fabulous at forty. Jason wasn't the only fish in the sea, after all. There was...there was Joaquin, for instance. He was the quintessential tall, dark, and handsome type, and he's made it clear several times that he found me attractive. Granted, he was also very much dead like Mary Priscilla was, but that shouldn't matter.
Right?
Chapter Three
Little Hollywood, located twenty minutes out of Portland, is the kind of town you'd often see travel magazines and websites describe in words such as "up and coming", "hipster", and "vibrant". Majority of the population's under forty, and all of the establishments had glamorous interiors and chichi but pseudo-serious names like Essence (a lingerie boutique) and Nourish (a farm-to-table restaurant that only served greens and more greens from morning to night). Everything here was also expensive as hell, which was why I used to avoid it like the plague, even back when I had been earning serious bucks with my old job.
But now I hadn't any choice.
My new workplace was called The Enlightenment Center, and it had been a shot in the dark, applying for the receptionist job at TEC. Although its ad had requested for someone young, energetic, and presentable, I submitted my resumé all the same and mentioned in my cover letter instead how I was extremely good at charming the socks off anybody.
And what do you know?
It actually worked, and so here I was now, being welcomed by my new boss, who was a dead ringer for Harrison Ford, except for the glossy black dye of the former's hair.
"I used to work as a customer surgeon in Beverly Hills," Dr. Robert Harris shared. "But things were getting too commercial for my taste."
I nodded and tried to look like I totally got him, even though I didn't. "What made you choose to relocate to Portland?"
"The quality of life," my new boss answered. "It's so deliciously fresh and pure."
"Right."
"I was recently diagnosed with cancer—-"
"I'm so sorry."
"But I'm getting better," Dr. Harris assured me. "From Stage IV five months ago, I'm now down to Stage II."
My eyes widened. "That's incredible! Congratulations."
"I will have to take it easy from time to time, though. I'm also undergoing treatment as an outpatient."
"You can trust me, doc," I promised him.
"That's exactly what I'm hoping you'd say," Dr. Harris said with a smile. "I could feel you brimming with confidence even with just your email, and that's what made me choose you."
"I've never worked as a receptionist before—-" I felt obliged to point this out. "But if you're willing to show me the ropes for the first few days, I'll do my best to get the hang of it."
"There's no need to worry, Ms. Sullivan. The job is mostly routine." He outlined my daily tasks, and I was relieved to hear that most of it were indeed routine, and just about everything one would expect from the standard job description for a receptionist.
"My patients can be pretty demanding at times," Dr. Harris went on to warn. "They like to be pampered and cosetted—-"
"Say no more, Dr. Harris. I'll be happy to roll out the red carpet for them anytime."
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Dr. Harris beamed. "That's exactly what I want to hear."
After that, he proceeded to talk about my working hours, which I found slightly puzzling. The clinic was open Tuesday to Sunday, from 2PM to 11PM, and I was to report an hour after opening and leave an hour before closing. You'd think being Yelp's #1 therapist in Little Hollywood would rather delegate the drudgery of opening and closing shop, but...
Not my problem, I reminded myself, so I'm not going to worry about it.
That was another new mantra of mine. I just had my latest check-up at Roger Hills yesterday, and according to Dr. Jack, stress was the most likely culprit as to why my aneurysm had ruptured. It made sense, too, considering how at that time I had been feeling rather shitty by Jason's infidelity, and how everyone seemed to enjoy talking about it behind my back.
So, lesson learned.
Not my problem, not going to worry about it.
The rest of my meeting with Dr. Harris flew by quickly, and once we were done signing on our respective dotted lines, my new boss stood up to shake my hand. "I hope you'll be happy working here, Ms. Sullivan."
"I'm certain I will," I assured him with a smile, and as my new boss cheerfully waved me off, I couldn't help thinking how remarkably robust he looked, for someone with cancer. I could only hope I'd be half as healthy, once I reached his age.
I took the bus back home, and it was about ten minutes in when I felt something weird.
Like a shadow lurking in the corner of my eye, watching me.
Stalking me?
I couldn't help looking over my shoulder...and felt stupid right away since I was seated at the very back of the bus, and the only thing behind me was a wad of months-old chewing gum (oh manners, where art thou?).
Must've been imagining it, I told myself. But when I got back in the apartment, the first thing I did was tell Mary Priscilla about my episode of paranoia, almost as if I were subconsciously hoping she'd convince me I was wrong.
But instead, I saw the little girl's ghost-white complexion turn even, well, whiter.
"What if you weren't imagining it?"
I scowled. "If you're thinking of pranking me again—-"
"No, listen. The other ghosts have been saying that they've been feeling rather odd and nervous lately—-"
"And you never saw fit to tell me?"
"I'm telling you now," she said defensively.
I gnawed on my lip, not wanting to jump into conclusions. "Maybe they're being paranoid, too—-"
"Or maybe all of you..."
"All of us...what?"
Mary Priscilla swallowed hard. "What if it's the Man in Black?"
Oh.
Well.
Shit.
I had a hard time sleeping that night, but because I could also sense Mary Priscilla's growing anxiety, I did my best to hide my own fears and sought to distract her by renting The Nun for the night.
Horror movies had never been my thing, but ever since Mary Priscilla started living with me, I had forced myself to tolerate the bloody things, even if they still scared the bejeezus out of me. Movies like this were basically her version of Skillshare, with the little girl always on the lookout for new ways to haunt unsuspecting humans.
Not exactly nice of her, I know, and one of these days I supposed I needed to play the adult and set some ground rules, but....
Mary Priscilla chortled in childish delight as she watched Valak zoom across the screen.
Ghost etiquette lessons could wait, I decided privately.
For now, I was just glad that seeing a habit-wearing-demon go on a killing spree was enough to make the little girl forget about the Man in Black.
Who couldn't be possibly...truly...stalking me.
Right?
I fell asleep trying to convince myself of this, and I woke up feeling less apprehensive the next day. Must've imagined it, I told myself yet again. But even so, I couldn't help looking over my shoulder every few minutes as I got off the bus and walked the rest of the way to the clinic.
If you're thinking overkill, I'd have to agree, since by the time I made it to TEC my neck was already hurting like hell.
The door sign to Dr. Harris' consultation room was already flipped to Session in Progress when I took my place behind the counter. Things were busy almost right away, with phone calls and emails to be answered in between making regular trips to the pantry so I could keep serving coffee and tea. It was a far cry from my old job, but I was surprised to find every minute of it rather enjoyable.
After the horrors of job hunting and being repeatedly made to feel worthless, I guess it just felt nice to be in a place where I was needed and appreciated.
Dinner break was at seven-thirty, and one of the many perks for working for Dr. Harris was that he had given me a charge account at a family-run restaurant nearby. Tonight, I had opted for fish and chips, which I unfortunately managed to demolish in a matter of minutes.
I tried looking for something to eat in the pantry, but the cupboards were empty, and although I did find a small refrigerator, it was locked and labeled Chemicals. It smelled odd, too, and it wasn't a clinical kind of stink, if you know what I mean.
Whatever.
Not my problem, not going to worry about it.
But just as I turned away to walk out, I sensed it again-—
Eyes following me.
I whipped around, hoping to catch something - a ghost, a rat, anything but the Man in Black.
But there was none.
Paranoid, I told myself. You're just being paranoid.
Even so, I worked extra hard at keeping myself busy once I was back behind the counter. Patients were still coming in nonstop, all of them wanting to take advantage of Dr. Harris' limited-time "sale" for his services. Book ten sessions in advance, get them at fifty off!
Since I had never worked at a clinic like Dr. Harris' before, it had surprised me at first, seeing how I would be escorting patients in but never see them coming out. Apparently, all therapists had a back door patients could use, in case they didn't want to be seen by other people.
By nine-thirty, the reception was empty while Dr. Harris remained in session with his last patient for the night. To keep myself from nodding off, I switched the TV on and channel-surfed until I came across a local news program.
Another female corpse had been found, the reporter disclosed grimly. The fifth one in the past seven weeks, and like the other previous victims, her tongue had been cut out and portions of her torso torn off by hand.
This, the authorities reluctantly confirmed, showed all the signs of a serial killer on the loose, even if the five victims were of varying age, race, and background.
I quickly switched the TV off as a shiver ran down my spine. Maine was one of the safest places in America. Serial killers and Portland could never be used in the same sentence. They just didn't go together, like water and oil.
So that feeling I had yesterday of someone watching me?
Nope.
It's just a coincidence, that's all.
It couldn't have anything to do with the serial killer.
Just couldn't.
My nightmare, however, begged to differ.
Chapter Four
I dreamt that someone was watching me, a figure cloaked in shadows that were darker than the blackness of night. Something was compelling it to follow me, but before I could figure out what this was, I had already woken up, a scream lodged in my throat, and cold sweat bathing my skin.
Well, shit.
My heart continued banging against my chest as I flipped my bedlight on and cast a nervous look around me. I was alone now, the TV presumably switched off by Mary Priscilla. Nothing seemed amiss, and I couldn't sense any other presence in my bedroom, living or otherwise. But even so, I couldn't shake off the feeling that I was being watched.
I checked my alarm clock.
3:15 AM.
I had a feeling that should mean something. I was almost sure it did - and as someone who could see
ghosts, I probably should've more knowledge of the occult than the average person...but nope. The only reason 'cult' was in my vocabulary was because of campy classics like The Princess Bride, nothing else.
Shameful, I know, and it had me making a mental note to consult Mr. Google on what those numbers meant.
For now, however...
I tried going back to sleep, but the moment I closed my eyes, shadowy figures from my subconscious swarmed over me in an instant, and I sat up with a gasp, my heart once again galloping in fear.
I knew I was being silly, letting some stupid nightmare freak me out when my life wasn't exactly normal. I didn't just see dead people, for heaven's sake. I lived with one, too, and had the tiniest bit of a crush on another.
But even so...
Something about those shadows perturbed me, something about them that reminded me of how awful it had been, the first (and only) time I had encountered a poltergeist.
No way would I be able to go back to sleep now, not unless...
Ugh.
But because I hadn't any choice, and I didn't want to show up bleary-eyed at work, I eventually found myself doing the unthinkable.
Ten minutes later, and I was dressed to sweat as I swiped my access card to enter the tenant-exclusive gym at 8/F.
Exercise and Saoirse Sullivan have never been best friends, and more often than not, I only tended to work out when someone had managed to bribe (Jason), annoy (Jason), or semi-fat-shame (Jason) me into doing it.
Desperate straits called for desperate measures, however, and I was seriously hoping if I worked out long enough, I'd eventually knock myself out with exhaustion and be able to grab even just a few hours of dreamless sleep.
Zero nightmares gained, hundreds of calories lost.
Win-win situation, right?
Or so I tried to convince myself as I slowly made my way towards the dozen or so treadmills facing floor-to-ceiling windows, which presently showcased a million-dollar view of Portland's skyline.
Ah, treadmills.
How I hate thee.
The mere sight of them had me gnashing my teeth, with the way it brought back memories of how Jason and all the other "cool kids" in our social circle often took this healthier-than-thou attitude when preaching about the Holy Bible of Physical Fitness. They always made me feel like I was the villain among them, and all because I refused to stock up on tofu and buy a FitBit.
