by Brian Corley
No, it’s me, Jonah. Willard left a couple nights ago and hasn’t been back.
I could see the tension leave the shoulders of most of the group. Max relaxed, then tensed again. “How do we know it’s really you?” he asked.
Because?
“Tell me my favorite video game,” he demanded.
I don’t know, either college football or the world soccer one? Willard could have probably said as much though.
“Dammit, he’s right,” he said, looking up to the sky for inspiration. “What’s my favorite food? What is the name of that girl you work with from marketing, and what number am I thinking of?”
Tacos, but that could be just a good guess. Not telling you—back off, leave her alone—and I have no idea. I can’t read your mind.
Max sighed in relief. “Math checks out, guys. It’s him.”
The mood in the room shifted, and everyone relaxed. Some of the Psy-kicks even smiled—in a cool, casual way, of course.
Zoe cleared her throat and asked, “Why haven’t you moved on? Is there anything we can do to help?”
Leave it to Zoe to ask the good questions.
I don’t think I have enough room in the ashes to answer fully, I began, smoothing back the ashes and writing again. I’ve found a purpose here, and actually like it. I can help people.
“Waitaminute,” Max said. “That doesn’t sound like Jonah at all. I’m going to need you to tell me the name and number of that girl you worked with from marketing.”
I drew a closed fist with the middle finger extended into the ashes.
Max grinned. “I’m not dropping this. I will find out. Look, Jonah, I wanted to see if Willard was still here, or if you were here, or moved on—” He stopped to gather himself; I wasn’t sure, but I thought I saw tears well in his eyes. He let out a deep breath. “Your mom has to sell the house, and we wanted to make sure that whoever bought this place didn’t find themselves in the same position you did. Anyway, maybe not just whoever, I was thinking about buying it from her.”
Yes, yes! Do that!
“I mean, two people died here in the past few years. I can probably get a good deal—”
MAX! Do not do that to my mom! I burst forward to basically just blow some air in his face. The incense wavered, and the candles’ flames moved in one direction toward him.
He smiled and held his hands up. “Easy, easy. I’m just kidding. I wouldn’t do that to babe Ruth.”
Stop calling her that. How are you going to afford this place?
“Alright, alright, I’ll stop. My business has really taken off, but you act like this is some sort of mansion. It’s a nine-hundred-square-foot bungalow. I got it. I don’t even need a roommate, but I was thinking about asking Dean to move in.”
He smells like cheese.
“Yeah, I know, but he stepped in when I needed a couch and his place is a dump.”
Zoe cleared her throat again. “What is it like for you? What are you doing to help people—people or ghosts?”
Honestly, I feel like a borderline superhero. I wiped away the ashes. So far, I’ve only helped ghosts move on, but I saw the new pirate movie last night.
Zoe inhaled, ready to respond to me, but Quinton interrupted. “Is it good? I want to see it. Lin, do you want to go?” he asked.
It’s OK, I guess. Spoiler alert: they get away.
Zoe cut in, “Hey! What? Quinton, stop. We don’t know how much time we have with him.”
Zoe breathed in to continue while Quinton mumbled, “It’s not a spoiler alert if you don’t give me time to look away.”
Zoe clenched her teeth and gave him a side-eye, then relaxed, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. “What do you mean you’re like a borderline superhero, and how are you helping spirits move on?”
I can basically just imagine where I want to be, and I’m there. I wiped away the ashes. I can walk or fly, and make ghostly facsimiles of real-world items. More wiping of ashes. I can imagine whatever I want to wear. More wiping of ashes. With all that said, I’ve basically just listened to people and given them hope to move on. More wiping. Then a door appears, and they go through it. Wipe, wipe. Not exactly 100% on the mechanics.
“Interesting,” Zoe said aloud. “What does the door look like?”
Big rectangle made of light. A lot of light.
I could see Max stifling a Carol Ann comment. Not out of discipline, but probably because he couldn’t think of how to make it funny enough to voice. I couldn’t read minds, but I knew Max well enough to know that.
The group looked around, eyebrows raised and nodding. Zoe continued, “Anything else?”
I befriended an angel.
Zoe looked either confused or concerned. It was a new expression that broke through the façade of an implacable front. “What do you mean? How did you meet it? Is it trying to help you move on?”
I don’t know. He was just around. He’s shown me a few things. Wipe, wipe. Kind of a guide, I guess.
“What has he shown you?” she asked.
How to dress. We went downtown and listened to some music, saw some bands.
One of the Psy-kicks piped up, “My band was on Red River last night. Did you see us?”
No, sorry, didn’t make it out. : (
I wondered if I was the first ghost to use an emoticon.
Zoe pressed further. “What is the name of the angel, and are you sure he’s an angel?”
I began to write down the name of my angel friend, but my hand wouldn’t move. In fact, I couldn’t remember his name. I remembered everything else. Everything.
Yes, I’m sure he’s an angel. No mistaking it—take my word for it.
I flashed back to that moment in the living room. I’ll never forget that physically—or spiritually—crushing light.
“His name,” Zoe pressed, “what is his name?”
I couldn’t write it. Hmm. That’s interesting. I had an idea.
Father Chandler kind of introduced us.
Zoe nodded and looked satisfied with that answer, and I went on to tell her and the group as much as I could about what I’d been through so far.
In an effort to expand my horizons, I asked Zoe some questions about some different neighborhoods I could check out and their histories. I wanted to start meeting other ghosts and see if I could help out around town. Since she was a native Austinite, she was able to give me a decent rundown on a few. It was frustrating using the ashes—it took forever.
The group dispersed to go their separate ways around
midnight or so, and I decided to head out and see what I
could do to help those in need. On Zoe’s recommendation,
I thought I would start with the Tarrytown neighborhood
in central Austin.
Chapter 14
I did my best Superman impression and flew to the locale, landing around 9th Street. I explored the carefully cultivated but modest homes and noticed something out of place: a three-story, Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired architectural masterpiece. A waterfall flowed out of the bottom floor and everything.
I’d actually seen a Frank Lloyd Wright house before when I was younger and visited some family in Jackson, Mississippi. What was different about this house was that it wasn’t really there. It was built like the club on Sixth Street, a preternaturally fabricated showpiece.
I could hear bass and the noise of electronic music coming from what sounded like the backyard and decided to have a look. I floated up high and over the house, looking down into the yard. A series of three tastefully lit, rectangular pools, stacked so that one cascaded to the other, descended from the back of the house. The landscaping itself was all based on structured straight-line formations working in perfect cohesion with the pool.
The back of the house was predominately made of glass with what looked like steel supports. I had no
idea what the material was, but I assumed it was the same stuff as the ghosted items I made.
Through the glass, I could see a hip couple in their late thirties or early forties dancing together. The lady noticed me and alerted the guy to my presence. He wore a snug-fitted black wool sweater, gray wool pants with a sharp crease and cuffs, and what looked like very expensive black shoes. I remembered that I didn’t have to dress for the weather anymore since I couldn’t feel temperature any longer, so I blinked together a look as cool as I could think of, complete with a stylish leather jacket to illustrate just how little I cared about the weather.
He walked up to the glass and raised his voice. “No, thank you,” he said while looking me up and down to nonverbally communicate he didn’t think my look was as great as I thought it was.
“What?” I replied. “‘No, thank you’ to what?”
“No, thank you, we’re not interested in whatever you’re here for. Bye,” he said.
His partner wore a form-fitting light-gray wrap dress and black strappy heels. She looked a little annoyed, but also a little embarrassed. She gave off the vibe of someone who was used to entertaining and didn’t want to be rude, so she motioned for me to come in.
I phased through the glass as politely as I could. I don’t know … I guess I bowed my head or something.
“Well?” asked my exasperated male host, arms raised.
“Yeah, sorry. I was just walking the neighborhood and noticed this house. I’ve never seen anything like it—did you make it?”
My other host smiled, and if ghosts could, she probably would have blushed.
“First things first, my name is Deirdre Kunkel. But please, call me DeeDee.” She walked forward with her arm outstretched to shake my hand, adding, “and this is my husband, Jeremy Randolph.”
“Hi, I’m Jonah,” I said and shook her hand.
“Hi Jonah,” she continued. “Thank you, and this is my master work.” She gestured with her arms out, indicating the house was her creation. “I am an architect … we’re both architects,” she said, motioning to her husband, who gracefully acknowledged her gesture. “Like I said, this is my master work and I—” she looked at Jeremy, “—we wanted to live in this neighborhood ever since we moved to town.”
“I’m a landscape architect,” he added.
“This looks incredible,” I said as I scanned the room.
“Let’s take you on a tour then,” DeeDee offered, to Jeremy’s visible chagrin.
I could tell he wasn’t into it by the way he slumped onto the couch, his body hunching into a disinterested slouch. His face fell flat, and he looked off toward the beautiful, long, thin bricked fireplace that was open to each side of the wall in which it was housed.
DeeDee ignored Jeremy and started the tour by walking me up a floating staircase (in the architectural sense, not supernatural … OK, fine, both senses) with a wire and metal railing. She showed me room after gorgeous room—a bedroom overlooking the cascading pools and an amazing view of downtown, two sets of offices with various drafting boards and models, a general-purpose room with a view similar to the bedroom’s, and back downstairs.
I noticed bathrooms and a kitchen were conspicuously absent, but we didn’t have a need for either really, so I guess she didn’t feel the need to include them in her design.
After a half hour or so, we ended up back in the living room with Jeremy. DeeDee took a seat next to him on the beautiful sharp-lined couch, and I sat in a wood-paneled, black leather lounger. I was fully up to speed on the inspiration for every lamp, railing, and light switch in the house. It may sound boring, but it was impressive as hell—DeeDee knew her stuff.
She was originally from Virginia and went to school in Atlanta for architecture and engineering. In Los Angeles, she met Jeremy, a native Angelino, and they decided to move to Austin to start a business and a family. The business apparently started out great but was cut off before it could thrive after an ill-fated drive home from a holiday party. Messy scene, apparently.
When the conversation turned to me, I decided to present my new occupation of saving after-lives rather than my prowess with a spreadsheet.
“We’re good,” Jeremy said.
“This place,” DeeDee explained, “is our ‘unfinished business,’ as you described. Now that we’re here, we have everything we want. Why would we move on?”
They had a point I couldn’t argue—the place was amazing. They had each other and their dream. What would they move on to?
Jeremy stood up from the couch, indicating it was time for me to go, so I stood as well. As they walked me out the front, DeeDee had a flash of inspiration.
“I have something for you.” She whirled around. “Four houses down is a group of—gentlemen. You may want to drop in on them.”
Jeremy’s face flashed surprise. “Oh! Yes. Jonah, if you can move them on along … wow. We would owe you—so big.”
OK. It’s a case, I guess. A case? An assignment? Something to do? I felt more comfortable calling it something to do. I confirmed the address and description of the house and floated that way.
I didn’t have to go too far to find it: a light-gray, smooth-plaster, flat-roofed house with floor-to-ceiling windows ten feet across on either side of its black front door. The yard was perfectly manicured with lush green grass and a rectangular gravel bed around the perimeter of the house. I could hear loud voices and laughter from the street—no wonder DeeDee and Jeremy wanted these guys gone. I approached the house feeling a little like the cop that’s about to break up the party—or maybe the Jehovah’s Witness, ready for a challenge.
What I mistook for the sounds of a party morphed into something ominous as I drew closer: grown men’s voices taunting like schoolyard bullies pulled straight from an old movie of the week.
Although the house was well lit, it felt dark, sticky. A man and a woman reclined on their couch, drinking wine and watching TV, oblivious to the noises coming down the hall … save one.
“Mommy?” a small voice whined from behind a half-opened door.
“Back to bed, Eric,” the woman replied from the couch. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
I heard crying, and then the footsteps of a young child running as the door slammed shut behind him. I moved swiftly down the hall as I heard disturbing refrains coming from Eric’s bedroom.
“Mommy!” a voice mocked.
“Mommy!” another voice repeated.
Menacing laughter erupted as I discreetly phased through the door to scan the room. I watched as a rotund, bearded ghost of a man in his late fifties knocked a stuffed animal from a shelf. Eric looked up from his covers and pulled his head back under, making himself as small as possible.
I lurched back out of the room as quickly as I could before someone noticed me, and I frantically searched the house for something I could use. I floated through a closet in the hall but discovered only games and linens—nothing helpful. In the garage, though, I found some golf clubs, so I ghosted a nine iron and then made my way back through the house. Again, I felt the darkness creep over me, as if the air’s viscosity changed. I floated toward Eric’s room, alert and on guard.
Phasing through his door again, this time I entered the room with as much bravado as I could muster. The room fell silent as the gang of ghosts took notice.
“Welll,” drawled a voice. I looked to its source to see a big bald guy—six foot two and muscular—wearing a plain white T-shirt (somehow soiled) and jeans. He was fully tatted out, though the ink had no cohesion; it was a series of what looked like homemade illustrations.
“What do you think you’re going to do with that?” he asked, rising from the child’s dresser he was leaning against and sauntering toward me.
“I bet, right about now, you’re wondering how big a mistake you made coming to this house,” he said as he circled me.
I should probably have said something.
The two other guys in the room were pretty big as well. There was the fat one I described earlier in cutoff sleeves, a biker vest, jeans, and boots, and a wiry guy in jeans and a button-down shirt missing its sleeves who sat on a toy box in the corner. Sneering.
I was just about to say something perfect—I can’t remember exactly what it was, but I just knew it was going to be good—when two hands suddenly grabbed my left shoulder. Just before I flew fifty feet or so only to stop (hard and immediately) against the far wall of the house, I remembered (a little too late) that there were supposed to be four guys in this house. Good thing I couldn’t get a concussion … at least I didn’t think I could get a concussion.
“Bitch!” I heard from what was now the far side of the house for me. Then laughter. Laughter that got louder as it got closer. I’d lost the nine iron somewhere between here and the boy’s room and found myself defenseless as the four ghosts phased their way into the room—a beautiful room, by the way. It was a cool house.
“Hey, hey,” squawked a new apparition—another wiry one—as he entered the room. He seemed kind of dirty, greasy even, with a cock-sure swagger that an education cut short after the eighth grade probably helped reinforce.
“Hey,” he said again.
I heard him the first time.
“I heard you the first time,” I said as I got up and dusted myself off. After a few seconds, I realized I didn’t need to do that (no dust for us ghosts), so I stopped mid-motion kind of awkwardly.
“You lose this, boy?” he asked, twirling my nine iron.
“Yes, thank you,” I said in as friendly a tone as possible, smiling and holding my hand out as if to retrieve it. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so sarcastic.
He took a full swing that connected right under my chin and knocked me back through a wall and into a huge walk-in closet. I definitely shouldn’t have been so sarcastic. I looked around to get my bearings and found myself in a closet filled with suits and dresses, all perfectly placed on hangers. Shoes rested on risers, and there were drawers for shirts and sweaters. I believed it was cedar-planked, and I wished I could smell it—then something in the corner caught my eye. The unmistakable stock and handle of a twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun.
