“You’ve forgotten me already?” She smiles shyly as she steps fully into my room and into my view. She places the tray loaded with a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast on top of my bed. There is also a glass of juice and coffee. “I’m not too sure about the eggs. They smelled fine, but there wasn’t a use-by date on the carton, and I have no idea how often you go shopping, so I hope this is okay.” She sounds casual, as if this situation is perfectly normal.
“I’m still crazy?” I question, although I’m now talking out loud to myself since there is no way the woman in front of me exists. I guess this is my confirmation that I have gone insane.
“Listen, I get that I freaked you out yesterday. Trust me when I say I was freaked out, too. Let me explain what happened, and then maybe you’ll believe me.” As she moves the tray closer to me, I stare at the very real looking food. Did I cook up this food while I was asleep, or am I imagining the food and the smell? If I try to eat it, will I just be eating air? Will my delusion extend to taste?
“You should eat all of that; you look as though you could use it.” She nods at my bare chest. When I glance down, I see how much weight I have lost over the last few years.
I used to go to the gym regularly, used to run for relaxation, but I have no time for any of that, just like I don’t have time for regular meals.
Feeling uncomfortable with the scrutiny, even if it is just an imaginary person judging me, I grab a crumpled T-shirt off the floor and place it on, not caring that I am wearing it inside-out. My stomach again growls loudly, my body bombarded by the delicious smelling food, but I ignore the tray calling out to me. Instead, I keep my gun in my hand and walk towards her, again reaching out and touching her.
“How can I feel you? You’re just in my mind, right?”
“I don’t really have an answer for that. While I never actually believed what Santa was saying to me, I did think the idea of being a ghost meant I’d be able to go through walls and sort of float around. I mean, come on, I’m dead, but I still have to walk up the stairs like the rest of you?” She smiles weakly at me, but I see the pain in her eyes.
“You’re telling me you’re a ghost?” I didn’t intend to touch what she brought up with her; however, my mouth dries with those words, so I grab hold of the juice and drink the whole thing in one long gulp. Juice that I didn’t pour or bring into my room.
“Yeah, I guess I am. I chose to come back here, and this was my only choice to return. I mean, even though Santa warned me I wouldn’t get a choice of who saw me, I did think it would be Flynn who would see me. I was hoping to be able to speak to him, be here for him, and help him through this. We’re so close I didn’t really expect to have someone else—especially someone I’ve never even met before—see me. What a waste.” She mumbles the last part.
“Wait, did you say Santa?” Oh, shit, not only am I hallucinating a dead woman, but I’m hallucinating a crazy dead woman. Awesome.
I grab a piece of bacon and munch on it, forgetting for a second that I didn’t prepare this food and a ghost did. That isn’t possible. Even if I’m insane and imaging this whole thing, how the hell did this food get here?
“Yeah, he was waiting for me on the other side, or whatever you want to call it. He wasn’t actually Santa, but he looked a lot like him, and I can’t remember what he told me his name was.”
Okay, the bacon tastes pretty good.
I put the gun down on my bed, away from the woman, even though she’s absolutely not real, and sit down on the edge, taking the piece of buttered toast, ripping off the crust, and eat it.
“You made me breakfast?” I ask, not sure at all how I’m supposed to handle this. I definitely will need to be admitted to a psych ward.
“Yeah. I just sort of appeared here an hour ago while you were sleeping. I figured, if you’re going to solve my murder, then you’ll need to be rested up. I started looking around, found your kitchen, and boredom took over.”
“So you can cook as a ghost?” I ask, deciding to humor the situation.
“I guess so. I think I’m sort of attached to you. When I tried to comfort Flynn yesterday, my arms just went through him. He couldn’t hear or see me.”
I rub my head, feeling my own headache coming on. “I’ve worked almost a hundred homicide cases since becoming a detective four years ago, so why the fuck am I going crazy now?”
“You still don’t believe me?” She grows upset at my words, taking a step closer to me. I grab my gun and point it at her again, although I don’t know why. I can’t kill a hallucination with a bullet.
She holds her hands up, not moving any farther towards me, and takes a few steps backwards.
“Fine. You don’t believe I’m real? How about I tell you some truths about me that I couldn’t know if I was just a hallucination? I’m sure you have the basics from any files on me, but did you know I have thirty-eight kids in my class? Right now, I’m reading them Where the Wild Things Are, and I have a meeting with the parents on Thursday night after school. I hold them monthly during the school year in case any of the parents have questions for me. I volunteer to do those.”
She looks wildly around my room, landing on my open closet. “How about I purchased a new pair of boots last Saturday, or that I have nine hundred and forty-three dollars in my bank account and four thousand in my savings account.”
She taps her chin, her eyes twitching wildly. “Oh! Flynn and I rented The Goonies to watch when he first moved back here from New York. It is his favorite movie. Come on, if you check on any of that, you will find them all true, and your imagination couldn’t possibly make that all up and be correct.”
I shake my head, my headache increasing with every word spoken by her. “Tell me who killed you.” At least, if any of this is true, I can go after the right person and end this case as soon as possible.
“That, I don’t know. He was wearing a mask.” She frowns, one to match my own.
I want to scoff at her words. Of course she doesn’t know who killed her. Why would she? Either I am crazy and imagining this, which is basically proven by the fact that she conveniently has no idea who murdered her, or I’m crazy and this is real. Of course she can’t make this easier for me.
“I can’t actually remember what happened after he grabbed me. I don’t know how he killed me.” She glances at me, appearing uncomfortable. “I remember some things, but … I don’t know how my body … It was so messed up. I was so messed up. Why would…? How could someone do that?”
She looks lost and sad now, and even though I shouldn’t pity something I have created in my own mind, a part of me feels bad for her. Part of me thinks I should offer her some comfort, which is ridiculous. What is wrong with me? Comfort a ghost? Comfort a figment of my imagination?
I shake my head, ignoring how much worse that makes me feel.
I look down at the plate of food that I have nearly finished. I leave the egg, because I really have no idea when I bought those eggs, and I don’t have time for food poisoning. I down the coffee next, finding it still hot. Could I have made all of this and not remember? Made it in my sleep perhaps? Why did I put milk in my coffee? I never drink coffee with milk. Even subconsciously, wouldn’t I know that?
I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know a single person I work with who has seen a ghost before, though it’s not like any of my colleagues would be spreading that about themselves. Sure, in the movies stuff like this happens, but not in real life. Not in my life.
“Where did you go yesterday? Are you just able to appear and disappear whenever you want?”
She looks thrown by my question. “I’m not sure where I went. I just started to disappear. Santa warned me that I wouldn’t get a say when I leave here.”
“Then disappear again,” I demand.
“What?”
“I can’t concentrate with you here. You’re either really a ghost, and I won’t be able to focus on my job with you around me, or I’m going crazy, and seeing you only forc
es me to realize I need to step down from being a detective.”
“You’re not going crazy.” She stares at me pleadingly.
“Then go away.”
She is upset again, and I feel the same urge telling me I should apologize.
“I don’t know how,” she finally tells me, holding out her arms in front of her and looking down at them.
“Just make yourself disappear,” I repeat, standing up and pacing along the side of my bed, the one opposite to the side she’s standing on.
“That is about as easy as if I asked you to do the same thing. Besides…” She trails off.
“Besides what?”
“What if I don’t come back? What if I disappear and never get to help Flynn? This would have all been pointless.”
I want to roll my eyes at myself because I’m seriously feeling bad for a hallucination. Is this some guilt thing or maybe just an overworked thing?
“Then my life will be a lot easier. Just go away and annoy someone else.”
“I’m tied to you, remember? As far as I know, you’re the only one who can see me. Santa said that, other than a few people with the gift of seeing the dead, I would be visible to only one person, and I had no say in whom that person would be. Obviously I wouldn’t have chosen you.”
“Just great. Why the fuck does this have to happen to me?” I whine, not really asking her, even though she snaps an answer at me.
“I don’t know. Maybe for the same reason that I was just murdered. Life sucks like that.”
My cell phone rings loudly, offering a welcome distraction from this insane conversation, but my cell is on my bedside table, unfortunately by her. While I watch it light up without making a move towards it, she leans over and glances at it, not caring at all about my privacy.
“It’s your mom. You better get it.”
“I’ll call her back,” I snap.
She narrows her eyes at me yet doesn’t make further comment about it. “Fine. Are you going to start work today wearing that, or are you going to get changed first?” she snaps back, her arms crossing angrily over her chest.
“Actually, I’m working several cases at the moment. I’m sure I’ll get to yours later in the week, or maybe next week.” I have no idea why I am winding her up or what to expect from her when I do.
She glares at me, anger flaring in her eyes, and her hands fist at her sides. “Are you kidding me? Are you always such a slack detective, or are you just being shitty for my case?”
“Lady, I am the most hardworking and dedicated fucking detective in my division. If you want this case solved, I’m the one who is going to do it.”
“Then freaking do it already! Go investigate, talk to my neighbors, talk to my ex-boyfriend Nate, talk to the creepy cable guy who was in my house last week! Hurry up and get me some justice! Then take me to my brother. I need to check on him and talk to him.”
“Oh, I didn’t know I was your slave and you were a detective. It’s strange because your job title—from what I was able to gather—was a profession often called a third-grade teacher. It’s weird that they got that wrong in your file,” I sarcastically snap at her.
“Well, considering I had a front row ticket to my own murder and my life, I think I’m someone you should listen to!” she yells angrily, tears gathering in her eyes that she doesn’t allow to fall.
“You’re not real, so fucking go away!” I yell back, my hand tightening over my gun. I’m seriously considering shooting the imaginary woman. I need to get off this case. I need to step down and probably admit myself to an insane asylum. My life as I know it is over.
Then, all of a sudden, she is gone.
Relieved, I collapse on top of my bed, feeling like I have just run a marathon. I try to loosen my muscles, but I can’t stop feeling tense and stressed. Although I desperately want a shot or eight of bourbon, I get the feeling alcohol won’t be making this go away or make me feel any better.
I need to get away from this case. Maybe that will be enough to stop me from descending any farther into crazy town.
***
Hours later, I’m sitting at my desk, staring at my computer screen and looking over the case photos that the crime scene guys emailed over. I haven’t gotten any of the evidence back yet, and when I spoke to the M.E., he said it would be at least another two days before he could get to her body.
Theresa April Bell. Only twenty-seven years old, and her life is over already. Now she’s haunting me, and at the age of thirty, my life is probably over, too.
“Mercer, how are you doing on the Bell case? Any leads?” Jones calls out to me from two desks down. He’s always on the move, which is strange given how much weight he carries. He looks like the stereotypical cop who would spend his days sitting at a desk eating donuts, but I have only seen him at his desk a handful of times in the four years I have worked under him.
“Not yet. Actually, sir, can I speak to you for a minute?” I bite the bullet, knowing I need to address whatever the hell is happening to me. I don’t want to get a reputation that I’m insane and seeing things, and I definitely don’t want to lose my job, but if I’m seeing ghosts of murder victims, maybe I shouldn’t be doing this job anymore.
“I’m heading out right now. I’ll be free to talk tomorrow morning. You can give me an update on the case then.” Jones has already turned away from me, heading towards the exit, a file in his hands that he’s studying. He is forever lost in files as he walks. I’m surprised he hasn’t fallen down the stairs.
I think about chasing after him. Surely, after I tell him I am hallucinating visions of a very dead Theresa Bell, he will see how important it is that we talk right now. If I’m going to step down from this case, I need to do it soon so someone can easily slip into the case and take over.
As my cell buzzes, I’m relieved to see it is not another call from my mom. This one is an unknown number.
“Detective Mercer,” I grunt, watching as Jones disappears around the corner, my chance vanishing with him.
“Hey, this is Flynn Bell, Thea’s brother.” Flynn sounds hoarse. Most likely, this is the first he’s spoken after a rough night.
“Hello, Mr. Bell. Thank you for calling me. How are you doing?” I grab the file on the victim, skimming over the information we have for her while wondering if she has many relatives close by. Last night, Flynn was alone, and my hallucination Thea hasn’t mentioned anyone else. Surely this kid isn’t dealing with this alone.
“I just wondered … Have you found out what happened to…? I mean, can you tell me…?” His voice keeps fading away. I can tell that he’s only moments from breaking down.
“Are you free at the moment? I need to speak to you about your sister, and I’ll share what I can with you then. But, understand, we’re just at the very early stages in the investigation.”
He agrees, giving me his address, and I decide it can’t hurt to interview him before leaving my notes for whoever takes over the case.
***
I’m sitting down in Flynn’s small, cramped house, watching as he fumbles around in the kitchen to make us coffee. I actually said I didn’t want anything, but I don’t think he heard me. He has the same dark hair, pale skin, and dark brown eyes as his sister. His house doesn’t have the same homey feel as Thea’s did, even given the horrible murder that happened there.
In here, there are hardly any photos on show, the walls are all bare, and I can smell fresh paint in the air. I noticed when I first entered several boxes in a spare room as I inconspicuously searched the small house.
From my quick research, Flynn Bell owns the house outright, and I wonder how someone so young could afford to do that. He paid for it only a couple of months ago, and before that, he popped up at NYU where he graduated earlier this year. Thea owned her house, too, which adds to my suspicion. How did these two afford such a huge expense at such young ages? Neither appear to have any college debt, either.
“So, Mr. Bell, how long have you lived here?”
I ask, trying to sound casual.
He turns to face me, holding a mug in each hand, and I notice he is shaking while not paying much attention. When I see the coffee slosh to the side, almost burning him, I quickly stand and take both mugs from him. I place his down on the coffee table in front of us and keep ahold of mine.
“Sorry, what did you ask me?” His eyes slowly move away from the steaming coffee mug and back to me.
“I asked how long you have lived here.”
“Oh, I moved in a few months ago, I guess. Thea…” He blinks quickly, obviously holding back tears. My quick research told me Flynn Bell is twenty-three, but right now, he appears like only a young kid to me. “She helped me get this place and set it up.”
“Really? How did you afford it?” I try to sound easygoing. I don’t want him on the defensive or suspicious of my questions.
“Our parents died when we were kids. They had a bit of money, mostly from our mother’s family, and it was left for us. Our grandpa took us in, and he set it up so we could have access to the money when we were older. That along with their life insurance was enough to pay for us to go to college and to get two modest houses. The last of the money was used up getting this. Thea” —his voice cracks, but he keeps talking, and his voice eventually clears—“she wouldn’t let me spend any of it. She told me college and a house were my only two options for the money. If I wanted to waste my money drinking or buying shit, I had to get a job.”
“Sounds wise,” I mutter, letting go of my suspicion over their financial situation for now. I will double-check his story, but if it is true, it is unlikely this was about money.
“She was always the smart one. She… What happened to her? Why would someone hurt her? I don’t understand.” He reaches out, taking the mug into his hands, but he doesn’t make a move to sip it. His hands wrap around and I notice again the slight shake to his entire body.
“That is what I’m trying to find out. Can you tell me about her? What was a usual day like for her? Who did she talk to? Did she have any problems with anyone? Perhaps past relationships that ended badly?” I bite my tongue on asking more, thinking I will be lucky if Flynn even heard one word of that.
Haunted Love Page 4
