by C. S. Wilde
A rainbow divides the entire scene in two, standing like a magic line. Glittering butterflies mimic its colors as they swim through it.
“This isn’t real,” I mumble.
This landscape is peaceful and perfect, exactly how the afterlife should look.
John sits on the ground, elbows over his bent knees. “I needed you to see this,” he says. “There’s no reason to be afraid of Death.”
It’s not Death I’m scared of, it’s what comes next. But I’m glad he brought me here.
Three gray mountains stand in the distance, away from the rainbows, forests, and magic horses. Creepy and pointy, they don’t match the beauty before them.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing important,” he says, patting the grass by his side in a silent request for me to join him.
I usually read people like open books, but not John. Most of the time he’s jokey and warm, but sometimes he closes up completely. I saw it when I asked about Heaven and Hell and I see it now. It’s clear that asking about the mountains will be fruitless, so I sit by his side.
Grabbing his palm, I say, “How come your hand is so warm? You’re a ghost.”
“We’re both immaterial here,” he says. “That’s why we can feel each other. If you were material, I’d be nothing but air to you. Irving has an interesting theory, actually. Care to hear?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“He says that if a living person stepped on this place, they’d fall into space or float in the air or sink into the ground. This whole world is immaterial, so it reacts only to immaterial things.”
“That actually makes a lot of sense.”
He takes off his jacket and unbuttons his white shirt, revealing a glimpse of his perfect chest. A few stray blond hairs spread in a triangle above his pecs, and I realize that God-or-whomever took extra time to shape John. Warmth flushes from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, and this ridiculous wish to kiss his chest surges up inside me.
He gently grabs my hand and the butterflies in my stomach go berserk. He presses my palm against his chest and a heartbeat pulses against my skin.
I yank my hand away. “THAT doesn’t make sense. You’re dead!”
“Irving has a theory for this too,” he says with a laugh. “But to be honest, he’s better at explaining it than I’ll ever be.”
“Well, I’ll make sure to ask him when I see him.”
Instead of trying to understand the impossible, I focus on enjoying this place with John. I close my eyes and feel the warm breeze dance over my skin. I take in the scent of wet grass. Things shouldn’t smell in here, but then again, dead people shouldn’t have heartbeats either.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for bringing me here. Death can be confusing but beautiful nonetheless.”
Our gazes meet and I’m lost in his sad blue eyes. His shirt brushes against my naked arm and a spark jolts through my body. We’re too close, and this time, there’s no mirror between us.
“Anytime.” He leans in closer and looks down at my hand. “So, is having me around adding more stress to your busy big-shot life?”
I chuckle. “Apart from sleeping less, no.”
He bites the corner of his lips. “Scout’s honor?”
“Scout’s honor.”
He smirks, eyes still on my hand. “Just between you and me, I’m glad you bought the mirror.”
“So am I.” And since we’re being honest, here it goes. “No one knows how bad I felt for defending those two criminals, only you. Well, my boss knew, because he’s a wizard or something. But I didn’t even tell my dad.”
“Why did you tell me, then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because you’re dead and you can’t tell anyone else?”
His smile broadens and that makes me smile too. “Low blow Santana.”
“You can call me Santy, you know.”
He gazes at me and gently caresses my cheek. Before I can stop myself, I lean in closer. It feels so natural being with John, so easy to talk to him, laugh with him.
“Santy,” he mumbles, as if he’s savoring each syllable. His lips move closer to mine, his hand softly pressed against my cheek. He admires me as I take in all of him, and as we draw closer, I shut my eyes, melting beneath his touch, feeling his breath.
Then I’m staring at my bedroom ceiling.
I woke up?
“John?” I call, jumping out of bed, but he doesn’t appear.
Have we gone too far? Have we defied the rules between a dead guy and a living girl? Have I scared him? And most important of all, is it wrong that I ache to go back to Death so I can spend more time with him?
“John? I mean it, come back!”
He does.
The look in his eyes…I wish I’ll never see this look again. It’s not sadness; it’s despair. It’s the look of someone who has lost everything; the look my dad had when Mother died. Seeing John like this breaks my heart.
I step closer to the mirror wishing I could pull that grim veil off his face.
“John?” I press my hand against the surface, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. Maybe I shouldn’t mention what happened between us just yet. “Thanks for showing me Death. It’s not as bad as I thought.”
“No.” His voice is coarse. “It’s so much worse.”
Shaking my head, I say, “You’re wrong. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
“That doesn’t make up for the fact that I’m dead.” And with that, he disappears.
***
I leave work early the next day. I also cancel my date with Craig. Maybe that was dumb, but I can’t think about being in a relationship right now, not with everything that’s going on.
I must talk to John, tell him we had a glitch in our judgment, that’s all. I see it happen all the time. Thank God for those glitches, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have a job. He has to know yesterday meant nothing. I’ll swear it’s true if that’s what it takes to bring him back. It’s been such a short time since I met John, but life without him seems so dull now.
“Come up,” I order as I walk in circles before the mirror.
Nothing.
Have I ruined everything? Will I never see John again?
“Come up, damn it!”
The surface darkens, but instead of the white forest, the image in the mirror is black as black can get. An orange smoke, almost red, rises from the bottom like a fire.
The features become neat and clear instantly: A small nose, long hair thinning at the top, and dark eye-bags against cold, calculating eyes. His sly smile makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Hello.” He eyes me with interest, hands behind his back. “Who would you be?”
My gut tells me this guy is a bad ghost. It also tells me I should run, but I won’t budge. This is my room and that’s my mirror. He’s the one who should leave.
“I believe I should ask the questions,” I say, controlling my tittering nerves. “You’re in my property after all.”
He seems to find me interesting or peculiar, though I can’t decide which.
“I’m in your house?” He looks at the mirror’s edges. “No, I’m right where I’m supposed to be, pup.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your property ends where this mirror begins. But something tells me you know that already.”
Cold shivers conquer my body, but I focus on keeping my stand. “You should leave.”
He swings his finger left to right in a “no.”
Crap. This is Chase Mayhew all over. Well, not really. This guy can’t hurt me; Mamma Na Se said spirits couldn’t cross. Still, I look for the bag of salt she gave me, which is standing on my dresser, inches away. If this ghost tries something, I’ll throw salt all over the place.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“To talk.”
Fine, let’s play his game. Maybe he’ll leave when we’re done. “Okay, how about you
tell me who you are?”
“Oh, where’s the fun in that?” His amber hand runs over his red hair and I spot a ruby ring on his index finger.
My heart skips a beat. I’ve seen this hand before; it’s the hand that killed Barbie in my dream. Fear mixes with anger and leaves my head buzzing. I want to run away and hurt him at the same time, but I also want to know what happened to Barbie.
I need to ignore the fear, channel the anger and concentrate, figure out how this guy ticks before confronting him. That’s how I’ll get the answers I need.
He grins, looking down at me. “I’m speaking directly to the world of the living and you to the world of the dead, pup. I think we’re making history here.”
“No, we’re not. You don’t read about this in history books.”
“Oh, you’re smart.” He winks at me.
“Tell me who you are.”
“Not yet.” He bows with fake respect. “Maybe I’m your neighbor and I died, and I’m here to haunt you a bit?”
“You’re not haunting me, and I’ve got no time to play dumb.”
Fire-smoke-guy laughs with delight. “Oh, you’re good. Let me guess…lawyer?”
A cold punch nails my stomach. How did he know? I don’t feel any push at the back of my head, and I’m keeping the barrier in my mind. He couldn’t have linked with me.
Focus. Stay indifferent.
“You know, pup, I like to pay attention to details,” he says.
“Look, I can’t see how this situation could be profitable for either of us, so how about―”
He slaps his knees, laughing his lungs out. “Definitely a lawyer!” He manages to recompose but still chuckles a bit.
“You know what your biggest mistake is, pup? You’re too cool about all this. Anyone would be running for their lives by now, but you? You just saw a ghost and you’re cold as steel. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me that I’m not afraid of scum, because I eat them for breakfast,” I say with all the courage I can muster.
He swings his finger in another “no,” and winks. “I can smell your fear from here.”
God damn it, that’s creepy. Swallowing dry, I demand rather than ask, “Who are you and what are you doing in my room?”
“Not in your room, pup.” He cracks his fingers. “Know something else? I’ve created a very basic link with you but I can’t figure out what you’re thinking.” He steps closer to me and I step back. “You want something from me, pup.”
The instinct to run takes over the need to know about Barbie, but it’s only for a second. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me scurry away in fear. This is the guy who hurt Barbie. It wasn’t a trick of my mind; he really cut my best friend’s neck.
“Do you happen to know a short blonde woman? Wavy hair, blue eyes?” I hope Barbie is not dead again, or else I’ll send him to Hell myself.
He pretends to think. “Lots of blonde ladies around here, pup.”
“Her name is Barbara.”
He pretends to think again. “Doesn’t ring a bell…oh wait, you must mean the random girl whose throat I slashed the other day. So fun!” He laughs like a happy child. “I knew someone was watching, but I didn’t know it was you.”
Something snaps in my brain, and I bang my hands against the mirror. “You bastard!”
He makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl, his red eyes flickering with ancient evil. “I do whatever I fucking want.” His voice is a unison of several voices, screaming beneath each other. “That’s a lesson you’ll never forget.”
I can’t move; too scared. This is how Barbie must’ve felt when he slashed her throat: doomed and powerless. I’ve poked a demon with a very short stick and I’m furious at myself for being so afraid of him. Tears pile up at the corner of my eyes, but I’m not sure if they’re made of anger or fear. Maybe both.
Gathering the small remains of courage I have left, I stutter, “Why did you hurt her?”
“No reason, just bored.” He approaches the mirror and I pray that Mamma Na Se is right about the no-crossing bit. “I’ll leave, pup, but I’ll be coming back for you.” He points his bony, ruby-ringed finger at me as he fades, that toothy evil smile stamped in his face until he’s gone.
Trying to control my frantic breathing, I sit on my bed. I’m shivering all over, teeth clenched, scared out of my wits. For the first time, I believe in the devil. I’ve just seen him in my mirror.
8
When I wake up, John is looking at me with his sad, beautiful eyes.
I don’t think twice before leaping toward the mirror and pushing my fisted hand against it. “Where the hell were you?”
“Thinking,” he says wearily. “We must say good-bye, Santana.”
“What?” He’s leaving me? “Why, John?”
He says nothing, but I know it’s because of the almost-kiss. Silence can speak a world of things.
I can’t let him go. I should, but I can’t. “Come on, I have more sexual tension with my brainless intern than with you. The other day meant nothing.”
John’s look is shock, tangled with confusion. A hint of pain perhaps, but it’s clearly the look of someone who’s deeply offended. I’m pretty good at upsetting people, so that look is very familiar.
I want to shout that the almost-kiss meant more than John will ever fathom in his eternal existence. That it sent butterflies to my stomach and freaked me out at the same time, but I can’t, otherwise he’ll leave me.
Thankfully, my profession has made me a pretty good liar.
John peers into me, as if he’s trying to catch the truth. A soft pressure pushes against my brain. He’s forcing the link.
“You promised never to look into my mind again.”
His eyes widen. “I…I barely realized I was. I’m sorry.” John looks down and stays silent for a while. “Shades from the Wastelands are popping up everywhere, and they never cross the borders. Something’s going on. That’s why we should take the mirror down.”
Oh. Fantastic. Did the almost-kiss mean something to him, or was it just me, embarrassing myself like a pro? I’m guessing number two. He’s a grown, dead man and I’m behaving like a schoolgirl.
I clear my throat. “Shades from the Wastelands?”
“Very bad ghosts, Santy.”
“John, the mirror cost me a fortune. I’m not getting rid of it because of Fire-Smoke-Guy. Besides, I haven’t seen Barbie yet, and I’m not giving up until I do.”
“Fire-Smoke-Guy?”
Irving steps into the canvas beside John. Maybe he heard our conversation, but the worry in his eyes tells me he’s got more important things in mind.
“Mate, I think I spotted two coming this way.”
“Hello to you too, Irving,” I say.
“Hey, lass. Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve been walking in pairs lately. It’s safer you know, with all these Shades popping ‘round like daisies.”
John lifts his hand and Irving silences. He massages his forehead. “Santana, tell me more about Fire-Smoke-Guy.”
“He came to me yesterday, while you weren’t here. Long hair, kind of bald on the top of his head, evil flowing out of his pores.”
Irving gasps, “Shait! Red Seth!”
“Santana, this mirror is going down yesterday, do you hear me?”
I wonder if this John and the carefree, funny guy I’ve been talking to are the same person. This John reminds me of a tough general and I catch myself thinking, Yes, sir! But two can play this game.
“Mamma Na Se told me you guys can’t touch me, so what’s there to fear?”
“It’s Red Seth!” John runs his hand through his hair and I swoon, even though the situation doesn’t call for it. John is beautiful angry, heck, he’s beautiful in any way. “We can’t touch you, but Red Seth…I don’t know.”
“There was a crossing once, lass. Not sure if he was involved, but Red Seth’s been dead a long, long time,” Irving adds. “He knows things.”
“
Knows things?” I snort. “Great definition, Mr. Know-it-all.”
“Hey, relax, lass. I’m on yer side. I don’t like the idea of losing the mirror either. Imagine what we could learn.”
“Irving, you’re not helping,” John chides. “Besides, you should be going. Molly needs you for the night shifts.”
“What about you?”
For the first time since the kiss that never was, John’s white smile broadens. “I think I can take care of myself.”
Irving nods with a grin that says “that-you-do,” before he walks away.
“Santana.” John presses his palm against his side of the mirror. “Trust me, I don’t want the mirror to go, but it must. Take a hammer and do it, please.”
Smash a hammer against John? Not a chance. “I’m not afraid of Red Seth.”
“You should be.” I guess he knows me enough to know I won’t cave in, so he sighs. “Fine, but please bring the Jamaican lady.”
“I hope I’m making myself clear. I’m. Not. Scared. Of. Him.” I’m turning out to be a pretty good liar today.
“Then I’ll be scared for both of us. If he did something to you, I—” his voice fades.
I press my hand against the mirror, wishing I could touch him like I did in Purgatory. “I’ll be fine, okay?”
“Yes, you will. I’ll watch you tonight, but bring her tomorrow. If only I could move this thing...” He grabs the base of the mirror and tries to lift it but it doesn’t move. He starts pulling thick vines from opposite corners, intertwining them together. Their giant leaves block the forest from my view until all I can see is John against a wall made of vines and leaves. Sunlight barely slips through this little hideout.
He looks at me as if I’m a ten-year-old. “Santana, I need your word.”
And just like a ten-year-old, I scuff my feet across the floor. “Fine, I’ll call her. But you’re not watching me sleep.”
“Would you prefer Red Seth watch you?”
He’s right, of course. Turning without a word, I take a white, knee-length nightgown with me to the bathroom.
While changing, I look at myself in the mirror. A normal mirror.
John Braver is going to watch me sleep. Wait, is that a Cheetos stain on my nightie? Damn it, I just washed this gown! Santana, keep it cool. He probably watched you before. What has changed from one day to another? I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Everything changed! Mamma Na Se will know how to solve this whole shenanigan without bringing the mirror down. There must be another solution.
