Fiona and Claire find me in the kitchen, huddled on the floor in a corner with my back against the cabinets and my knees drawn up to my chin.
Glancing around, Claire asks, “Why did you open all the cabinets and drawers?”
“They were open when I got here.” My laugh sounds unhinged. “The resident ghost thinks it’s hilarious to do stuff like that.”
The sisters look at each other, then at me. Claire suggests gently, “Why don’t we all sit at the table and have a chat?”
“A chat sounds great. So does an exorcism. There’s a fucking ghost in my house!”
Fiona says, “Yes, but look on the bright side. At least there’s only one.”
I groan and drop my forehead to my knees.
“Now, now, my dear, don’t despair. This is actually quite good news.”
“Remind me where, in this unmitigated supernatural disaster, good news can be found?”
She says brightly, “Now we know what the spirit wants!”
I look up and stare at her in disbelief. “From the sound of it, the spirit wants to commit murder. And as I’m the only person who lives here, I’m thinking I’m the prime candidate for its homicidal quest.”
“The spirit is angry, but I sensed the anger isn’t directed at you,” says Claire, pulling up a chair at the kitchen table. She sits, patting her hair and smoothing a hand down the front of her blouse. She looks exhausted.
Being possessed by a dead person must really take the wind out of you.
“But it knows me. What does that mean?”
“You’re the owner of the home. You’ve been living here with it. Of course it knows you.”
I’m horrified all over again. “Oh God. Has it been watching me when I’m in the shower?”
Fiona says, “I think you’re missing the bigger picture here, dear.”
Exasperated, I demand, “Which is?”
She pulls up a chair next to her sister and sits down. Folding her hands in her lap and looking at me with kindness in her eyes, she says, “If you can help the spirit get what it wants, it will move on.”
I glance at Claire, who nods.
“You’re saying you want me to be an accessory to murder?”
“The spirit said nothing about murder. It said revenge, which can take all sorts of forms.”
I drop my forehead to my knees again and say miserably, “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Ever the practical one, Fiona says, “We need to contact the spirit again.”
I lift my head and insist, “There’s no way I’m doing another séance!”
Claire shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Growing more desperate, I demand, “So that’s it? We’re out of options? Can’t you just burn some sage or something to make it go away?”
Claire laughs as if I’m being silly. “Oh, my dear, that’s a myth. A spirit isn’t a pesky insect one can banish with a little perfumed smoke.”
“Great. So I have to sell the place if I ever want peace again?”
“Unless it’s not the house your spirit is haunting.”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps the spirit is haunting you. In which case, it doesn’t matter where you live. It will always find you.”
I stare at her with my mouth hanging open. She shrugs again, as if she hasn’t just delivered the worst news yet.
Then something hits me. “Holy shit. Maybe it’s one of my parents. Oh God, I never considered that!”
Claire and Fiona share another of their odd looks. Feeling defensive, I say, “There was no answer when I asked if it was Michael, so I have to assume it wasn’t him. Right?”
There’s something strange in Claire’s pause, as if she’s carefully choosing her words. “We can’t assume anything. How long have your parents been dead?”
“Many years. Both of them.”
“Then it’s not them.”
“How do you know?”
“You would’ve been contacted before now. Spirits can’t cross to the Other Side then return to this dimension. Once they ascend Beyond, this plane of existence is closed to them. The only spirits who can make contact are lingering in limbo. Now, come sit at the table. My legs are getting cramped just looking at you huddled on the floor.”
Though my legs are shaky, I manage to stand. I join them, sitting across from Fiona and propping my elbows on the table. I drop my head into my hands and sigh.
After a moment, Claire says gently, “Kayla, please look at me.”
I lift my head and meet her gaze.
“I want to help you. We both do.”
She glances at Fiona, who nods.
“So if you won’t do another séance, here’s my suggestion for what you should do.”
When she pauses, I say, “I’m listening.”
“Research the history of this house. Find out who lived here before you did. Perhaps you’ll find a clue about the identity of this ghost. If it isn’t someone you know, it’s someone who lived here before.”
“That makes sense. Except you’re forgetting that during the séance, the spirit said it knew me while it was alive.”
She waves a hand dismissively in the air. “I wouldn’t take that as canon. Usually, they’re very confused.”
When I only stare at her, she explains herself.
“Ghosts are a bit like people with psychiatric disorders. They cannot distinguish illusion from reality. When a soul is trapped here, it needs a guide—a spirit guide, if you will—to help lead it to the light.”
“Wait. Now you want me to be a ghost guide?”
She quirks a brow. “Do you prefer to be haunted for the rest of your life?”
I look at Fiona for help.
She only shrugs. “It’s either that or we go back in the office and try again.”
“No way. It touched me.” I shudder in disgust. “God, how am I supposed to sleep here now knowing there’s a freaking ghost floating around?”
“It’s been floating around for quite some time, dear.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
She chuckles. “Well, it hasn’t molested you yet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Horrified, I gape at her. “Yet?”
“No one is molesting anyone!” interrupts Claire, irritated. “The spirit doesn’t want to fondle you, it wants you to help it get revenge.”
“On who? For what?”
“Do some research and find out.”
I glare at her. She says, “Or we go back in that office right now and put the matter to rest.” She looks at her watch. “Either way, I’m already running behind schedule. What’s it to be?”
“If I can help it, I’m never going in that room again.”
“Well, that’s it, then. If you change your mind, give me a call.”
She stands. Fiona rises with her. I can’t let them leave without thanking them, so I rise and follow Claire into the foyer as Fiona retrieves their coats from the hall closet.
Claire’s duffel bag of séance supplies is already sitting next to the door, packed up and ready to go. They must’ve gathered the things while I was huddled on the kitchen floor in psychic distress.
When Fiona returns, I say, “Thank you for your time, Claire. I appreciate it.”
“It’s my pleasure, dear.”
“You, too, Fiona.”
“Be well, Kayla. I’ll see you next Monday.”
“Right. Unless I’m murdered by a vengeful spirit before then.”
She smiles at me, which is in no way helpful. I open the door for them. Claire is about to cross the threshold, but she stops short.
Fiona and I follow her confused gaze.
Lying on the doormat is a bright orange neoprene vest with four black straps sewn across the chest. Plastic buckles dangle at the end of the straps. In the porch light, the reflective patches on the shoulders of the vest are dazzling.
Fiona says, “What on earth is that?”
“A life jacket,” I whisper, starting to shake again.
A visibly confused Claire says, “What is it doing on your porch?”
“I asked my pen pal for it.”
They look at me and repeat in unison, “Pen pal?”
“Yeah.” Gripping the doorframe for support, I laugh breathlessly.
Fiona asks, “Why is that funny?”
“Because I think I figured out who’s haunting me.”
Ten minutes later, the three of us are back at the kitchen table looking through Dante’s letters that I brought down from my underwear drawer upstairs. Claire called her other two clients to cancel, because my haunting just became too juicy for her to pass up.
Apparently, it’s not every day that a ghost delivers mail and a personal floatation device from beyond the grave.
“Remarkable,” says Claire, bent over the table as she peers closely at one of the first letters I received. Careful not to touch the paper, she points at the lower right corner. “That looks like it could be blood.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But how could a ghost bleed?”
“It can’t.” She glances up at me. “But it could be someone else’s blood.”
“Or something else’s,” chimes in Fiona. “An animal, perhaps.”
I grimace. “That’s sick. Why the hell would he send a letter smeared with animal blood?”
Claire says, “Maybe it’s a clue.”
The three of us look at the rust-colored smudge. Outside, the storm continues to batter the house. It’s raining so hard now, it no longer sounds like hail, but like a constant barrage of gunfire on the roof. The wind howls like a pack of starving wolves.
Claire picks up the letter by one corner and turns it over, setting it down carefully again. “‘I’ll wait forever if I have to,’” she reads aloud. “That must be in reference to the revenge he seeks. This ghost is waiting for you to help him get his vengeance.”
“But there’s all this other nonsense about his feelings,” says Fiona, gesturing to another letter. “What could that mean?”
“Maybe he has a crush on me. I am pretty cute.”
Fiona and Claire look at me with identical expressions of doubt.
“It was a joke, you guys. Sheesh.”
“This is serious,” says Claire disapprovingly. “If we can’t help this spirit transition to the Other Side, it will be our fault that he’s trapped in limbo forever. Let’s give this situation the respect it deserves.”
I can’t believe I’m getting reprimanded by a medium wearing orthopedic shoes about the proper attitude toward my own haunting, but here we are.
“You’re right. Sorry.” I study the letters spread on the table between us and the stack of envelopes off to one side. “Why are they all postmarked from prison? Do you think that’s a clue, too?”
“It’s more likely that the spirit believes he’s imprisoned. Metaphorically speaking, he is.”
“Okay, next question: how the hell can a ghost use a pen?”
“Spirits can manifest their energy in all sorts of ways,” says Claire. “Using objects like pens is one of them, but they can also control electrical devices such as telephones and computers.”
“Or doorbells,” Fiona reminds me.
“Exactly,” agrees Claire. “They’re remarkably adept at manipulating their environment. If potent enough, they can even affect the weather.”
I listen to the storm roaring outside and wonder if Dante has anything to do with that.
“But if he can control energy and objects, why doesn’t he go get his revenge himself? What does he need me for? Couldn’t he just drop a piano on his enemy’s head?”
“Well, for one thing, he might not recall who his enemy is.”
When I look at her in surprise, Claire says, “Being trapped in limbo is terribly confusing. In fact, this ghost of yours most likely doesn’t even know he’s dead.”
“I already told her that,” says Fiona.
“So he needs me to help him remember.” I look at the letters again. “Remind me why I can’t just tell him he’s dead?”
“It would only drive him further into denial,” answers Claire. “You risk alienating him altogether. If someone told you that you were dead, what would your reaction be?”
I snort. “I’d say sure, pal, and you’re an heirloom tomato.”
“Precisely. We must gently coax him toward the truth. He has to come to it on his own. It’s like the steps a child takes to learn to read. First comes the alphabet. Then they learn short, easy words. Cat. Dog. Tree. Then they put the words together in simple sentences, until eventually, they’re devouring Shakespeare. Comprehension is a multistep process. It doesn’t happen all at once.”
“But how did he even get stuck in limbo in the first place? Why doesn’t a soul just automatically move on when the body dies?”
“Normally, they do. But sometimes, they lose sight of where to go. The dense reality of the third dimension combined with the gravity of our planet makes things quite complicated for a nontemporal being. Add to that the emotional distress of whatever unfinished business they’re suffering from, and you wind up with a very confused and cranky lost spirit.”
I exhale hard and mutter, “Ghosts are high maintenance.”
Fiona chuckles as if that was especially insightful. “Indeed.”
Sitting back in my chair, I cross my arms over my chest and examine the letters again while sifting through everything in my head. “So, to recap, what I need to do is coax this spirit into accepting that he’s no longer alive and that he needs to go to the Other Side.”
“Just so,” says Claire, beaming.
“How exactly am I supposed to do that if I can’t tell him he’s dead?”
She and Fiona share a loaded glance, then she says softly, “If you give people light, they’ll find their own way.”
Irritated by her ambiguity, I say sourly, “Sure. I’ll just start shouting, ‘Go into the light!’ at the ceiling at random intervals, how about that?”
“Trust your instincts,” says Fiona soothingly. “You’ll think of something. You’ve got the battle halfway won already just by discovering his identity.”
“But I don’t know anything about him! I only have his name!”
I point at his signature on one of the letters, that familiar scrawl.
Dante.
Fiona and Claire look at each other again in their weird twin-telepathy silence.
I say flatly, “I swear to God, if you guys don’t stop doing that, I’ll break something.”
“Why don’t you start by researching his name?” suggests Fiona.
After a moment, I admit grudgingly, “That’s not a bad idea. I was thinking I’d call my detective friend to get some information about Dante.” My laugh is small and weak. “That was before I knew he was a ghost, though.”
Claire repeats, “Detective friend?”
“The man from the police department who interviewed me after Michael’s accident.”
The overhead lights flicker. We all look up at the ceiling. A low electrical buzzing sound fills the room, then the lights go out. They come back on within seconds.
Claire murmurs, “Yes. You’re definitely headed in the right direction there.”
I lean in and whisper, “Is he just floating around eavesdropping on us? That is so creepy!”
“Kayla, focus.”
“Seriously, though, why did we even need a séance if this ghost can hear every word we speak?”
Gazing at me, Fiona muses, “He does seem rather omnipresent, doesn’t he?”
“That’s what I’m saying!”
Claire stares with narrowed eyes at the ceiling. I can almost see the gears turning in her head. Before I can ask her what’s she’s thinking, she says loudly, “Spirit, are you still with us?”
Down the hallway, a door slams shut with such force, it sets the open kitchen cabinets gently swinging.
I jump and gasp.
Fiona murmurs, “Oh, my.”
Claire grabs Fiona’s hand and says urgently, “I think we’re close.”
“Close to what?” I ask, confused and alarmed.
Claire orders, “Kayla, call that detective.”
“What, now? It’s after eight o’clock!”
“Maybe he works late. If not, leave him a message. Do you have a laptop I can borrow?”
“Well, yes, it’s in my office. But—”
Without waiting for me to complete the thought, Claire leaps up and hurries from the kitchen.
Staring after her, I say, “Fiona, what’s going on?”
She replies calmly, “I believe Claire thinks we’re on the cusp of a breakthrough.”
“Breakthrough?”
“In helping the spirit.”
I glance warily at the ceiling and the overhead lights, which are now flickering continuously. In a moment, Claire returns, carrying my laptop. She sets it on the table in front of me.
“Oh,” she says, pulling something from the pocket of her cardigan. “This was sitting on top of the computer lid. I thought it might be significant.”
She sets the object down on the table.
It’s Michael’s 1937 D-type buffalo nickel. The one I found under the tree where the man in the gray trench coat stood staring at me. The one I then found on the dashboard of my car outside Aidan’s.
The one I left tucked safely inside a drawer.
I lose my breath. My heart starts to pound. A savage gust of wind rattles the kitchen windows. Then through the ceiling drops a small metal object that lands with a clatter on the table beside the coin. It spins for a moment before settling into stillness, light glinting off its rounded edge.
It’s my wedding ring.
