Pen Pal

38

I think of the odd burning smell when I run the dryer, the smell Eddie couldn’t find a source to—or any of the other electrical problems in the house—and feel as if I might jump right out of my skin.

When the kettle on the stove whistles, I do jump. Suddenly, I’m scared witless.

Fiona rises from her chair, gets two mugs from a cabinet, and pours hot water into both. The tea bags go in next, then she sets one of the mugs in front of me and sits back down across from me.

As if she hasn’t just given me an aneurysm, she says, “It would be proper with a drop of milk, but I’ve gone lactose intolerant in my old age. Would you like some?”

I barely manage a shake of my head.

“Now, now, dear, please don’t be frightened. I know being haunted is a bit much for our twenty-first century minds to deal with, but we’ll get through it together.”

Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe this is just a bad dream. Maybe all that wine I had yesterday went to my head and killed more than the usual amount of brain cells.

Ever the practical one, Fiona turns businesslike. “What we need is a séance.”

I say flatly, “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, the federal tax rate is ridiculous. This is simply a situation that needs to be remedied.” She sips her tea and makes a yummy noise. “As soon as possible, I might add. The longer a spirit is trapped in this dimension, the greater the odds it will never be able to move on.”

“Fiona, I don’t have a ghost in the house!”

She clucks her tongue in disapproval at my tone. “I know it’s alarming, dear, but please try to control yourself. Scots have a genetically built-in aversion to overt shows of emotion, and I’d hate to think less of you over something so minor as being haunted. Now, what about visual disturbances? Have you seen anything strange around the place?”

Into my mind flashes an image of the strange, hostile man in the hat hiding behind the tree who left no footprints behind. Another image comes, this one of the little blonde boy playing in the yard…

The boy my security camera didn’t catch, presenting me instead with a recording of static.

Horror creeps over me, starting at my feet and slowly moving up my body until I’m gripped in a cold, tight skeleton hand of fright.

As if her case is closed, Fiona says sagely, “Ah.”

Chilled to the bone, I say, “It’s impossible. Ghosts don’t exist.”

Fiona smiles. A bass rumble of thunder rolls through the sky. The rain increases, peppering the windows and drumming against the roof.

Then the overhead lights turn themselves off and on three times, like a smug supernatural f**k-you.

22

“N

ow listen carefully,” says Fiona, turning businesslike again. “I need to tell you something important.”

“What is it?”

“No matter what happens, don’t tell the ghost it’s dead. They have no idea they’re no longer living.”

I’m convinced we’re both in a padded cell somewhere having this conversation. That’s really the only reasonable explanation.

When I sit there staring at her in disbelief, she continues.

“Ghosts are simply souls with a story to tell. When a person dies tragically or violently, their spirit often can’t move on. They have unfinished business that keeps them tied to this realm. Until they get closure, they will remain here, haunting the people and places that meant the most to them while they were alive.”

“Are you even listening to the words coming out of your mouth?”

She arches a brow. “I’m aware this is difficult for you, dear, but there’s no need to be snippy.”

Chastened, I sigh. “Sorry.”

“As I was saying…what was I saying?”

“Ghosts need closure.”

“Yes, that’s right. And until they get it, they’re stuck here, wandering the earth in misery.”

She stares at me expectantly.

“You’re saying we need to help this ghost who doesn’t exist and definitely is not haunting me get closure.”

Fiona beams. “Well done.”

Stupendous. She wants me to give up art and become a guide for lost spirits. “I hope you won’t be offended by this, but that is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

I can tell by her expression that she’s definitely offended.

She sniffs, lifting her nose. “All right. If you don’t want my help, I can’t force you to take it.” She stands, takes her mug to the sink, and dumps the rest of her tea down the drain. Rinsing out the mug, she says over her shoulder, “Do you need your office cleaned today?”

“Really? We’re just going to act like this conversation never happened?”

She turns to level me with a cool stare. “I was under the impression that wallowing in denial is where you’re most comfortable.”

“Ouch. That was harsh.”

“I’m not one to sugarcoat things.”

I say drily, “Gee, I couldn’t tell.”

We gaze at each other across the room, until I finally give in.

“Okay, even if I did go along with this insanity—which I’m not, I’m just saying if—what then?”

Her expression softens. She sets the mug in the drain rack next to the sink and returns to her chair. “Then we attempt to contact the spirit to see what it wants.”

“You’re back to the séance thing again.”

“Correct.”

We gaze at each other across the table as I attempt to retrieve my brain from outer space where it went for a nice rest from this ridiculous conversation.

“Or maybe I should just go see a therapist. That seems as if it might be money better spent.”

“Oh, there won’t be a charge, my dear. She could do it as a personal favor.”

“Who’s she?”

“My sister. She’s a medium.”

By this point, that new tidbit of information doesn’t even faze me. “Of course she is. And how does one get into that line of work?”

“Well, you’re born into it, aren’t you? It’s a gift.”

I repeat doubtfully, “A gift.”

“Something that comes naturally, like your artistic ability.”

“Only with dead people.”

“Exactly.”

“And she can guarantee this non-spirit who isn’t haunting me will leave after that?”

“Oh no. That’s entirely up to the spirt. And there’s always the chance that…” She chews on the inside of her cheek.

“Don’t leave me hanging. I’m strung out enough as it is.”