Thursday morning, Quinn chugged a terrible cup of coffee in the cafeteria before they hunted down a desk in the library and got to work on their laptop. They started optimistically, simply typing Vincent Baker and were unsurprisingly met with thousands of results: a bunch of Wikipedia entries, hundreds of LinkedIn profiles, some random news articles, none of which were relevant.

Googling Vincent Baker 1932 made them stumble down the rabbit hole that was findagrave.com, a website that offered exactly what it said on the tin. Quinn found hundreds of entries for Vincent Baker, but none of them in Oakriver.

Lastly, with the caffeine buzz already wearing off and their permanent headache turning from a mild pressure into a vicious pounding, Quinn searched Vincent Baker Death. There were dozens upon dozens of obituaries dating back to the 19th century, but none of the deceased had lived anywhere near.

It seemed that, even on the internet, Vincent was a ghost.

With a low groan, Quinn leaned back in their seat and stared up at the arched ceiling of the old library building. It was just their luck to get haunted by a white boy with the most basic name imaginable.

Some part of them wanted to use the disappointing lack of information as a sign to give up, but the other, much bigger part was still hung up on the look on Vincent's face the night before; the surprise when Quinn had addressed him directly, the flicker of hope in his eyes when they had offered to help him, his distress when he'd struggled to remember his last name.

For almost a hundred years, he'd been stuck here.

For almost a hundred years, no one had seen him.

There was no way Quinn could simply sit back and watch him have to haunt the campus for all eternity, aimless and invisible to everyone else. As much as they hated this ability, it was theirs, and it brought with it a sense of responsibility that was hard to ignore—harder, still, when the ghost in question was so soft-spoken and sincere, so uncomplaining despite his obvious misery.

Quinn hadn't asked for any of this, but neither had he.

And so, they decided to do what they'd sworn weeks ago they never would: they visited the cemetery.

***

Quinn wasn't sure what they'd expected they would find in the graveyard. For some reason, they'd assumed it would be a hotspot of sorts, a place bustling with spirits everywhere they looked.

Instead, they found everything eerily quiet. There was no noise except the crunching of the thin layer of snow that had fallen while Quinn had been in the library; there was nothing to see except crooked headstones and shivering trees, naked branches clawing at the overcast sky.

Quinn moved between the graves with their hands buried deep inside the pockets of their dark coat, only taking them out to brush aside snow and vines every once in a while to uncover a name. Like everything else in Oakriver, the cemetery was small; after roughly thirty minutes, they had seen every headstone and every cross, read every weathered inscription and studied every statue. Vincent's name was nowhere to be found.

By the end, Quinn found themself standing at the gates again, much colder but no wiser than before. Had Vincent remembered his name wrong? Or had he not died in Oakriver at all? But then why would he be haunting this town? Could ghosts just pick and choose where they wanted to spend the afterlife? Quinn felt severely undertrained for any of this.

With their cheeks stinging from the biting cold, they cast another cursory glance around the cemetery that sprawled before them. They tried to make out their footsteps in the snow, winding systematically between the graves to tell if they missed anything. It was only then that they noticed the second pair of footprints. Quinn hadn't seen anyone else while they'd been here and the snow had fallen only two hours ago, so sometime in between their arrival and their trip to the library, someone else had to have been here.

Their path was different from Quinn's; it led from the large cemetery gate to a second, smaller entry gate Quinn hadn't noticed before. Slowly, acting on some kind of visceral instinct, they neared the footprints and retraced the stranger's steps. Whoever they belonged to had shoes a few sizes bigger than theirs, and also took ridiculously long strides. Quinn was sure that it took them at least twice as long to get to the footprints' destination, which, it turned out, was one of the houses adjacent to the cemetery.

It was tucked away in a dimly lit alley Quinn had never entered before. Wedged between small family homes, it looked gigantic: though it was narrow, it was at least four stories tall, with protruding alcoves and a dozen windows that watched Quinn as they neared it with unsure steps. With the dark curtains drawn, it was impossible to look inside; the only hint as to what the building housed was the nameplate mounted on the black front door. Quinn had to walk up the steps to the door in order to read it, their neck prickling unpleasantly when, as if to announce their visit, a crow croaked from the snow-covered roof just then, the sound echoing loudly in the empty alleyway.

Quinn cast the bird a wary glance before they leaned forward to study the nameplate. It read: Ortíz and Son: Caskets / Coffins / Keepsake Options.

Slowly, they straightened. It was a stupid thought, but maybe the people who ran this shop had records of the caskets they sold. The building looked ancient, and most of Oakriver's shops were long-established and family-run, so there was a chance it had existed even when Vincent had been alive. If Quinn could find out if they had ever made a casket for him, then maybe they could go from there—figure out who commissioned it and where it had been taken, maybe even the cause of death.

When the crow gave another impatient squawk, Quinn lifted a hand to the doorknob.

To their surprise, the door immediately gave way at the faintest of pushes, moaning softly in protest. Quinn took a deep breath and stepped through the threshold, pulling the door shut behind them.

After the brightness of the snow outside, it took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the dim lighting inside the building. Slowly, one after another, the shadows morphed into discernible furniture and Quinn realized that the room they were standing in was a showroom of sorts. To their right was a large reception desk that was decorated with bouquets of white lilies. Next to them was a small bell that could be used to make oneself known, but Quinn didn't touch it.

Instead, they leaned against the desk and took their time studying their surroundings. The hazy lighting stemmed from a few little lamps positioned strategically around the room and the candles flickering gently on the reception desk. Next to the winding staircase that led to the second floor, there was an entire wall that was taken up by a shelf showcasing different kinds of urns in all shapes and sizes. And then there were the shiny caskets, some opened, some closed, all in different styles and colors.

Gulping, Quinn stared down at the polished surface of the reception desk again, breathing in the scent of candle wax, wood, and funeral flowers. It was a heady combination that, mixed with the warmth inside the showroom, made them feel a little bit dizzy. Their fingers drummed against the surface of the counter, inches away from the bell, but before they could bring themself to ring it, a noise behind them made their head snap up.

Quinn turned around expecting to see someone coming down the stairs or entering through the back door—instead, they watched in horror as a hand appeared from within one of the caskets.

With an embarrassing squawk, they staggered backward, until they could feel the edge of the reception desk digging into their back. They squeezed their eyes shut, not wanting to see the terrible apparition that was undoubtedly hoisting itself out of the casket—

"Oh, shit!" a familiar voice exclaimed and that—that wasn't a very malevolent-spirit-thing to say, was it? "I'm sorry, I didn't even hear you come in!"

Slowly, Quinn blinked their eyes open.

Luis was sitting upright in the nearest casket, his hair tousled and a tattered paperback of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein in his hand.

There was a sheepish grin on his face as he peered up at Quinn—meanwhile, Quinn's brain was so overwhelmed by the sight of Luis and casket and Luis in a casket that all they managed to get out was a heartfelt: "What the fuck?"

"I'm really sorry," he said again as he clambered out of the casket and got to his feet. "Typically, no one really comes here around this time."

With their heart still beating in their throat, Quinn watched silently as Luis stretched, making his shirt ride up a little. It was one of those old-fashioned ones, white with puffy sleeves and a ruffled collar. His pants were dark chinos that fit him perfectly and were cuffed right above his black boots; on his fingers glittered several silver rings that matched the cross earrings dangling from his ears. He looked a bit like a very sleepy vampire, though maybe that association was only owed to the candle-lit, casket-filled backdrop.

"I'm Luis, by the way," he said, mistaking Quinn's prolonged staring for confusion. "Sometimes people don't recognize me when I'm wearing clothes."

Quinn thought that anyone who forgot Luis's face had to not have very good eyesight. Out loud, they stammered, "Uh, hi. Again. I-I'm Quinn."

"You use they/them pronouns, right? Mrs. Conti mentioned something like that."

Quinn was pretty sure they were getting whiplash from the way this entire encounter was progressing. "I... yeah. I'm nonbinary."

"Nice. I use he and him," Luis said as he hoisted himself onto the reception desk, narrowly avoiding knocking over one of the candles. Propping his chin in one hand, he grinned down at Quinn. Then, a jolt went through him and his eyes went suddenly wide. "Oh my God, I didn't even ask why you're here! Do you... need a casket? Please don't tell me you need a casket. That would be terribly awkward."

"I... don't need a casket," Quinn said. "What were you doing just now?"

"I was just taking a nap," Luis said as if it were obvious. "I was reading, but I must've fallen asleep. It happens sometimes. Great sign for the quality of our product."

"Our product?" Quinn echoed.

"Oh, yeah." Luis flicked the sign on the counter next to him. "I'm the son in Ortíz and Son."

Quinn nodded slowly. "I see. Do... do you think you could maybe help me?"

"Depends on what you need help with."

"I was doing some research about my family history," Quinn lied, "And I came across this... great-grandfather. I was wondering if you maybe had any records on him? Who commissioned his casket, where it was buried, that kind of stuff?"

"Sure, I can see if we have anything about that," Luis said, already hopping from the counter. Quinn wondered how he had ever managed to hold still during their life drawing class. Here, he seemed like he never stopped fidgeting, a perpetual motion machine brimming with restless energy. "Follow me."

Quinn did, shrugging off their coat now that they knew they were going to be here a while.

"My family's owned this business for decades," Luis explained as they made their way towards a door at the other end of the room. "Everyone here has always been big on having records of their sales, so we should be able to find something. Does that ominous great-grandfather of yours have a name?"

"Uh, yeah. Vincent Baker. He must have died around 1932."

Luis hummed quietly and pushed open the door, bidding Quinn inside with a flourish. When the ceiling light flickered on, they found themself in a room crammed to the ceiling with cardboard boxes that held all types of things; packaging for urns, candles for the showroom, folders of sales records. Luis headed for one of the shelves and pulled out a box that had 1932/1933 written on its side in sharpie.

"I had to organize and box all of these up a few years ago," he commented as he set it down in the middle of the room and sank to his knees in front of it. "It was a pain in the ass. You wouldn't believe how many people die each year."

Sitting down cross-legged next to him, Quinn dutifully accepted the stack of papers Luis thrust at them. "What exactly do you do here? Aside from organizing stuff and napping in caskets, I mean?"

"I build them," Luis said with a shrug. "There's a workshop upstairs. Everything you see in the showroom is handcrafted—we're one of the last businesses that does that, I think. My dad's usually the one who handles the sales sides of things, I just sometimes fill in on slow days when he has something else to do. Like today."

"Do you... do you enjoy working here?"

"You ask a lot of questions." Luis finally looked up from the file in his hand. "Hey, what about this. We're gonna be here for a bit, so... let's play truths."

"Sure," Quinn said before they could think too much about it.

"Okay. You already asked me like ten questions, so I'll go first." Luis leaned back on his hands, head tilted as he studied Quinn. Their stomach fluttered with nerves as they waited for his question, only for him to say, "This is an intense one. What's your favorite cryptid?"

For a few seconds, all Quinn could do was stare at him. Finally, they said, "Uh... Mothman, maybe?"

"Excellent choice!" Luis said, his face visibly lighting up. "He's iconic for sure. Would love to go to Point Pleasant sometime and see the absolute mad lad."

Quinn couldn't help the laugh that left their mouth at that. "Yeah? What's yours?"

"Listen, you're probably gonna call me basic for this one, but I'm gonna go with the Loch Ness Monster." The papers in his hand rustled as he gestured wildly. "It's just a classic, y'know? There's a whole museum on it in Scotland. Plus, all those sea creatures have always fascinated me. We really don't know what's down in those deeper waters! There could be all kinds of fucked up creatures down there. The ocean is some scary soup."

Quinn gave a heartfelt nod to the last part before they said, "Okay, my turn."

"You just asked me what my favorite cryptid was," Luis protested.

"And you almost gave me a heart attack. This is only fair," Quinn said. When Luis raised his hands in surrender, they asked, "What do you study? I don't think I've ever really seen you around campus before."

"That's because I don't. Study, I mean," Luis said without looking at them.

"Oh," Quinn murmured. It was the shortest answer Luis had given so far, and by far the least enthusiastic.

"My turn." Luis met their eyes again. "What did you see in the art studio?"

"What do you mean?"

"In the life drawing seminar on Monday," Luis explained. "At one point, you froze and had this weird look on your face. You looked like you saw something that scared you."

"I was literally only looking at you." Quinn tried their best to keep their voice light even as their insides squirmed in discomfort at the memory. "Unless you think your face is particularly scary, you were seeing things wrong."

Luis studied them, clearly not buying it, before he gave a shrug. "Scary good-looking, for sure. Your turn."

And just like that, they easily slipped into their game of truths again. While they worked their way through the dozens of files inside the cardboard box, Quinn learned all types of random things about Luis: his favorite movie (a tie between What We Do In The Shadows and The Addams Family), his zodiac sign (Scorpio, with a Gemini moon and an Aquarius rising), his favorite hobby (embroidery—Quinn couldn't tell for the life of them if he was joking or not). In turn, they gave up silly little facts about themself, like their favorite Chinese dish and their favorite horror movie trope, the billionaire they would kill first in the class war and their least favorite kind of bird.

Searching for records on a ghost with a boy who built coffins wasn't exactly how Quinn had expected the day to go, but it was... easy, somehow. For just a few moments, they didn't feel scared or tired or anxious. Instead, they almost felt normal again, as if everything that had happened these last few months had only been a vivid dream, the feeling of helpless dread far away as their stomach ached with laughter.

Their smile only faded when they reached the bottom of the cardboard box and they had still found nothing on Vincent.

"I don't think there's anything in here," Luis sighed, putting the last file back into the box. "But, I mean... it was the Great Depression. A casket isn't cheap. We'd probably be better off searching for a receipt for an urn, but my family didn't start selling those until the 1980s when cremation became more popular, so..."

Quinn nodded. "Yeah, sure. I understand. Sorry for wasting your time."

Getting to his feet, Luis stretched out a hand for them. "You literally saved my day. Without you, I would still be lying in that goddamn casket doing nothing."

"Yeah, that part is... still weird," Quinn said, but let Luis pull them to their feet. Getting into their coat again, they said, "Thank you for helping me. Even though we didn't find anything."

Luis's smile was all dimples. "Anytime. Feel free to come by if there are any other dead relatives you need help searching for."

"Will do." By now they'd reached the front door again; to their surprise, Quinn found they were reluctant to step outside. "I'll... see you around campus?"

"Yeah, maybe," Luis agreed before he reached past Quinn and opened the door for them. He gave a little bow. "It's been an honor to have you. Please recommend Ortíz and Son to your family and friends."

"Just for your dramatic entrance, I'm rating it five stars," Quinn laughed before they stepped outside.

The cold reclaimed them as soon as the door fell shut behind them, but the lingering scent of white lilies still clung to their coat when they made it back to the campus. Quinn buried their nose in their collar as they pushed through the doors of the art building.

It was earlier than it usually was when they came by, but the building was already deserted. Quinn slowly neared their usual classroom, but froze a few feet away from the door when they suddenly heard an unexpected noise from inside: laughter, twinkling like bells in the silent building.

"But why would he do that? He's not supposed to eat pie with her grandma. He's supposed to be scary!" a girl's voice exclaimed between giggles.

"And why's that?" Vincent replied. Even without seeing him, Quinn could tell just from the sound of his voice that he was smiling.

"Because he's a wolf!"

"He didn't choose to be a wolf though, did he?"

"Well, no, but he has claws and stuff! He's scary!"

"Some would argue that you and I are scary as well, Hannah."

"Oh, come on," the girl huffed. "That is such nonsense. It's not our fault we're like this."

Vincent chuckled. "Exactly."

There was a moment of silence before the little girl said, "Fine, okay. Maybe the wolf isn't all that bad. What comes next in the story?"

By now, Quinn had reached the door. Peering inside the dark room, they found Vincent sitting in the windowsill next to the little girl Quinn had seen on the staircase the night before. She was wearing his hat again; it sat crooked atop her brown curls while her head rested on his shoulder. Next to each other, they made for an odd picture: there was Vincent in his simple work clothes, and then there was the little girl in her light blue dress and knee socks, the bow in her hair and her shiny shoes. It was like seeing a strange display in a museum where two mannequins from different decades had accidentally been placed next to each other.

Upon their entrance, Vincent gave the girl a little nudge with his elbow. "I think we'll save the rest of the story for tomorrow."

The girl looked like she was about to complain, but abruptly shut her mouth when she noticed Quinn.

"Sorry," Quinn said, taking a tentative step into the room. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"That's all right." Vincent offered them a smile—it was the brightest one Quinn had seen on him so far. Gesturing to the girl, he added, "Quinn, this is Hannah. Hannah, this is Quinn."

"Nice to meet you," Quinn reflexively said.

When Hannah only stared at them, Vincent asked, "Hey, why don't you go look for Caleb and Josie? I think they're playing in the courtyard."

"But it's cold outside," Hannah feebly protested.

With a look of fond exasperation, Vincent flicked the rim of her—his—cap. "And when was the last time you felt cold?"

"I always feel cold. I'm dead," Hannah petulantly said. When Vincent remained entirely unimpressed, her shoulders slumped. "Can I at least keep the hat on?"

"Yes, Hannah. You can keep the hat on." Vincent gave her another encouraging nudge. "Go on now. I'll try to still be here when you come back."

With a long-suffering sigh, Hannah finally slid from the windowsill. She shot Quinn another wary glance; then, she darted past them and out into the corridor, disappearing into the night.

"What do you mean by you'll try to still be here when she gets back?" Quinn asked, turning to face Vincent again.

He shifted a little, propping one foot up on the windowsill and resting his chin on top of his knee. "It's a bit difficult to explain. I'm—I'm always here, but I don't always have the energy to make myself seen or heard."

Quinn's eyes widened. "You mean you have periods where not even other ghosts can sense you?"

Vincent nodded. "I usually try to save my energy during the day and only appear in the evenings. That way Hannah doesn't get so lonely."

"I don't think she likes me very much," Quinn said, sinking onto the windowsill next to him.

"She isn't normally this shy. It's just been a while since she met someone new who could..."

"See you," Quinn finished.

"Yeah." Vincent was silent for a moment before he gingerly asked, "So... did you find anything?"

"Not really. I searched on the internet— Do you know what that is?"

Vincent made a face at them. "Of course I know what that is. We do see what's going on around us while we're stuck here."

"Sorry," Quinn chuckled, "Just making sure. Anyway, I didn't find anything about you on there, so I went to the cemetery and searched for your grave. You don't happen to know where it is, do you?"

Vincent gave a small shake of his head.

"I couldn't find it either. So then I went to the shop right next to the cemetery, the one that sells caskets, and asked if they had any records about you. They didn't."

Quinn had expected Vincent to look upset that they hadn't been able to find out anything about him—instead, he was staring at them with a look of wide-eyed surprise. "You really did all of that? For me?"

"No, for the other dead boy I'm friends with."

Vincent's expression softened. "You think we're friends?"

"I mean... We do kind of spend a lot of time together. I think I've seen you more than I've seen all my other friends this week."

"Really?"

Quinn nodded.

"Oh." When Quinn dared to glance up, they found Vincent studying them, pale blue eyes flitting across their features. "You... you know you don't have to, right? I'd understand if you'd rather spend time with real people."

"Vincent, you are real."

"You know what I mean. Someone with a heartbeat."

Quinn frowned. "I don't mind hanging out with you," they told him. "And besides, we still haven't cracked this case. I told you I'd help you find out how you died, and we're still not any closer to that than we were last night."

Vincent leaned back against the window. Backlit by the moon, his hair looked like a halo. "Okay. What's the next step, then?"

"I'm not sure," Quinn admitted. "Do you remember anything about your life at all?"

"Of course I do," he softly said. "I remember everything. Just not about the week I died."

"Really?"

He nodded. "Most of us can't remember how it happened. We spend the first few years in a kind of daze, all confused. I think it's like... a trauma response. A self-protection mechanism that stops us from remembering our death over and over again."

"Tell me about your life, then," Quinn said.

"What do you want to know?"

"What did you do? Did you work?"

Vincent's gaze looked far away as he quietly said, "Yeah. My parents owned a little grocery store that I helped run."

"What was your family like?"

"I had a little sister. She was seven years younger than me," he murmured. "My mom... she died when I was sixteen. Back then they didn't tell me what it was, but I think she had cancer. After that, my dad, he... He kind of lost it. Started drinking and stuff. I pretty much ran the store by myself from that point on."

Quinn winced. "I'm sorry."

"It's—I mean, it's not fine, but I've had a long time to learn to be okay with it."

Quinn was silent for a moment before they tentatively asked, "But if you worked at a grocery store and weren't a student... Why are you here?"

"I've always wanted to be here. Go to college, study something." He glanced around the empty classroom. "When I died and I realized I could go anywhere I wanted, I came here. It's a good place to spend the afterlife. Lots of people to watch, lectures to sit in on. I don't—"

"Wait," Quinn interjected, suddenly perking up. "You can go anywhere you want? Does that mean you can leave the campus?"

"Yeah. I can go everywhere as long as it's in Oakriver."

"That... that means you could show me where you lived, right?"

"I think so." He cast a furtive look at his hands, his translucent form looking as pale as ever. "I don't—I haven't been there again since I..."

"But you still know where it is?"

Vincent gave a small nod.

"Let's go there tomorrow then," Quinn said. Already, their mind was working through the possibilities that awaited them. Maybe they would find that some relative of Vincent's still lived in the house and could tell them about what had happened to him. Maybe just the sight of the building could reactivate some kind of memory in Vincent—anything to help them solve this. "Okay?"

This time, Vincent's nod was much firmer. "Okay. Tomorrow."