Carlos

Alejo is a year younger than me, a few inches taller, and has the hardened physique of someone you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley late at night. He has closely shaved hair, unremarkable brown eyes, and wears rings on his fingers and studs in his ears. Under his clothes, he's covered in tattoos (I remember little of our night together, but I remember that), and a scar bisects his left brow.

He tends bar at his dad's pub at night and works as a personal trainer in a gym during the day, and I seem to remember him telling me he wanted to leave Spring Lakes, head for a big city — Chicago or New York — and open his own club.

Other than that, and the fact he's not great in bed, that's all I know about him. As he sidles closer to me and snaps the tags off my shirt, however, I discover one more thing: he seems to be one of those unfortunate people born without the ability to take a hint.

As the service commences, I try to ignore him and listen to the priest talk about the afterlife and all that, but it's hard to pay attention with Alejo whispering in my ear.

"Why you never text me back, bitch?" he whispers. "You leave me hanging like that."

I nod at the plain, unadorned urn resting atop a pedestal, waiting to be interred.

"I been busy. Little distracted, you know. How did you know Kyle, anyway?"

"Went to high school with him," Alejo says under his breath.

"I thought you said you were twenty-six?"

"I am. Kyle was a freshman and I repeated twelfth grade. Kinda lost touch when he went to juvie, but we reconnected recently. He came by my dad's bar, begging for work."

"He did?"

Surprised, I fail to keep my voice down and draw several 'shushes' and angry stares. As far as I knew, Kyle hadn't been a 'go-getter,' and would have happily sat in his room, playing video games for the rest of his life if his aunt hadn't forced him to get a job — and forced me to give him one. As it was, he'd barely managed to hand me the right spanner when I asked, and couldn't tell nuts from bolts. Working in a fast-paced environment like a bar didn't seem like his style.

"Yeah," Alejo says, once everyone's attention is back on the priest, who's reciting a bunch of psalms. "He wanted night shifts. Earn some extra dough on the side. Seemed desperate to get out of this town. Or to get away from his creepy old aunt, anyway. Guess he got his wish."

Alejo laughs, and I cast him a disparaging look. "Have you talked to the police?"

"Huh?" He blinks at me in surprise. "The fuck would I do that?"

"Because it could be important. I didn't know Kyle needed money — more than usual, anyway. That could mean something."

Shrugging, Alejo finally gives his attention to the service. "Who knows? He probably just wanted to impress some chick, or something."

I let my mind wander for the next half hour, during which the priest somehow manages to make Kyle sound like an angel. Sadly, it's probably the most nice words anyone's ever said about him, and as far as I can tell, he's not around to hear it.

I come up with a few nice things to say about him, myself, expecting that the attendees will be invited to speak, but once the priest concludes his eulogy, Kyle's aunt rises with the assistance of her nurse and hobbles away. This clearly signals that the service is at an end, and the rest of the guests follow suit.

Knowing Kyle's not listening anyway, I follow the pitifully small crowd back down towards the parking area. The wake will be held at Lucille's house, and I'm looking forward to the chance to observe the other guests in a more relaxed environment.

Nobody wants to speak their mind in front of a priest, but get some finger food and few drinks in them, and the tea starts to spill.

"You get a ride here?" Alejo asks, scanning the vehicles lined up in the lot.

I glance at the white sedan where Sergeant Nguyen sits drinking a cup of coffee and looking at something on his phone.

"Uh... Yeah, I took an Uber. My truck's in the shop. Battery trouble."

Alejo laughs rudely. "The mechanic has car trouble — now that's ironic!"

I frown. "You think doctors don't get sick? Or dentists don't get toothaches? Or..."

Or that a kid born into a family of exorcists can't get possessed?

I shake my head, wondering where that intrusive thought came from. It almost didn't feel like mine, which isn't a good sign. At the same time, a chill breeze rustles the leaves of the old maples standing guard over the parking lot, and a trio of crows take flight from the lower branches of the nearest one, rowing the air with silent wings.

"You okay?" Alejo asks, inconveniently deciding to be perceptive, for once.

"Yeah, I'm fine. See you at the wake."

I start to walk away, but Alejo catches my wrist and nods towards Nguyen's car. "Hey — tell that guy to fuck off. I'll give you a ride for free."

He winks.

I barely restrain my expression and force myself to smile. "Sure. Thanks, man."

I jog over to Nguyen's vehicle and knock on the window.

"You get all that?" I ask when he lowers it.

He gives me a thumbs up. "All good. I'll follow and park down the street."

Waving as if to thank and dismiss him, I trot back towards Alejo, pasting on a grin that I hope doesn't look as much like a grimace as it feels.

"Thanks, man," I say as I follow him across the lot. I stop in surprise as he unlocks a matte black Camaro ZL1, a car that retails for at least 70k, possibly much more, given the package.

He sees my expression and laughs. "Don't worry, I didn't steal it. Get in."

I obey, admiring the black and crimson interior despite myself and noting how clean it is. All else aside, Alejo knows how to take care of a car.

He shows off a little — accelerating out of the parking lot and taking turns hard enough to make me grip the handhold — but I can't deny it's a little bit fun and thrilling. I get the appeal — the call to go wild and be reckless, light the match and see what burns.

I get a little anxious when I realize we're off course — 'taking the scenic route' would be putting it generously — but Alejo seems to anticipate this and looks over at me with an easy grin.

"Relax — I just don't wanna piss off the old ladies. Besides, this gives me a chance to spend more time alone with you."

As he pulls up to a stoplight, drumming his fingers on the wheel to match the base throbbing from his premium sound system, I work up the courage to be honest.

"Um... Hey, you know, I uh, I had a good time with you. But the truth is, I met someone recently, and—"

"What?" He leans towards me, hand cupped to his ear. "Say that again."

I swear under my breath and raise my voice. "I just wanna be clear with you," I half shout. "I don't wanna lead you on."

He squints at me. "Lead me where?"

I reach for the volume control on the dash, but at the same time the light turns green and Alejo stomps on the gas, thrusting me back against my seat with the force of acceleration. Giving up, I sit through the rest of the ride in silence.

Finally, he pulls to a screeching halt, parallel parking between two other cars with admirable precision, pops his door open and hops out.

I feel old just watching him, and he's only three years younger than me.

Getting out as well, I follow him towards the old house and up the front steps.

The door is propped open, the guests gathered inside (notably greater in number than were present at the burial) and we join the assembly unnoticed. Alejo heads straight for the buffet and open bar, while I attempt to infiltrate the crowd.

My forays are largely unsuccessful, however, as Mrs. Peters snubs me and I fail to make inroads with anyone else. Finally, Alejo reappears at my side, drink in hand.

"Hey. This is depressing as fuck. You wanna get out of here? I'll take you for a real spin. Even let you drive, if you want."

Part of me stirs with interest at the offer. Alejo is clearly immature in some ways, desperate in others, and dealing with his own world of shit.

We have that in common, and if I can just get it through his thick head that I don't wanna fuck him, maybe we could even be friends.

In the meantime, Kyle's aunt is eyeing me with a murderous look that makes me really glad she's physically infirm.

I can't imagine how an old lady could have done to Kyle what happened to Kyle, and yet there's something about Lucille I just don't like. Not to mention the strangely sterilized state of Kyle's room, the way she barely seemed to care he was dead, or the new info Alejo had given me about Kyle's desperate desire to get out of this place.

Struck by an idea, I decide I need to take one more look at Kyle's room.

He'd used a lot of energy trying to communicate with me, but I hadn't seen a trace of him for almost a week. Sometimes, but not always, spirits have the most power shortly after death, when they still have strong connections to this world through their physical body. Kyle's body was cremated, which, in most cases, would release all ties to this world and allow his spirit to transmigrate to another form or another realm — wherever the journey took him. More rarely, a spirit stripped of power but unable — or unwilling — to leave this world, will retreat to the place to which they are most strongly bound.

In Kyle's case, that would be here.

"Okay," I say, giving Alejo a hopefully platonic smile. "Just give me a minute. I wanna check on something upstairs."

"Sure thing," He winks. "I'll grab you a drink."

Hoping he means something nonalcoholic, given his offer to let me drive, I make sure Lucille is distracted before I turn and trot upstairs.

~ ★ ~

Kyle's room is exactly as I saw it last: not a speck of dust in sight. I sit on his bed, the cheap mattress and frame creaking beneath my weight, and take a breath, opening myself to the other side as much as I dare.

"Hey, Kyle. If you're here, I'm here to listen. I am so sorry for what happened to you, and I want to help. So, help me to help you, okay? Gimme a sign, or some shit."

I wait, but no sign is forthcoming, The room remains cold and empty, and I don't even feel a hint of a presence. I've been in fast food joints with a spookier vibe than this — which is weird, given the overall 'Haunted Mansion' look of the house. Giving up, I rise and make one more attempt.

"Kyle... Look, man. I know we weren't friends. We barely knew each other. I was your boss, and I wasn't that great of one. But you came to me for a reason, right? Because you know I can see you. So... talk to me. It was your aunt, wasn't it? Somehow, she's behind this. Just give me something to go on, okay?"

I wait again, but nothing happens. The gauzy blue curtains framing the window remain unruffled by any inexplicable breeze, and the temperature in the room remains stable.

I even risk a glance at the mirror on the back of the door, and find only my own dark-eyed reflection staring back at me.

Sighing, I cross to the door, take one more look at the room, and step into the hall. It's not until I reach the top of the stairs that I feel the change.

The air drops from "uncomfortably warm old-person house" to "outdoors in the Siberian winter" in the space of one breath.

That's a lot of heat energy, and, as I turn and find myself face to face with an angry-looking Kyle, I understand he's taken everything he can get to manifest.

"Kyle? Whoa..." I raise my hands. "Hey, I'm here to help you, bud. I'm not—"

"GET OUT."

The words are less heard than felt, almost like a seismic shock or a rumble below the range of human hearing.

I stare into Kyle's black-hole eyes as, with a rush of arctic wind, he pushes me so hard I find myself hanging in thin air.

Then, as gravity demands, I fall and tumble down the stairs.