Carlos

I know Kyle is a ghost for two important reasons. One, he's transparent; and two, unless the cops are playing a prank on me (an incredibly unlikely scenario) he's dead.

It's not the fact he's a ghost that has me freaking out, though.

I've seen plenty of ghosts.

What has my heart racing and cold sweat breaking out over my skin — what has me backing away and bumping into the sink, wild-eyed as my muscles go weak with dread — is the fact he's the first ghost I've seen in over a year, and I'd hoped never to see one again.

Ever since a particularly nasty demon called a death-bringer had taken my body for a spin, I've been completely, and blissfully, paranormal phenomenon and possession free, and I'd been hoping to stay that way.

For a ghost, Kyle doesn't look that bad. He's dressed in the greasy denim coveralls, white shirt, and scuffed work boots I last saw him in. His pale skin has a luminescent underglow, and his hair looks cleaner and better kept than usual. His weak chin has gained some definition, the softness in his gut is gone, and the muscles in his arms are well-defined. This, I understand, is Kyle's idealized version of himself: how he imagined, or wished, he looked in his own head.

It's not all heavenly makeover though. His eyes are completely black, like windows to the void, and his lips stretch far too wide as he opens his mouth to speak, like the hinged jaw of a snake.

He reaches for me and I gasp and shrink away from his outstretched hand. Then, with a faulty light bulb flicker, he's gone.

Well, he disappears, anyway. I know better than to think he's really gone. He just exhausted all the energy in the room, as evidenced by the fact it was hot and steamy after my shower and now more closely resembles winter in the Arctic.

Hugging myself and shivering as my breath fogs in the freezing air, I stare at the space he'd occupied and force myself to take one slow deep breath after another. Finally, when I trust my legs to carry me, I dash into my bedroom, fling open the closet, and rummage for the old shoe box on the top shelf.

Pulling it down, I rip the tape off the lid and dump the contents on my bed. Then I deck myself out in every protective talisman and anti-possession charm I own, until I'm covered in more gems, beads, and eclectically religious paraphernalia than a paranormally paranoid hippie grandmother of vaguely Catholic persuasion.

When I've caught my breath, I take a moment to think.

That Kyle appeared to me isn't that unusual in itself. If the detective had his timeline right, Kyle's been dead less than twenty four hours, and the newly dead often linger for around three days. They might visit loved ones — family, or friends — or they might carry on with their mundane daily routines, until they come to terms with the fact they are no longer among the living, and move on.

In all likelihood, Kyle is just confused. Whatever happened to the poor kid, he obviously wasn't expecting it. At least he hadn't seemed upset or preoccupied to me.

He's probably just wandering around, trying to go home, and ended up here.

Why he came to me, though, when no other ghost has in so long, has me worried.

Aunt Toni used to say there was something special about me — something that made me glow like a candle in the dark from the other side, drawing spirits like homeless wanderers drawn to the promised heat of the only fire in a vast, cold wilderness. Then they'd look through my eyes the way they look through mirrors into our world, and before you know it, we'd be occupying the same space at the same time, just in different planes of existence — except only one of us would be at the controls.

That is to say, I'd get possessed.

After the death-bringer, though, I haven't sensed so much as a low-level shadow entity — a fact with which I am perfectly content.

Which leads me to believe that Kyle came to me for a reason. We're not family, and we're not exactly friends. As far as I know, he didn't even like working in the garage.

Then it hits me — the twenty bucks I gave him!

Most spirits who linger do so because they have unfinished business; something they can't let go of and which keeps them from moving on until it's resolved.

Kyle must feel guilty for taking my money and never coming back with my lunch.

Leaping to my feet, I spread my arms wide and address the seemingly empty room.

"Kyle? Hey man, if you're here and you're listening, there's something I want to say. That money was a gift, okay? You don't owe me anything. Don't worry about it. You're debt-free, got it? Give me a sign or something, if you can."

No sign comes, but I feel better for having said it anyway, and I hope Kyle heard me. Either way, most spirits move on after the living acknowledge their passing. If the funeral doesn't do it, I've got plenty of tricks up my sleeve.

In the meantime, I cover my mirrors.

~ ★ ~

Over the course of the next two days, two things become clear. First, Kyle isn't sticking around because of that twenty bucks — either that, or he feels way more guilty about it than he should. And second, he's not going anywhere.

The first sign is when the microwave shorts while I'm trying to heat up a frozen burrito of dubious nutritional value for breakfast.

Next, I complain to myself that I don't have the right attachment for my socket wrench while I'm leaning over the engine of an old Chevy sedan, and the piece in question is conveniently placed in my hand.

It takes me a minute to remember I'm alone.

Finally, I get in my old Toyota Tacoma at the end of the day (I need to buy groceries, and despite the grim events of the week, that burger craving hasn't really gone away), check my rearview mirror at a stoplight, and find Kyle watching me from the back seat.

My truck doesn't even have a back seat, properly speaking.

"Shit!"

Nearly rear-ending the person in front of me, I swerve through the intersection, pop a curb with one tire, and careen into the nearest parking lot, which thankfully belongs to a Walmart and is thus both expansive and accustomed to strange visitors.

When I'm safely at a standstill, I release my white-knuckled hold on the steering wheel and swear until I'm out of breath.

With that out of my system, I lean my head against the back of my seat and shut my eyes.

The fact Kyle has persistently appeared to me in multiple locations — including a moving car — tells me his spirit isn't bound to one place. Neither is it wandering aimlessly.

For whatever reason, he's attached himself to me.

"Okay, Kyle," I say, fingering the string of yak bone mala beads wrapped around my left wrist. "What is it you want? You want me to bring a message to your aunt? You got something you need to get off your chest? What is it? Tell me."

The passenger side door of my little pickup pops open forcefully. An unseasonably cool breeze rushes in, swirls around the interior of the cab, and rushes out again, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.

Drawing a deep breath, I press my palms into my eyes and sigh. The meaning is clear enough.

Kyle wants me to follow him.