Carlos

"All right, all right. Let me think," I say as I get out of my truck and look around the parking lot. I could be wrong, but something tells me Kyle doesn't want me to follow him into Walmart. Ghosts have their own kind of logic, though — their own set of rules they follow — and one of these is that they don't typically do things for no reason.

Kyle appeared to me where he did on purpose, which tells me something about this area is significant.

Looking back towards the intersection, I see it. The cross road I'd been stopped at is West River Street, which runs parallel to the park where Kyle's body was found.

Great. He wants me to visit the scene of the crime. Well, better now, while there's still daylight, than after dark, when I'd have a better chance of joining Kyle on the other side.

Still, at this time of evening, the park will be pretty empty, and strolling around alone while there's a killer on the loose seems like a bad idea. I'm tempted to call Ian and ask him to come with me. I know he wouldn't mind and I'd feel better with a bear at my back.

I pull out my phone, intending to send him a casual "Hey, wanna visit a crime scene with me?" text, but the screen remains dark.

"Chingame..."¹

I sigh and contemplate the blank screen. Kyle must have drained the battery when he manifested his apparition.

Shit.

I weigh my options. I could ignore Kyle for now, go shopping, get dinner, go home, charge my phone, call Ian, schedule an official ghost-hunting trip, and go to bed. Or, I could take a walk in the "murder park," alone, while no one in the entire world knows where I am.

I might be dumb, but I'm not that dumb.

"Sorry, Kyle. You can wait. You'll still be dead tomorrow. I promise."

I turn the key in the ignition. Nothing happens. Not even a stutter.

Fuck me.

I rest my head on the steering wheel and sigh. Something tells me this isn't the type of problem a mechanic can fix.

"Fine. Fine, Kyle. You win. A walk in the murder park it is."

~ ★ ~

A long walk.

West River Street cuts through a few blocks of retail properties, which grow gradually less "big box" and more "quaint mom & pop" nearer the older parts of town. Then there's a residential area, an elementary school, and finally — over a mile later — the river park.

"Thanks, Kyle," I huff under my breath. "This is great. You know I've been meaning to get more exercise. Thanks a lot."

A woman pushing a stroller along the sidewalk in the opposite direction glances at me nervously.

I smile at her and tap the side of my head and hope the gesture translates as "I have earbuds in and I'm on the phone," and not "I hear voices and they're telling me to visit a crime scene."

The woman quickens her pace.

So do I, and I stop talking to myself. The last thing I need is another run-in with the cops, and the less 'crazy' I appear, the better my chances of avoiding one.

The park entrance area is deserted except for a man strapping a bicycle to the back of a Subaru and a pair of women stretching after a run. Once they leave, I'll have the park — or this stretch of it, at least — to myself. In other circumstances, it might be a pleasant prospect.

The paved trail, wide enough for two lanes, follows the little river through town, sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other. The park is only about a quarter mile wide, but over five long, while the paved trail is part of a larger, twenty-mile loop. At this time of evening, with the sun going down and the daylight waning, it has a relaxed, almost enchanted feel, and if not for the sounds of traffic just beyond the screen of brush and trees, I could imagine I'm much farther from civilization than a twenty-minute walk from a Walmart would allow.

Pausing for a moment, I look up and down the trail, orienting myself in relation to the rest of town. Detective Turner said Kyle's body was found where the trail goes under the highway, which, if I remember correctly, is west of me.

"This would be so much easier if I had my phone, Kyle," I mutter, as I set off along the path. "If I'm headed in the wrong direction, you better give me a fucking sign, because if I end up walking any farther than I absolutely have to, I'll send you to hell myself."

A fitful breeze rustles the leaves of a nearby clump of willows, and I shiver. Like I said, ghosts on their own don't bother me. The problem is when they're active like this, using lots of energy and interacting with the living, other things tend to notice, too. In the same way it's not a good idea to leave your door unlocked in a dangerous neighborhood, or pack your sleeping bag with trail mix in bear country, so it's not a good idea to spend too much time hanging out with ghosts.

It's asking for trouble.

All those stories of hauntings that start out harmless and end up as fodder for terrifying movies? Those are typical of cases where one spirit starts the conversation, and something less friendly decides to join in.

If Kyle has put me back on the spiritual menu, as it were, I want to stay as far away from the 'something elses' as possible — especially if the sign in the photograph Detective Turner showed me is what I think it is.

The sun sinks through the trees, and as I'm walking due west, it lances through the leaves in brilliant golden sparkles, dazzling my eyes. Another fifteen minutes, and it'll be below the horizon.

The park is not well-lit.

"Fucking shit, Kyle. This had better be worth it."

I quicken my pace and finger the wooden crucifix beneath my shirt.

I don't subscribe to any particular religion, myself — it's hard to declare one version is 'the truth' after all the shit I've seen, but it belonged to my mother, and it's among the few things of hers that I possess. All else aside, I appreciate the sense of protection and 'faith' it conveys. Not my faith, precisely, but a sort of collective trust that there is good, and that good is stronger than evil, in the end.

I haven't worn it in years. I'd forgotten I had it, actually; but when I'd dumped all my 'jewelry' on the bed, it had drawn my eye.

Probably because of the symbol.

The overpass comes into view, and I swear with a mix of relief that I found the place, and apprehension at the thought that now I have to take a closer look. It's dark, and the highway is wide, covering a good stretch of trail. This isn't a place to be caught unprepared, alone, at night.

I scan the shadowy places beneath the span of concrete, listening to the rhythmic thump of traffic passing overhead and the quiet burble of the nearby stream.

There's no obvious indication that someone died here, either — no crime scene tape, no flowers, no piles of soggy teddy bears or sad, half-deflated balloons.

Then again, aside from me, the police, his aunt, his killer, and whoever found him, it's entirely likely that no one else knows Kyle is dead.

Poor cabrón.² How many times could that have been me? Not that I looked for trouble, but there were plenty of times I did stupid shit as a kid, testing my boundaries. And if I'd wound up dead in a park somewhere, who would have given a shit? Nobody, apart from Aunt Toni.

"Lo siento, hermanito."³ I say aloud. "I don't know how I can help you. But I want to, you know? So... If you got something you wanna show me, I'm here. I'll wait, okay? I know it's hard to get through, though, and there's not much energy to draw from here, so... I'll wait as long as you need me to."

I walk to the edge of the path, right at the shadow of the overpass, and sit on a low, backless concrete bench. Then, I wait.

It's excruciating.

With nothing to distract me from the intolerable heaviness of being, each minute feels like an hour.

The sun sinks; twilight deepens from the gold of day's last light to the blue of night's edge.

Finally, something catches my eye.

It's not under the overpass, though, but back the way I came — a flicker, like the spark of a lighter, under the narrow stone bridge where the path spans the river.

I'm pretty sure it's not just some hobo lighting up. For one thing, there's no place to sit. It's all uneven rock under at least six inches of water. For another, the light had a certain quality to it that the seasoned exorcist learns to recognize.

Something otherworldly.

Rising, I make my way towards it, leaving the path and picking my way down the bank to the edge of the broad, shallow stream. The light flickers again, right beneath the center of the bridge's span.

Swearing, I remove my shoes and socks, and roll my pants halfway up my calves. Then, wincing as the sharp rocks bite the soles of my feet, I wade into the icy water. Even this late in the season, it's cold, fed by glacial runoff from the mountains west of here.

"Fucking hell, Kyle," I mutter. "This had better fucking be you, because if this is some random yokai tryna lead me to my death, Imma send it to the ninth circle of hell for the fucking hell of it. You hear me, motherfucker? I'm more than a match for you."

I say this more for my own benefit than for any spiritual entity that might be listening, but it makes me feel vaguely better anyway.

With many an "ooh," and an "ouch," and a "puta madre, motherfucking shit!" I pick my way out over the rocks to the arch of the bridge.

Resting my hand against the curve of the old bricks, I catch my breath and shut my eyes.

"Okay, Kyle. You got me here. Now what is it you want me to—"

"Freeze! Hands in the air, on your knees!"

I spin and find myself blinded by two extremely bright flashlights, held by two armed officers. The one who speaks has an aggravatingly familiar gravelly voice.

"I said on your knees!"

Despite the sharp rocks and freezing water, I drop and raise my hands. Better cold and wet than shot dead.

"Carlos Martinez?" Someone splashes towards me through the water.

"Yes! Yes, that's me!" I blink into the blinding glare of the flashlight. "I'm just—"

Strong hands grasp my wrists, forcing them down and behind my back.

"You're under arrest for the murder of Kyle Peters. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand?"

Stunned, I do the only thing I can convince my body to do under the circumstances, and nod.

Detective John Turner appears in front me. In other circumstances, I wouldn't mind being on my knees while he looms over me, but at the moment, I wish I was anywhere but here.

Meanwhile, above and behind him, on the underside of the bridge, the reflections of the flashlights reveal something that makes my blood run colder than the stream currently threatening me with hypothermia.

Symbols — symbols known only to a select few families and their rapidly dwindling descendants, drawn in a circle and pattern I recognize.

A circle of sacrifice, and of summoning.

"Oh, my holy fuck, I am fucked," I say.

"Sounds about right," Detective Turner says, sounding pleased with himself, and hauls me to my feet.

--- Notes ---

¹ Chingame = fuck me
² cabrón = bastard
³ Lo siento, hermanito = sorry, little brother