Too scared to look back, I walk faster, picking up speed by the second.

When I can no longer bear it, I break into a run.

My Converse pair work overtime on the cement pavement, way past their worn out rubber soles' threshold. My phone is held tight in my hand, and my hair flutters side to side, as I start panting from the sprint. My heart feels like it's going to give up any second. I don't stop, though. My destination is not far.

I hurry inside the house and slam shut the door behind me. I run to the kitchen, grab the jar of salt, and go back and pour it generously across the doorway.

Then I wait.

Two seconds.

Four seconds.

Six seconds.

"What are you doing?"

I drop the jar and turn around.

Chris is looking at me from the living room couch like I've gone crazy. I didn't know someone was in the house.

"Nothing," I quickly say, blinking my still wide eyes.

"That's not nothing."

I look down at the scattered salt and broken pieces of the jar. I turn around and open the door slowly, and peek outside.

Whatever was following me, it's not there anymore.

I close back the door, and turn to Chris. Leaned back on the couch, he's looking at me doubtfully. His backpack is on the coffee table, next to a couple of crushed energy drink cans. What is he doing here at this time? He doesn't return home this soon from school.

"I saw a colony of ants right outside. A train of them was crawling inside through the bottom of the door."

"Really? I didn't see any bugs crawling in through the door when I came in."

"You didn't look on the ground. They are there now," I say. I don't think a guy who walks with his chest out and eyes looking straight ahead, as a pompous next-in-line Alpha, ever looks down and admires the view of the dirt ground.

He puts down the can in his hand on the table, gets up, and comes over. In a frantic, I go block his way, before he could come near the front door and see for himself there's nothing on the floor.

"What are you doing?" he asks, frowning and crossing his arms. His crossed arms causes his biceps to bulge, distracting me for a second, and giving me a possible escape.

"You look very handsome today," I say, trying my luck at a change of topic that focuses on his vanity rather than my insanity. I am not lying, though. He is very handsome today, like he was very handsome yesterday, and will be very handsome tomorrow, too.

His frown doesn't go away, and his arms are still crossed. His lips are pressed tight.

But I see his eyes smile.

I smile at him.

His lips start to stretch. But he stops. Shakes his head, and narrows his eyes before he sidesteps, trying to maneuver around me to reach the front door.

As if my subconscious was expecting this, my feet move to the side in sync with his. I block him again.

After one last glare at me, he grabs my upper arms, sending A-rated sensations throughout my body, lifts me, and drops me at his side, like he was scoring a plushy from an arcade claw machine. His touch, in addition to my momentary suspension in air, throws me off guard and before I know it he's at the front door.

I watch his broad back, biting my not so long ago manicured nails, as he keenly inspects the entryway floor. The black and white checked pattern forces him to look closely at the black tiles, buying me extra few seconds, before he inevitably realizes the truth.

"I don't see any ants."

"They left after I sprinkled the salt."

We got some potent salt for sure.

He glances back at me. He doesn't look like he's buying it. He turns around, opens the door, and goes outside to check.

I follow him and keep an eye out for things other than imaginary ants that might want to come inside.

I look at the lamp posts, under the trees, into the foliage, around the trash cans, even inside the windows of our neighbors.

"Where are you looking?" he asks, standing on the turf. "Your ants are on the street?"

"I was just looking. Did you find the colony?"

He looks down again. Sweeping the grass blades side to side with his foot, he looks for my ants. I bite my cheeks to stop from smiling. I find him cute when he does something silly. Probably because he's so confident and cocky almost all the time, but when he's like this, he almost looks gullible, like a newborn pup.

While he's still looking for the ants I go back to looking over at the street. Usually I'm not scared of spirit encounters. It happens now and then, something I'm used to. But this spirit is strong. I didn't like its attention on me. I sensed its presence not too long after getting off the bus. When it started to shadow me I started panicking. Luckily, the house is not far from the bus stop.

Neither of us finding anything, we get back in.

Closing the door behind him, Chris pushes back his hair and says, "You act so weird sometimes."

"It's not weird to sprinkle salt to fend off insects," I mutter. 

He ignores my remark and says, "Tell me the truth. Do you..."

I swallow hard and wait for him to finish. This could be the end of my well kept secret. Out of everyone, why it had to be Chris who catches me turning our entryway extra savory with fortified salt?

Instead of completing the question, he awkwardly shifts on his feet, before giving up with a sigh, and walks past me.

"Hey!" I shout at his back. "What were you gonna ask?"

"It's silly," he says.

"What?" I ask as I continue to follow him to the couch. I'm scared to know, but still curious. What did he think of my behavior from before?

He sits down.

I sit opposite him.

He crosses his legs, leans back, and hangs his arm over the backrest.

"What?" I ask him again.

He scratches the side of his neck. "I'm only saying this because you have been acting like that," he says.

I cross my arms. "Like what?"

He sighs again.

"Like what?!"

"Do you have an imaginary friend?" he says, sounding unsure of his own question.

I stare at him stunned, before launching myself into an uncontrollable laugh.

In midst of my chortle, I ask, "What do you think I am? Six?"

He looks unimpressed. "Well, what else am I supposed to think? You were talking to someone after you woke up from your nightmare that time. And now you're acting like someone was following you."

"Even if I had an imaginary friend, why would I run away from my friend?"

"I don't know. Like I said, you've been acting weird."

I stop laughing, breathe out, and stand. "Okay, look, I don't have an imaginary friend. Neither do I see hallucinations. There really were some ants outside. And that day, I don't even remember what I did that day in my sleep."

"How come I don't see the ants?"

"I told you! They ran away from the salt!"

"That soon?"

"They are ants!"

"Even so, I should've found at least traces of them."

"You're a werewolf. Not an anteater. Stop beating yourself over not being able to catch some ants. Let it go. I saved us from an infestation. Instead of branding me a lunatic, how about you say thanks?"

"I didn't call you a lunatic."

"You asked me if I'd an imaginary friend and told me I was acting weird," I say, sitting back down.  

"That's because I thought you'd an imaginary friend, and you were acting weird."

"That's not calling me a lunatic?"

"No. That's calling you a troublesome mate I've to keep an eye on so she doesn't fall off the bed while dreaming, or hit her head on a door while running away from super fast ants."

I squeeze the cushion top. My heart throbs with a delicious, sweet feeling. Did he just condescendingly confess he cares about me?

"Now go clean up the salt," he says before picking up the can he put down before and his phone from nearby, and scrolling over the screen.

Why he keeps ruining all the perfect moments in my life?

I grab the broom from the kitchen, and get to it. After gathering everything into the dustpan, I give one last glance at the door I've been peeking at while sweeping.

Although I didn't bother to hang back and take a good look at the entity, I have a distinct feeling that the spirit following me was a female's.

Next week, I cut through the much needed summer rain to the backdoor of the four star restaurant, Arlo 1813.

My friends, Sandy and Khloe, are already there, waiting for me.

I quickly take from Sandy the black robe, large sunglasses, and the mouth cover, and put them on.

We give a final check over each other's disguise. They both are in white wigs and wearing heavy makeup.

Occasionally, the three of us put my gift to see ghosts to some use by offering paid seance services. Our clandestine gig is lucrative. Through word of mouth we score rich clients from time to time. And, of course, our parents don't know.

This time our client is the restaurant owner, whose restaurant kitchen has been experiencing some paranormal activities.

"Things keep falling down, like they are pushed over," says the owner's son who is not much older than me. He's meeting with us in place of his dad because his dad had left for the market to buy a rare lobster for a last minute VVIP order. I didn't know restaurateurs shopped for the ingredients themselves.

The son, Zack, seems okay with having a medium take a look at the restaurant. Most friends and relatives of our clients tend to be skeptical and distrustful of us at first. But Zack seems like a chill guy anyone can vibe with.

I take a look around in the kitchen. With all the steel surfaces shining blindingly clean, and high performance lighting fixtures installed all over the ceiling, flooding every corner with cool light, this place looks far from being haunted.

"You see something?" Sandy asks.

I shake my head.

"The bowls up there, they keep getting knocked down often," Zack says, pointing at a top shelf over at the side filled with stacks of steel mixing bowls.

I loom around it longer. Nothing.

"What do you see?" he asks.

"I'm sorry, Zack, but I can sense nothing here."

"Are you sure?" Zack says, "I was here once when it happened. It was like something moved around the kitchen fast, pushing things down."

I rub my chin thinking. I don't think it could've been a rat or some other rodent. These bowls are heavy.

"When it happened who were all here?" I ask.

"The head chef. Two sous chefs. The dishwasher guy. And a waitress."

"Are they all at the restaurant today?"

"Yeah, at the lounge. I sent them away so you could work here freely."

"Ask those you mentioned to come back."

I watch them enter.

Nothing happens when the two sous chefs enter. Nor when the waitress comes in. When the head chef and dishwasher enter together I feel a cold breeze coming from nowhere in particular.

I take a closer look at the head chef and the dishwasher guy. One is old and buff while the other is young and thin. Both their faces look haggard, probably due to their demanding jobs.

The brawny head chef, however, has a somber aura about him.

I ask everyone but the head chef to leave. They all do as asked as per Zack's request.

"Can you prepare some salad, please?" I ask the chef.

He is not happy about my request, but obliges nevertheless. He must be frustrated his work is disrupted by a kid claiming to be able to see ghosts.

He goes to the prep area and starts washing and cutting the vegetables rapidly. Watching how swift and clean the edge of his knife go through the poor vegetables I feel ashamed of my own knife skill, if it can even be called a skill in my case. I wait nearby him.

"How long have you worked here, chef?"

"Eight," he quickly says before stripping each garlic clove clean in one pull.

He's not one to talk much.

I notice an odd bracelet on his left wrist when he pulls up his sleeve.

"That's a peculiar design for a bracelet," I say.

"It's my dog's name tag."

"What's its name?"

"Milo."

I smile as soon as I see a large retriever appear beside him. No wonder I wasn't able to find the trace of a human ghost before.

"He's a beautiful dog. When did he pass away?"

The chef instantly stops chopping the spring onions he had just started on,  and looks at me. "How do you know?"

I look beside him, at the dog. "He has a black spot on his left cheek. Your dog is quite rare."

The chef covers his mouth. "I–Is it him? Is he here?"

"To your other side."

He looks down at exactly where his dog is. Milo wags his tail. "Milo?" he says.

In excitement, the dog runs through the kitchen with so much speed that everything it goes through feel its vibration, causing the utensils all over the shelves to topple over. The chef and I move away from the table to avoid the falling bowls.

"It's really him!" the chef says, "Why didn't I realize it before?"

He turns to me. "How is he? Is he in pain?"

"He looks very happy."

Tears flow down from the chef's eyes. It's poignant to see a stout man as him look so vulnerable.

"Can I ask what happened?" I say.

"Last month, I volunteered for Red Cross in Africa. Milo suddenly got sick during that time. He was staying with my parents at their place. He was already very old. The doctors couldn't do anything. He had to be put down right away to save him from pain. I couldn't even return on time to say goodbye."

"Maybe that's why he's still here. I'll leave you two alone. You should talk to him. Does he have a favorite food?"

"Lamb curry."

"Make that for him. He won't be able to eat it. But he'll still see you cook his favorite dish. Give him a proper goodbye this time, and forgive yourself for not being able to see him one last time. Milo knows you are suffering. That's why he hasn't left yet. He knows you loved him very much, and took really good care of him."

I leave the chef alone with the spirit of his dog. I let others outside know what happened.

They all look like the puzzle pieces have finally fallen into their places.

Zack says, "Milo, huh? It makes sense now. He was such a hyper dog. Wow. I can't believe he stayed back for chef."

"Milo wants his master to let him go in peace. The chef is feeling guilty for not being there for Milo."

Zack nods. "The chef became a different man after Milo's death. He was very close to his dog."

I agree. "Anyway, once Milo moves on, pots and pans randomly falling down the shelves shouldn't be happening. If it happens again though, let me know."

After deducting the advance, I take the reminder fee from Zack before my friends and I leave the restaurant. Zack liked our service enough to add to our fee a generous tip. I didn't see Milo in the kitchen when I went back in. And although the chef was still crying, the dark aura around him was gone, too. They are both at peace.

Outside, the rain has lifted, leaving behind clean sky, cool air, and wet and muddy roads. The smell of wet soil makes me happy.

I start to take off my robe near our car parked at the side when I see Chris' car pulling into the front driveway of the restaurant.

Zack comes outside and meets with Chris. The way they start talking to each other, they look like they are friends. We can see them without getting noticed.

"Zack goes to the same school as Chris," Sandy says, "But I didn't know they knew each other this well. I should've done a better background check."

"It's okay. Our client is technically the owner of the restaurant, not his son. We couldn't have known. Good thing we finished our work before Chris came, though. Let's leave."

After changing back, we roll up our tinted windows and drive away from the spot. When the car turns to the left, away from where Chris and Zack are standing, I notice a woman's ghost in front of the ATM across the street, looking straight at me.

I can tell right away it's the same spirit that followed me to my home last week. The spirit looks almost black in color. But there's still traces of its human appearance. She's tall, well built, and has a good stance. Her physique tells me she must've been a werewolf when she was alive. But I don't see her wolf nearby. Typically spirits of werewolves are accompanied by the spirits of their wolves. There's something very eerie about this spirit. The way it's staring at me, it looks like it's waiting for something to happen to me.

"What's the matter?" Khloe asks as she steers the wheel forward after the turn. I take off my palms from the window and straighten. "This might sound ridiculous. But I think I've a ghost stalking me."

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