Fawry.
Without hesitation, I unlatched the window and slid it up so that I could lean out.
“You’re oozing again, Chester,” I said loudly enough to be heard across the yard. “From the mouth this time.”
Chester Erie, my great-great-great-something-or-other, shut his mouth, slapping a hand over it in a gentlemanly fashion. His ethereal voice, muffled by his hand, drifted across the yard.
“It’s not bothering me any,” I said, reassuring him. “Don’t worry about it. Just thought you’d want to know.”
Chester stared at me, his mouth covered by his diaphanous hand for a moment longer, then he lowered his arm.
His mouth, exposed once again, was clear of the black slime that had been oozing from it seconds previously.
That’s one of the worst things about ghosts—sometimes they simply can’t control their bodies.
Non-bodies?
Shapes?
Vehicles?
Well, whatever it is that a ghost resides in—that is a translucent replica of the body they had in life—can be unpredictable after death.
Sometimes it oozes. A piece can fall off and have to be reattached.
It’s not uncommon for a ghost to not appear at all, only making their presence known through noises and cold drafts.
Ever walk through your house, suddenly get a chill, and wonder what that was all about?
Might’ve been a malfunctioning ghost. You’ll never know for certain, because ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the human population can’t see them.
Which means people like me—what most people would refer to as a “medium”—are considered freaks.
It’s hurtful, but I’ve had nearly thirty years to get over it.
You get called a freak for that long and it begins to feel like a cherished nickname. Or, at least, that’s what you learn to start telling yourself.
“Waterson turned us down,” I said, leaning on the window sill with my forearms. “Third year running.”
Chester frowned deeply.
“Sapheads,” Chester said. “The lot of ‘em.”
“Yep.” I sighed. “Bunch of butt faces.”
He nodded affirmatively and his translucent head wobbled on his neck so precariously that I was afraid it’d roll off into the yard.
Over time, I’ve learned that a lost head for a ghost is not the tragedy it would be for a human being.
I’ve learned to not gasp at the sight of a body part barely hanging on by a thread to the rest of a ghost’s body.
“What will you do now?” Chester asked, his voice like a moan.
The ghost flickered out of sight for a moment, then appeared once more, like a shoddy lightbulb.
I shrugged.
“What I always do, I guess,” I said. “Keep taking as many clients as possible. The Lunch Counter will survive. One way or another.”
Chester said nothing, but his eyes seemed to glimmer in the moonlight.
At first, I thought he was touched by the sentiment that I would keep The Lunch Counter open at all costs.
However, black slime started to drip from the corner of his eyes, and I realized my assessment had been wrong. He was merely malfunctioning.
I’ve been able to see ghosts for as long as I have memories of being alive.
Yet there are still more mysteries about their existence that I haven’t solved than those I have.
Mysteries that even the ghosts cannot provide answers for—if they’re able to speak coherently, that is.
Some ghosts can’t even get one word out without moaning and rattling chains like a lunatic.
“Well,” I said, not bothering to mention the reappearance of the slime, “I’m going to head to bed. Are you on yard duty?”
Chester grinned. His gums were filled with the slime once more. I didn’t acknowledge it.
“I shall alert you immediately of any danger!” Chester proclaimed proudly.
“Thanks, Chester,” I said. “Goodnight.”
Chester’s head wobbled precariously once more as he nodded to me.
Smiling, I stood and pushed the window back down, slapping the lock into place once it was closed.
Out of habit, I touched my finger to the silver pieces at each corner of the window, then slid the drapes shut.
I tiptoed over to my bed—the same one three generations of Eries had slept in—and further pulled back the covers.
Thankfully, it was the frame that had survived for so long and not the mattress. It had been replaced many times over.
Sliding into bed, I sighed as my feet went under the covers, immediately warming up.
Even though it was early autumn, the bare floorboards of the house could quickly chill your feet to the bone before you even realized it.
I laid back and pulled the covers up, reaching for the chain on the bedside lamp at the same time.
The room was cast into darkness as the covers reached my chin.
As I began to settle into the comfort of my bed, the blue glow and faint buzz of my phone startled me. Frowning at the thought of the late hour, I groped blindly in the near darkness and grabbed my phone. With it still attached to the charging cable, I opened the message banner on the lock screen.
Hey, Si! Hope it’s not too late. Any interest in this? It matches the paint in your house. Let me know when you see this!
The text from Max Nguyen was followed quickly by a photo of a green cupboard in his store. Before I could answer, another message slipped onto the screen.
It’s free. Just gas money for delivery. Someone left it out front and I don’t have the room for it right now. Business…is slow.
I couldn’t help but half smile, half grimace, at the message. Business was slow everywhere in town. Tapping out a response quickly, I began imagining where the cupboard would look best in my house.
Fifty bucks sound good?
The response was nearly immediate.
Deal! Bring it by around eight tomorrow evening?
Deal.
Max responded to my text by giving it a thumbs up reaction emoji, but no more messages came through.
Obviously, he knew he had been bothering me late in the evening, so he wasn’t going to bother me further.
I gave the cupboard picture a few more moments of inspection, then locked my phone and laid it back on the bedside table.
My eyes immediately felt heavy as I shifted happily against the mattress, finding the perfect position. Though my evening snack had left me groggy, and my body was prepared for sleep, my mind had other ideas. As I did my best to drift off, Chester’s question was playing on repeat in my head.
What will you do now?
Working harder was always the answer. It was going to catch up to me eventually. With a sigh and the resolve to make things work, I was finally able to push the thought away, and I fell into a restful slumber.