Chapter 3
Morgan
So far, the worst part of accountability is finding parking. In my inexhaustible Honda, I circle the narrow streets of dusty Atwater Village for fifteen minutes.
Whatever. Parking, I remind myself, is part of life here.
I’m not in the most pleasant mood, parking problems notwithstanding.
I drove over here from work, where I would have enjoyed picking up soil samples directly from our local supplier for the afternoon’s client meeting—a rare reprieve from operating DiCrescenzo Landscaping’s scheduling and ordering software.
Would have, had Zach not exploded soil on me in retribution for our fight yesterday.
I want to work with plants professionally—I honestly do.
Given the job market, I feel genuinely grateful to work for the DiCrescenzo brothers.
Still, I get restless spending ninety-five percent of my workdays in their office on Wilshire Boulevard in my very indoor cubicle under their unforgiving fluorescent overheads, where the majority of pruning I do these days is on cancellations from the company calendar.
Handling the greenery and evaluating the health and the quality of the soil we receive from various suppliers would have been invigorating.
Until someone decided to lash out at my support-group plans. I’ve spent the forty-minute drive swiping mulch off my shirt and out of my bra while muttering threats like “exorcism” and “Ghostbusters.”
Finally, once I’ve wedged myself close enough to someone’s dented Prius in order to not hang over the gated driveway of some sort of construction yard, I hustle down the hot uneven sidewalk. I’m late for my very first haunting support group.
Do I love this option? No. No more than Zach does.
Is it the only real resource I found in hours of miserable googling last night? Yes. Otherwise, I learned absolutely nothing helpful. Most online resources instructed me to “tell the ghost to go away.”
I wish I could, Zach had responded, then opened every cupboard in my kitchen out of spite.
Real mature, I’d admonished him.
I tried leaving borders of salt on my floor, only for him to step easily over them.
I did wonder if ghosts only respond to the pink Himalayan kind from Trader Joe’s, whereas Morton’s iodized salt doesn’t pack enough punch.
I tried ignoring Zach—the worst idea, prompting him to invade my head with “Call Me Maybe” for hours.
I was frustratedly murmur-singing of wishes and wells and hot night winds blowing until my head hit the pillow.
None of the cleansing rituals I found worked. The group was my only recourse. Support and Resource Group for the Haunted, proclaimed the social media post from the crystal shop where I’m headed.
If this doesn’t work, I’m going to have to hire one young priest and one elderly priest for a proper exorcism. Considering I’ve never once set foot in a church, I’m hoping Zach can be resolved secularly.
The only silver lining is my locale. Los Angeles seems like the right city for my sort of problem.
Tarot cards, haunted hotels, crystal shops…
people embrace the supernatural here, more than any other city I’ve lived in in my life.
In my eleven-month residency in West Hollywood, I’ve learned the perils of Mercury in retrograde, how to read auras, and what candles to light for manifestations.
I would’ve dismissed it as superstitious crap, but the literal ghost I live with—who played the license plate game on the drive out here, exultant when he found Ohio—won’t let me.
It leaves me optimistic that someone in Gwyneth’s Crystals will have something helpful to say.
Sweating in the merciless summer heat, my sneakers starting to shred the blister on my heel from yard work, I finally reach the small shabby storefront.
Glass windows display shelves of crystals and glittery candles.
There’s a fish tank supply store next door on one side, Vietnamese sandwiches on the other.
The doorbell chimes when I enter. Making my way to the rear of the store, I wonder whether the powerful mystical energies of the decorative crystals might interfere with Zach’s presence—until he pops up nearby, examining the shelves.
“Ooh, I love crystals,” he enthuses. “We should get some blue quartz for the apartment.”
My spirit sinking, I do not dignify his suggestion with a response. He, for his part, offers no contrition for or other mention of the DiCrescenzo Landscaping soil carpeting the front seat of my car.
The meeting has not yet started despite my lateness. I guess no one else could find parking, either.
I evaluate my surroundings. Dim lighting from very old windows. Shelves of overstock lining one wall. Plastic folding table with, shall we say, minimalist drink offerings. It’s giving church community center meets Dungeons & Dragons session.
However, East LA heat is East LA heat. I notice Spindrift on the folding table. Lemon—the everyman’s flavor. Nothing exciting, like raspberry or mango, but decent. Next to the drink offerings stand two elder millennial men in dark clothing.
I’ve come here for resources. Guidance. Inspiration.
The room is filling up with more presumed hauntees. I remind myself that everyone is here for their own reasons, and any one of them could hold the key to my own haunting. If the millennial goths don’t want to chat, I’ll find someone who does.
I have to start somewhere, though, and these guys look like they’re hoping to audition authentic ghost members for their darkwave synthpop band. I approach the promising pair, planning on making conversation.
“Hi, I’m Morgan…” I start.
I’m reaching for the lemon Spindrift when the can ruptures, hissing lemony carbonation from gashes in the metal and spraying all over my shirt.
Zach. Probably because I ignored his crystal request.
“Sorry!” I say, grabbing for napkins to blot my shirt.
“Sorry. My ghost is here,” I explain. Not the strongest start to my first support-group reconnaissance conversation, I have to concede.
Yet, unlike Street Noodle or Dan from Tinder, perhaps this group will prove receptive to ghost-related excuses.
The goths do not look pleased. Tough supernaturally inclined crowd.
They find seats in the folding chair circle far from me. In fairness, I wouldn’t want lemon Spindrift on a vintage Sisters of Mercy shirt if I were them. Either they don’t really know any ghosts, or their ghosts are way less annoying than Zach.
I take my seat, noticing coupons on every chair for Serving Spirits. Thirty percent off food for what looks like a ghost-themed restaurant and bar in the neighborhood. I pocket mine, then examine my haunted new friends.
Besides the goths is a middle-aged couple who exchange judgmental glances when they notice my wet T-shirt.
There’s also a beleaguered woman on her phone chaperoning three teenage girls, who giggle while they peruse the merchandise, and a young guy whose leather notebook and elegant wireframe glasses scream, aspiring screenwriter here for research.
Finally, a genial older guy is passing out the coupons and wearing his very own Serving Spirits shirt.
I fight to keep my hopes up. They seem like hobbyists, lookie-loos, and self-promoters, but I have nowhere else to go.
I head straight for the open seat next to a guy here on his own. Praying I do not have unnoticed dirt on my hair or sleeves, I sit down next to him.
He eyes me warily, which, okay, if he saw my Spindrift mishap, is fair. Reassurance is due. “I promise not to open any carbonated beverages by you,” I say, going for cheeky and cheerful.
But he only blinks, looking up from his empty contemplativeness like he’s surprised I spoke to him. He has the most guarded vibe of anyone I’ve ever met. His stony solemnity seems purposefully defensive.
Unfortunately—for him—it only makes me more curious.
“I’m not worried about carbonated beverages,” he replies. His voice matches his demeanor. Low, humming with quiet intensity, yet impenetrable. He sounds like he’s carving every word into a headstone.
“Oh, thank god,” I reply gamely. “Then maybe I’ll risk one. I’m Morgan,” I introduce myself, smiling my winningest smile.
Honestly, I pride myself on how well I can get to know new people.
Moving states every few years my entire life, I’ve needed to win over landlords, human resource departments, neighbors, roommates, gas station clerks, convenience store owners, you name it.
I’ve developed near-supernatural powers of easy friendliness.
So I’m surprised when they only barely prevail on my new acquaintance. He hesitates. He does not extend his hand. He does not smile. When he speaks, I only just catch the name his hardened voice offers.
“Sawyer,” he says.
“Sawyer,” I repeat. He’s dressed simply, in jeans and a brown sweater that is way too warm for this hot day.
He’s pushed the sleeves up, revealing corded forearms and large hands.
His hair is short, dark above his stone-cut jaw.
There’s something downcast, even guarded, in his shuttered expression, sadness in his blue eyes.
They’re like fog obscuring the ocean, so thick the sun can’t get in.
He is, I notice, the only person in this room who looks haunted. Figuratively and literally.
What, I wonder, has summoned Sawyer here, looking haunted or ghostly himself in the midst of LA’s finest paranormal hobbyists? I’m chasing meaningless hope now, but something makes me feel like I’m more similar to Sawyer than he wants to let on.
Searching for insight, I look at his hands in his lap. I recognize what he’s holding—sort of—a flyer. A printout of the advertisement I found online for this group.