Chapter 3 #2
I doubt he notices how his restless fingers have softened the warped edges of the folded paper with fidgeting.
He’s…not unfriendly, I realize. Or not only unfriendly.
He’s nervous. Nobody wants to chat when they’re nervous, but sometimes if you get through to them, it helps. I just need to be persistent.
“How long have you been haunted?” I ask.
Once more, my friendliness visibly surprises Sawyer.
With each question, he eyes me like I’m speaking in a language he thought no one else could understand.
It’s sort of funny, although I obviously don’t laugh.
It’s a support group. Did he expect the support to be…
silent? Unspoken, meditative commiseration?
“Five years,” he replies. Despite his effortful monotone, I hear conflicting emotion in his voice. Like five years is nothing and forever.
Now I’m the one to startle. Five years?
Sawyer’s answer raises another question I’m desperate to ask. If he’s endured his haunting for five years, why come to a supernatural support group now?
“You?” he asks in return.
A question! From somber Sawyer himself! A real, ordinarily human effort at conversation! I hide my delight. “A couple months,” I reply. “Got any tips for newbies?”
Sawyer doesn’t shut down like I’m expecting. Instead, he seems very seriously to consider my question. Hmm, how must I distill five years of haunted wisdom into concise counsel for this strange woman who definitely does not have dirt in her hair?
“Wool sweaters,” he finally replies. “Lots of wool sweaters.”
My eyebrows rise.
Not only is Sawyer’s reply utterly cryptic—like, is he joking?
—his tone is unbothered. Even. As if he wants to dispense his sincere recommendations for long-haul haunting, nothing more, nothing less, with no interest in the more obvious emotional or logistical problems our supernatural situation presents.
“Maybe I should take up knitting,” I dare to joke.
Sawyer nods thoughtfully. “That would be smart,” he replies.
He’s so serious I have to stifle a laugh. Okay, dude, wool sweaters it is.
Unfortunately, I do not get to continue my inquiry.
Interruption comes in the form of, presumably, Gwyneth, the proprietress, who emerges from the nearby storage room.
Wearing crystal earrings, her skin decorated with beautiful colored tattoos, she looks us over with calm, welcoming confidence.
Honestly, if she can’t fix my haunting, I wonder if she could help me decorate the interior of the apartment I can no longer afford.
“I think we’re ready to begin,” she starts, her voice soothing.
She enters our folding chair circle. The screenwriter’s gaze sharpens. The judgmental couple relaxes. Even the millennial goths’ spirits seem to improve, so to speak.
“This is a chance for people to share their experiences with spirits on the other side in a safe place, without judgment,” Gwyneth continues.
“I saw my first ghost when I was a child. Everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve encountered evidence of supernatural energies.
I’ve warded away evil ones and ignored harmless ones. ”
I find myself nodding. Zach is nowhere to be seen. Promising.
Or promising until Gwyneth produces chunky crystal necklaces with price stickers on them from the woven hip pouch she’s wearing.
“If you’d like to protect yourself from dark energies, please browse my collection of amethyst, selenite, and black tourmaline,” she encourages us. “Discount for purchases made today only!”
This meeting is starting to feel less paranormal and more promotional. Well, salespeople can be haunted, too, I reassure myself. I’m not flush with cash, but if investing in some black tourmaline means my roommate won’t leave, then so be it!
“Do you have crystals that do the opposite?” I look toward the source of the interruption. Serving Spirits guy has raised his hand eagerly.
Gwyneth eyes him. “You…wish to summon evil?”
“Doesn’t have to be evil,” he replies. “I just want to attract paranormal activity.”
Sawyer hmms.
Gwyneth looks delighted. “Yes, of course. See me afterward,” she says.
My heart sinks further. If these people want to conjure hauntings, they have no idea what I’m going through.
“Who wants to share first?” Gwyneth invites the group.
I sit back, fighting discouragement. The teenagers stand and begin describing a recent sleepover, exaggerating lurid details that feel ripped from every horror movie of the past five years.
I’m not even mad—I would’ve done the same shit in high school.
Wait until you nearly drop your phone in the toilet because your ghost surprises you when you’re doing your scrollies while brushing your teeth, I would say, except then I would sound like a crotchety old haunted grown-up.
The middle-aged couple nervously share stories of what sound like the quirks and malfunctions of a home needing repairs. The screenwriter, like the goths, stays silently observant. Sawyer sits glumly, facing forward, continuing his half-hearted fidgeting of the program in his hands.
I’m going to share, then leave, I decide. My last-ditch effort. If it doesn’t work, then RIP my chances of paying rent.
I raise my hand. When Gwyneth nods welcomingly, I stand.
“Hi. I’m Morgan Lane,” I introduce myself.
“Um. I didn’t believe in ghosts until one showed up in my apartment.
His name is Zach and he follows me everywhere.
Of course, right now he’s hiding because he’s a bit of a prankster.
In fact, he was responsible for the exploding Spindrift. ”
No one laughs. No one nods in commiseration. Not even Zach pops up to offer me well-intentioned words of encouragement.
The only change in the crowd comes from Sawyer. He doesn’t look happy to be here, but his expression has opened up ever so slightly. He probably doesn’t even register the change himself.
I do. Despite his demeanor, no less standoffish, he watches me with new interest.
I continue on, feeling self-conscious. “Yeah, um, so,” I say eloquently, “Zach is…sort of ruining everything. I’m desperate to find a way to”—I whisper, just in case—“get rid of him.”
No exploding Spindrifts greet my declaration. Whew.
“Go on, Morgan,” Gwyneth urges, delighted.
“My roommate is fed up with the haunting, and she’s going to move out, leaving me with a lease I can’t afford,” I continue, appreciating the shopkeeper’s support.
“Unless anyone here has any leads on roommates who are cool and also looking to move in with one nice roommate and one ghost, I’m about to go into credit card debt to pay my rent. ”
Sawyer stares—nay, glares—straight forward, glumly examining the linoleum floor.
I feel incredibly ridiculous. As I’m standing here in my wet shirt, my cheeks flame.
The wannabe screenwriter raises his hand. “You could film your paranormal activity,” he says zealously when I call on him, “and post it on social media to make your rent money.”
I deflate. Why do I feel like I’ve just heard young Spielberg’s own elevator pitch? Before he starts saying words like “cinema verité” or “new media,” I nod. “Thanks for the suggestion.”
“What if—”
Do my ears deceive me? I look sharply to Sawyer, who’s spoken up. Given our earlier conversation—putting it generously—I did not expect voluntary input from the man watching me contemplatively, frowning in real concentration.
“What if instead of getting rid of him, you give him what he wants?” he continues. “He’s probably trying to communicate with you.”
“I can’t just let him watch Shark Week on my roommate’s computer whenever he’s bored,” I say, not certain Sawyer is fully comprehending the Zach situation. Zach is not yearning for release from some tortured grievance. My ghost is no yearner, I know that much.
But Sawyer is unmoved by my protest. He shrugs. “Then tell him,” he replies. “If he’s reasonable, you can work out a system that both of you like.”
I’m opening my mouth to reject the well-intentioned recommendation when I realize it’s…
not the worst idea. I’ve tolerated Zach.
I’ve tried to predict his outbursts and control them.
I have not tried to deliberately schedule TV time or hangouts with my spectral sidekick. I mean, I’ve had worse roommates.
Gwyneth, for one, looks rapt, pausing in her crystal peddling with genuine interest in our exchange.
Maybe, I concede, I’ve been a little hard on my ghost. To be fair, he hasn’t made it easy to be easy on him, and I remain unconvinced anyone here knows what it’s really like to have to share their life haunted. Even wool-sweater Sawyer.
Still, I nod. “I can try,” I say reluctantly. “I’d rather evict him than work out roommate agreements, though.”
Sawyer says nothing, but one of the millennial goths interjects. “A spirit is not something to evict. You have no more right to existence than your ghost,” he pronounces, stern.
Gwyneth nods sagely.
“Of course,” I say. I don’t want to get into it with the guy whose shirt I hosed in citrusy sparkling water.
No one has more to offer. Discouraged, not to mention somewhat embarrassed, I return to my seat.
I’m contemplating walking out early when Gwyneth speaks up. “We want everyone to have the opportunity to join our community.”
She rounds encouragingly on Sawyer, eyeing him in front of the group. I hold my breath, my curiosity rushing back.
“Would you like to share your experience with haunting?” she invites him.
Sawyer looks startled, like he never imagined participating. He seems to hesitate. “Fine. Sure,” he says.
Way to go, Gwyneth. I disavow my earlier skepticism for our enthusiastic hostess. I’m going to buy some black tourmaline in thanks.
He stands slowly. “Hi, um. My name is Sawyer. I’ve been…haunted for a couple years now,” he starts. “At first, I guess it could be a little unsettling. But…I don’t know.” Sawyer shrugs.