Chapter 9
Sawyer
I retreat inside, feeling guilty. I shouldn’t have gotten mad at Morgan.
I could have used my grown-up words instead of stomping and frowning.
How hard would it have been to say, Would you please postpone your efforts on this particular tree, which reminds me of Kennedy’s and my first visit to this house in ways I can’t stand to part with just yet?
Never mind. It would have been extremely hard.
But Morgan deserved the effort. She’s doing exactly what we said, working on my garden. What’s more, she’s doing what Kennedy wants, obviously.
It’s just not what I want.
Watching Morgan from my window while she handled the mess in front, I couldn’t stop wondering why everything needs to change.
Why Kennedy’s doing this. Things have been fine these past few years; I know they have.
I know Kennedy hasn’t hated our movie nights or when I’d put Etta James or Mazzy Star on the record player and we’d just dance, not caring if my hand slipped into the insubstantiality of hers while we spun.
Once I got past the shock waves of grief followed by the realization my fiancée was haunting our house, everything has been perfectly fine.
We’ve been fine.
Morgan clearing the yard reminded me how, once her work is done, the view from my window will be unrecognizable. It won’t be the view I saw with Kennedy when we toured the place or the one we woke up to on our first morning here. The one Kennedy glimpsed on the last day of her life.
I don’t know if I’m ready for unrecognizable. Everyone else, from my parents and almost-in-laws to pizza delivery people, thinks my yard is an eyesore, but I never have. Those tangled thickets hold memories.
Memories Morgan is uprooting.
It’s not her fault, I remind myself while I move to my mirror to comb my hair. I can’t take my frustration out on my houseguest. What Kennedy needs is the most important thing to me. Morgan’s only here to help.
I vow to act extra-friendly the next time I see her.
Honestly, I probably should get to know the woman living in my spare room for the next few weeks or months.
I’ve got nothing other than that she packs light, she’s into plants, she likes the Killers, and—oh, right—she’s haunted.
I’ll remark on her bag, maybe. Ask what Bifora testiculata is.
On second thought, maybe I won’t.
I’ll figure it out. While I’m rusty in conversations with the living, I’m not completely hopeless.
I’m pulling my shirt on, comforting myself about my social skills in a perfectly normal way for an adult man, when my door rattles like someone’s pounding from outside.
I ignore it—Kennedy is probably nearby, manifesting in her usual homey rustlings.
My heart skips, and I wonder hopefully whether the room feels chillier.
Instead, the door flies open and a decidedly un-ghostly woman storms in.
Un-ghostly and…unclothed. Morgan is wrapped in a towel, dripping water everywhere on my restored hardwood floors.
“Morgan!” I exclaim. “What the hell?”
Damn. I really was planning on friendliness. Extenuating circumstances.
“I knocked,” Morgan replies harshly.
“And I didn’t tell you to come in!” I reply. “I especially didn’t tell you to come in so…undressed and—”
I manage to stop myself short of saying wet.
Imperious, Morgan holds my gaze. Breathing hard, her hair hanging in soapy clumps over her shoulders, her skin splotchy, she looks…vibrant.
Not to mention pissed. “Obviously, it’s an emergency,” she hisses. “The water heater cut out while I was showering.”
“Oh.” Ghosts, I wonder, or just shitty plumbing? The house is old. While I’ve remodeled, I have not, surprisingly enough, replaced the entire water heater.
“Not oh,” Morgan snaps. Water trails down her legs. She’s barefoot. I swallow. “You need to fix the water heater. Now,” she demands. “I have to leave for work in forty minutes.”
“Right. Yes. Okay. Water heater,” I repeat. I’m having difficulty forming words under the circumstances I find myself in. Beneath Morgan’s expectant gaze, I step into my shoes and head downstairs.
I’m surprised to hear Morgan following me, matching my pace with the soft, watery footsteps her bare feet make on the hardwood. She continues dauntlessly into the kitchen with me like we’re infiltrating past enemy lines.
I pause near the pantry in front of the door leading downstairs into the garage. “You can’t come down here,” I say. “You could step on something sharp.”
Morgan doesn’t even hesitate. Defiance flashes in her chestnut eyes.
She walks to the back door, where my own work boots sit. They’re several sizes too large for Morgan, which means they’re easy for her to step into.
Impatient, she gestures to the door for me to lead the way.
The sight of Morgan glistening wet, wearing only her towel and my boots, is more than I can process right now. My chest tight, I force my gaze to the garage stairs.
When I open the door, icy cold greets me. The garage scares even me, frankly. As Morgan and I descend, the steps creak, the echoes seeming to lengthen and grow louder in the concrete space. Shadows move on the walls. The deeper we get, the more haunted it seems.
I wish I’d replaced or fixed the garage door so I could let some light in. Sort of like I wish I’d fixed the water heater. Unfortunately, the garage door remains immovable—manual and rusted—leaving Morgan and me to venture into the darkness.
Reluctantly, I reach the end of the stairs. I move a paint can to clear the way for Morgan and reach out to help her down the final steps.
She places her hand in mine. It’s warm—shockingly warm. Flush with life.
“Okay,” Morgan whispers unevenly. “I’m obviously pretty immune to haunting, but this is next level.”
“I think maybe having two ghosts in the house is making it worse,” I say. I’m only guessing. Putting clumsy patterns to impossible, unnatural events like I have for five years. Rationalizing in hopes of feeling some sense of control over my situation.
Grief does that to you, I’ve heard. Only Morgan makes me feel conscious of the effort.
I step sideways, only to nearly trip over the paint can. Because it’s returned to where I moved it from.
Morgan notices. Our eyes meet.
“Let’s do this quickly,” she says.
For once, I couldn’t agree with her more.
I walk deeper into the garage, determined to ignore the pounding of my heart. I hear Morgan following me, the heavy soles of my shoes thumping with her footsteps. Her breathing in the noiseless dark is conspicuous, her chest moving under her towel with every soft inhale—
“Zach, seriously. You’re being scary right now. Can you knock it off?” she pleads.
In response, the stairwell door slams shut. Morgan jumps.
I nearly do the same. I don’t feel Kennedy nearby. Etta James doesn’t linger in my head.
Morgan told me her ghost was annoying, but she never said he was malicious. She also said she didn’t know him very well, though. Who exactly have I invited to my home? What if Zach died some horribly gruesome death and is now taking out his pain on the living?
I reach the water heater, exhaling with relief that the garage hasn’t swallowed me up somehow. Using my phone flashlight, I illuminate the heater’s base where the instructions are printed.
Which…have warped and discolored into illegibility.
“Just do what you’ve done before,” Morgan suggests desperately. Her eyes roam nervously over the space while she clutches her towel.
“I’ve never done this before,” I reply, exasperated. “But be my guest.”
“Dude, I’ve never owned property before!” Morgan shoots back. “You think I know how to fix your water heater? I’m an expert at calling the landlord, but when it comes to actual repairs, I’ve got nothing.”
“Let me find a YouTube video.” I fumble with my phone while the shadows thicken around us. There’s something palpable in their ominous reach—something intentional.
Sure enough, the next moment my bars disappear. NO SERVICE, reads my screen.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I don’t know if I have the strength to return upstairs, resolve this with some hardcore internet research, and then venture back down here, like some vengeful water-heater-conquering hero—
Suddenly, Morgan gasps so sharply that I do jump. She nearly drops her towel, catching it only at the last second as I dart my gaze from her.
“What the hell?” I whisper.
Morgan stares into the shadows.
“Zach is in the corner,” she replies, her voice breathy and soft.
Goose bumps prickle down my arms. While I worried for my sanity in the early days of Kennedy’s manifestation, I’ve long felt haunting gets a really unfair reputation, because my ghost has never once scared me.
Morgan looks like she no longer shares my peaceful view on the paranormal—or she’s playing a very effective practical joke on me.
She watches the empty darkness where she must see Zach, looking extra ghostly. “He’s…” she exhales.
My heart hammers. He’s what?
“He looks wrong,” Morgan manages. “He’s just…standing there. I don’t think he’s seeing us. Is this where the ghosts go when they disappear? To the creepiest fucking place nearby?”
She’s half joking. Even so, I wonder if she’s right. I search the garage—Kennedy is nowhere to be found.
“Has he ever done this before?” I murmur.
Morgan shakes her head. “No. Never. I wonder if all the paranormal activity in this house is…making him worse. Summoning the spookier side of Zach.”
“Try to snap him out of it,” I urge her.
Morgan whirls, hand clamped on her towel. “Why? That’s a horrible idea,” she admonishes me.
“Why?” I repeat. “Because he’s cutting my cell service right now, and I can’t fix this until he cools it.”
“He looks like—like a real ghost. Like he’ll, I don’t know, rush me or do some horror movie shit.
” Morgan sighs. She knows I’m right. “Fine, but if I die of fear, I’m going to haunt the shit out of this garage, you know,” she warns me.
“You’ll never be able to get repairmen in here, and you’ll have cold showers forever. ”
I nod solemnly.
Her expression goes serious. She looks determined. Her gait uneven in my too-large boots, she ventures into the center of the garage.
“Hey, Zach,” she greets the ghost with forced friendliness. “What’s up?”
I wait, nervous. Nothing happens.
“Want to watch Shark Week reruns?” Morgan suggests.
Even scared shitless, I have to smile. No luck for Morgan, though. She shivers. I know it’s not just from the cold garage climate meeting her wet hair.
“Or we could go through my Tinder matches and I’ll let you choose who to swipe on,” she says. Moments later, her posture relaxes slightly. “Honestly, thank god that one didn’t work,” she says to me. “I don’t know if I could go out with anyone Zach approved of—”
“Morgan!” I interrupt her.
“Sorry. Right. I’m just…” She glances into the corner where Zach supposedly skulks. From the fear in her eyes, I know he hasn’t vanished. “I’m out of ideas,” she confesses.
I rub my face. The fact is, YouTube probably won’t fix the results of ghostly interference. I don’t want to shower in frigid water, either. We need to fix this—which means Morgan needs to fix this. I wish I could help, but I literally can’t see the problem.
I’m wondering whether Google has hits for paranormal plumbers when Morgan’s expression changes. She winces heavily, then faces Zach in the corner, resigned.
“Okay, last-ditch effort. I’m sorry in advance,” she says.
I wait with bated breath.
Morgan faces Zach. She loosens her grip on her towel.
“I guess I have no choice,” she says. “If you stop being spooky, I’ll flash you.”
I’m groaning—it’s funny, I’m getting to know Zach without ever meeting him—when suddenly Morgan cheers.
“Zach!” she exclaims proudly. “I should have known boobs were the only thing that could bring you back!”
With Morgan’s victorious laughter echoing from the walls, I can’t help noticing that my haunted garage has started feeling a lot less scary.
The dread in my chest lessens. My heart is slowing, though still pounding from the fresh fear.
“What’s he saying?” I ask Morgan when I notice her smiling into the corner.
“He’s mad I’m not going through with the flashing. No way, dude,” she chides. “You should have been a better first date if you wanted to see these.”
The change in Morgan, gripping her towel reassuringly firmly, is pronounced. She’s no longer shivering. The vivacious pink has returned to her cheeks.
She listens, like Zach is still speaking, then shoots me a furtive glance I don’t miss. Her cheeks grow pinker.
“No, he wouldn’t,” she mutters to Zach.
I inspect the water heater with no doubt who the pronoun refers to.
Morgan clears her throat, then speaks normally. “Zach doesn’t know why he’s down here,” she informs me. “He doesn’t remember being scary.” She looks back to him. “The water heater is out,” she explains to her ghost. “We’re trying to fix it, but we couldn’t with you haunting the place to hell.”
In the pause of Zach’s reply, she straightens suddenly.
Her eyes fly to mine, fresh excitement in their caramel glow. “He says he knows how to fix the water heater. He…”
She listens.
“Oh my god, Zach. This is huge!” she enthuses. She sounds giddy when she continues. “He says he knows a lot about water heaters, actually. He’s never remembered anything about his life except for our date, but—”
“Being in front of the water heater is bringing back a memory,” I finish, reasoning out the revelation.
“It’s not that Zach has no memories. It’s that they need to be brought back.
Which is why Kennedy doesn’t have memory gaps like he does.
She’s in her home, surrounded by everything from her life. ”
It makes sense. More importantly, it’s useful. I meant what I said when I promised the Shark Week–loving, Carly Rae Jepsen–listening man haunting Morgan that we would work together to resolve his unfinished business. Well, we’ve just gotten one step closer.
Morgan nods, eager. “This is good, Zach. Keep remembering.”
“What?” My heart is racing now for a different reason. A good reason. I’ve practically forgotten the feeling.
Morgan looks up.
“He’s saying…He thinks his parents own a hardware store,” she says. Her eyes dazzle in the darkness. “We have a clue about his actual life. If we find out who he is, we can complete Zach’s unfinished business.”