Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
“He likes you,” a voice said behind me. “The way he looked through your things before you came up here—it wasn’t just out of suspicion, he wanted to know what books you read. He flipped through your sketch pad.”
I watched out the window until Tate disappeared into the tree line below. “He’s also not sure whether I had anything to do with the missing lookout next door.”
“You didn’t.”
I turned to look at Charlie.
He didn’t startle me this time, but it was jarring to see him appear exactly the same.
From his outfit, to the way his hair fell just so across his forehead, and the way his boots were unlaced—he never changed.
“No, I didn’t. And I don’t believe you had anything to do with the missing hikers all those years ago, either. ”
His shoulders fell. The cautious hesitance on his face melted away, like the weight of the world had been lifted. I marveled at the power of being seen, of being understood, even if it was by just one person.
“Thank you,” he said. There were multitudes in those words all over again, before his face turned grave. “It’s happening again.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
“I’m really sorry about your friend. The other lookout.”
“She could still be found. She might be lost or injured.”
He didn’t squash my hope. Maybe he saw how much I needed it. “You have to be careful.” Or you’ll end up like her. You’ll end up like me, his eyes said.
“I will be. Besides, I’m not the only lookout keeping watch in this tower anymore, am I?”
The outline of his body pulsed with light, like a flare of electricity. More pieces of him filled in, and he appeared less fuzzy and more whole than I’d ever seen him. “No, I’m here too.”
“Good.”
I meant that. I couldn’t explain why, but I did.
He cast around as if searching for something else to add, before his eyes widened. “Oh. What’s your name?”
“Reece West.”
I liked seeing the smile back on his face. He had dimples, and his cheeks stretched wide, as if unused to accommodating joy. “Hi, Reece.”
All of a sudden, I felt like a nervous teenager, unsure of what to do with my hands. “Hi, Charlie.”
His gaze caught over my shoulder. “Your sandwich is burning.”
“Shit.” I turned back to the stove and grabbed the spatula, quickly flipping it over. Sure enough, the first side was less toasted and more charred.
Oh well, I guess that meant I had to make two. I’d still eat the first, of course, but you know. At least one should be properly cooked.
This kind of thinking is why you are already running out of groceries, you animal.
I opened the window over the stove to air out the smoke. “Can you grab the other window?” I asked over my shoulder. We’d need a cross-breeze to get rid of the smell.
“I can try,” he said.
Fuck, I hadn’t even considered. Sometimes he interacted with objects as though he were solid—he’d grabbed me firmly by the shoulders twice now—and other times he looked more like, well, a ghost.
“My bad, I got it,” I said, flipping the sandwich onto a plate before the other side joined the first, and it became completely inedible.
“No, I want to try.” Hesitantly, he took hold of the handle and cranked it a few times until the window cracked open. “That’s as far as I can go for now.” He sounded out of breath.
“Thank you.” I padded over to open it fully. I wasn’t sure how the physics of his corporeal body worked, but that seemed like progress. “That’s pretty amazing, you know. For a…” I cringed.
“For a dead guy?” he finished.
I guffawed. “I was going to say ghost, but same thing, I suppose. Have you always been able to touch things?”
He shook his head. “Not always. It’s hard for me to be physically present in a space, especially when I get worked up or upset.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry for the other day.”
“No. Don’t apologize to me for that. I’ve become more upset in my life over less. You should be angry, and I’ll listen whenever you need me to.”
I’d needed someone to vent my anger to, without feeling as though it burdened them. Even the ones who loved and cared for me very much just wanted me to feel better. To be okay. To be healthy.
Carrying their hope and mine was exhausting.
Overcome with the urge to comfort him, I reached out as if to pat his arm, but hesitated.
What would he feel like? Would my hand fall right through his body? Or would he be solid, like the other day?
I gently rested my palm on his shoulder.
He felt surprisingly… normal. My hand slid easily over the cool leather of his jacket. His soft sherpa collar brushed against my fingertips. Rather than one amorphous apparition, his clothes retained their original textures. They weren’t ghostly at all.
Fascinating.
His shoulder was firm, and this close, he smelled faintly of cotton. Like warm sheets drying on the line on a hot summer day.
He sucked in a breath and jolted, blinking up at me.
I yanked my hand back and cleared my throat. “Sorry.”
“It’s ok,” he replied quickly. “It’s just been a long time, that’s all.”
Thirty-nine years. Thirty-nine years without a comforting touch, without any human connection at all. I’d be jumpy, too.
“Um, how long was I away?” he asked, glancing around again as if to gauge the time.
“Eight days.”
His brows creased. “I’ve only just felt strong enough to come back and show myself like this.”
“Does it always take you that long to get your energy back?” I couldn’t place why that bothered me so much. Maybe I was just worried about Janine or missed her company.
He shrugged. “Like I said, time is different there. It doesn’t feel like I’m gone as long as I am, but I think…” he scuffed a foot along the ground.
“You think?” I prompted.
“I think it helps to be around someone.” His cheeks darkened. “To feel like a person.”
There were a few moments of silence. I thought back to when he’d shouted at me for closing the window, and how I’d misinterpreted his anguish for rage.
“I left the chair and blanket out for you,” I said gruffly.
“You don’t have to ask me to come. But maybe let me know when you’re here, so I don’t get naked or something. ”
I washed every other day out on the deck using a portable shower I warmed in the sun, and I wouldn’t want to startle him.
Heh. Wouldn’t want to startle the ghost.
He blinked rapidly. Did he already know that? “You mean, you want me around? I don’t freak you out?”
I laughed. “At first? You absolutely terrified me.”
He smiled a little.
“But now, no. You don’t freak me out.” My stomach growled again, louder this time.
His smile widened. “God, I miss food.”
“Do you want to try eating something?” I asked, matching his grin.
He grimaced. “I don’t know what would happen to it, and I don’t want to waste your groceries.”
“I’ll finish what you don’t eat, and I need to make a trip to town to restock soon anyway. Come on, what’s the worst that could happen? It won’t kill you.”
The words were out before I could think. My jaw dropped at my own stupidity.
Foot. In. Mouth.
Charlie burst out laughing, clutching his belly. When he could take a breath, he wiped at his eyes and said, “You’re right. It won’t kill me to try. But eating that burnt husk of a sandwich might, so I want a fresh one.”
I grinned.
Search parties and scent dogs combed the forest for a week after Janine went missing.
The radio chatter was constant. Everyone was on edge, passing around information and rumors they’d heard like wildfire. It got so bad, we were told to take the non-work talk to a group text, rather than clog up the channel in case someone had to report a fire.
On the third morning since she disappeared, rumors spread that the dogs alerted to a possible crime scene in the woods near Janine’s tower, but no one knew what they’d found.
The two lookouts closest to me on the west side, Tower Six and Five, quit the next day.
“That happened the first time, too,” Charlie commented.
He’d appeared a few minutes ago, right as I prepared lunch.
“Most quit after the fourth person went missing. But I was the only one left on the west side of the park, and I’d moved out here to be a Ranger.
I thought staying was the right thing to do, and could put me ahead when they were hiring full-time. ”
“I hate that,” I said. “I hate that you stayed because you thought it was right, and still…”
My words trailed off. Still died.
He looked out toward the forest, pensive.
I plated up two bowls of ramen, because we’d discovered Charlie could eat. He liked grilled cheese sandwiches—un-burnt, he’d unnecessarily commented—tomato soup, canned ravioli, and hot dogs.
Granted, his palette was severely limited by my remaining food supply. I’d finished the last of the fruit and vegetables days ago.
“Want an egg?” I asked into the quiet.
“No, plain is good for now. Thank you.”
I added a fried egg and hot sauce to my bowl before sliding the other down the counter for Charlie. He wasn’t confident enough yet to hold something that might break or spill if he dropped it.
Bending over, he sipped at the hot broth and sighed. “You really don’t have to share with me, you know. You can’t have much food left.”
“Meh, I was already going through my groceries too quickly. I’ll ask if it’s ok to leave in a few days to restock early.” I leaned back against the counter next to him and slurped at my own noodles.
He peered at me, hesitant and questioning. “So you’ll come back?”
Charlie looked so normal in moments like this; sometimes, I forgot he wasn’t. That he’d been alone in this lookout for decades. Was he trapped here? Could he leave the tower if he wanted to?
Or if I wanted him to?
“Yeah, I’ll come back. I don’t really have anywhere else to live right now anyway, except for my Dad’s pull-out couch. And trust me, you don’t want to sleep on that thing for more than a night.”
The quietly pleased look on his face made my stomach feel funny, but he didn’t press further.
I cleared my throat, swirling the bright orange yolk around the seasoned broth. “What’s your favorite food?”
“Roasted chicken, I think. When the skin gets all crispy, mmm. With mashed potatoes,” he said, eyes dreamy and distant. “Oh, and warm peach cobbler for dessert. With vanilla ice cream.”
“Obviously,” I answered. “The ice cream is critical. The melt—”
—The melt,” we said together.
He laughed. Charlie laughed a lot for a ghost. It made his whole body glow brighter, like for a moment, a surge of whatever energy or force kept him here ran through him a little stronger.
“I always requested that for my birthday meal. Mom would make the chicken and mashed potatoes, and Frankie made the cobbler.” He had such a fond look on his face, I didn’t want to interrupt his happy memories with more questions.
I had a lot of them. Mostly about how and why he was stuck in ghost form and not wherever people went after they died.
He probably wouldn’t have the answers to those, though. Or wouldn’t want the answers, maybe.
When he was done, he pushed his bowl toward me to finish off what he hadn’t eaten.
He mostly pecked at things like a bird, afraid of what would happen if he ate too much at once, but wherever he’d go when he disappeared, and whatever happened to his corporeal form when he went there, made the food disappear.
I called it blinking.
He’d blink in and out throughout the day, chattering away at me before he left to rest again. He’d always return in the evenings, though, to watch the sunset and relax by the fire.
Later that night, when sleep crept closer and I could barely keep my eyes open, he reappeared.
Scooting his chair closer to the wood stove, he draped the blanket over his lap and settled in, like a night watchman. “Go to sleep. I’ll keep an eye on things,” he said with a smile.
I couldn’t explain why, but I trusted he would. So much so, I tucked beneath the duvet, eyes slowly blinking shut, until only the barest hint of his outline remained.
“Goodnight, Charlie,” I rumbled.
“Goodnight, Reece.”