Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Viola Morris’s red brick house was unremarkable.
Sitting on the corner of a quiet street on the outskirts of Ponderosa, the lawn was manicured and flowerbeds were weeded, lit by a few solar lanterns staked into the ground.
It didn’t look like the kind of house where paranormal dealings occurred. There were no creeping vines, crumbling and decrepit walls, or unsettling silhouettes peering out of third-story windows.
But then again, who was I to judge what the paranormally inclined looked like? I was in love with a ghost.
I clutched Charlie’s hand as we followed Tate up the walkway.
“My grandmother is… quirky. She can be a bit abrasive, but she means well.”
“Like you?” I asked before I could stop myself. To my surprise, it sounded less like an accusation and more like something I’d say to Bobby.
Charlie gave me a look, anyway.
Tate shook his head. “I know you’re not my biggest fan right now, but I swear, before we die, I’ll get you to call me your fucking friend, West.”
I sighed. “Let’s just get this over with. Are you ready?” I asked Charlie.
He squeezed my hand. “Not really, but there’s no sense in prolonging it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Tate quipped, before knocking.
A minute or so passed before the door creaked open, revealing a stout woman with long, white hair, wearing half-moon glasses attached to a beaded chain and a flowing, gauzy, colorful dress.
“Hello, my boy,” she said warmly, embracing Tate. “You’ve been away too long.”
He eyed her. “I saw you on Tuesday.”
She waved off his reply. “Too long. Now, show me… Oh.”
The second she laid eyes on Charlie, she stepped back, a hand over her heart. “My God…” she mumbled, before making the sign of the cross over her forehead and chest. “What have you brought to me?”
Tate cringed. “Uh, well, this is Charles—Charlie—Randolph. And I’m pretty sure he’s not a serial killer. He is dead, though. I think.”
“That’s quite the introduction,” Charlie mumbled. “Hi, Ms. Morris. My name is Charlie, and I am most certainly not a serial killer. I am dead, though. I don’t understand what’s happened to me, with, you know,” he gestured to his corporeal body, “and Tate said you might be able to help.”
He offered his hand to shake, which she stared at before making the sign of the cross again and stepping back. “Come inside, the neighbors already have enough to gossip about.”
We all followed her into a living room draped in faded brown, mustard yellow, and gaudy orange.
The plastic sofa cover squeaked when Charlie and I sat down, and I made the intentional effort to tuck my elbows in, hoping to avoid knocking over one of the many lamps and trinkets cluttered atop every available surface.
All of her decorative items were displayed on white, delicately crocheted doilies, and judging by the way my nose itched, I’d hazard a guess she hadn’t dusted since the moon landing.
“Tea?” she asked.
“No,” I replied quickly, fearful of what would be in the tea. “Uh, thank you, though.”
“Yes, please,” Charlie said with a smile.
I side-eyed him, and his responding shrug said, “What? I’m already dead.”
She shuffled into what I presumed was the kitchen, through a doorway adorned with, honest to fucking God, beaded curtains.
“Your grandmother is… something,” I whispered to Tate, confident she wouldn’t hear me over the still-rattling doorway.
He unzipped his jacket and peeled it off. It had to be at least eighty degrees inside, no fan in sight. “Yes, she is. But she’s a saint and set me right before I could fuck up my own life irreparably, so give her any of your usual shit and I’ll punch your teeth in.”
As if to tempt me into testing what I was certain wasn’t an empty threat, a hairless cat jumped up onto the sofa cushion next to me and began rubbing itself against my arm, purring.
Charlie covered his laugh with a cough.
Tate looked like a kid at Christmas, gleefully pulling out his phone to take a picture. “That’s your contact photo now, by the way,” he said, grinning.
“This is the first time I actually wish I had one of those, so you could mail me that picture,” Charlie said, chortling.
“I’ll have a print made for you.” He turned to me. “She usually growls at everyone, so you two are made for each other.”
I frowned down at the little creature, who looked more like a raw chicken with eyeballs than a house pet. “If I get punched in the face, it’s your fault.”
She scowled back and began purring louder, kneading her paws into the sticky plastic covering and head-butting my shoulder, as if pleased to have chosen the person it would bother the most.
The curtains rattled again, and Viola Morris’s return brought me back to the matter at hand, the rubber band around my chest squeezing impossibly tighter.
She placed the tray carrying four cups of tea on the coffee table before sitting across from us in a brown recliner that was probably older than me. “I see you’ve met Sunshine.”
On cue, the cat stepped across the table and sniffed at the mugs before curling up in her lap.
I raised an eyebrow. “Sunshine?”
Charlie coughed again.
Tate shot me a look that said, “Go ahead, one more.”
“Yes,” she cooed, petting the cat. “She’s such a joy. Now, tell me again why you’re here.”
Charlie glanced at me and then at Tate. “Well, um, my death was… sudden. I remember bits and pieces, but not all of it. Not the end. I’m the lookout who—”
“I know your story,” she cut in, not unkindly. “Is that it? You want to remember the moments before your death?”
“I want to help stop more people from dying. I don’t know if what I remember can do that, but I’m willing to try,” he answered, looking over at Tate again.
She hummed. “Most who come to me with questions aren’t looking to relive that, especially if it was traumatic. It could affect you in ways you’re not prepared for.”
“Will it…” Charlie began, before clearing his throat. “Will it make me disappear for good? Will it force me into, I don’t know, passing on?”
I took Charlie’s hand and squeezed, my heart in my throat.
Glancing down at our interlocked fingers, she raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that very much, considering how strongly you’re clinging to your anchor’s life force. But it will be taxing for you both—you might not be able to sustain this form again for a while.”
Charlie blanched. “What? What do you mean, life force?”
She eyed him warily, assessing. “Intentional or not, I can’t tell, but you’re feeding off his energy to sustain yourself in this form.”
The three of us gaped at her.
“I still don’t understand,” I said, feeling Charlie’s hand begin to tremble in mine. “He’s been stuck in the lookout for almost forty years; he couldn’t have been doing that this whole time, it’s not possible.”
“Spirits that haven’t let go of this world are usually drawn to a place or thing that has significance to them.
Sometimes, where they died; other times, where they felt the safest. But what’s happening between you two now is more than that.
He’s attached himself to you, like an anchor, to mimic being alive in a way I’ve never seen before. ”
“Mimic being alive, what does that mean?” Tate asked, with apparent disgust in his voice.
She turned to me. “Possession, Mr. West. He’s possessing you. And any attempt to sever that connection won’t just harm him, it could hurt you, too.”
I stared in disbelief. “Possession?”
“What do you—ean hurt—im? I—not—p—essing him!” Charlie cried, his words cutting in and out like they hadn’t in weeks.
I tugged on his hand until he faced me. “Hey, it’s alright. You’re here. Deep breaths.”
He inhaled, following my breathing, and exhaled, already looking steadier. “What do you mean, hurt him?” he repeated quietly.
She peered at Charlie, and then at me. With a little more softness in her voice than before, she said, “I think I understand, now. It’s clear that you two… care for each other. It’s not something I’ve ever seen, but you may have accidentally tied your presence to him through that connection.”
“Is it harmful?” he asked again, panic returning in his voice. “Am I hurt—im?”
Her face turned grim. “Right this moment? Probably not. But any extreme emotion or use of energy will be taxing on you both. I’m not sure what the long-term effects of possession are, even if it’s voluntary. It could hurt him—especially if he gets sick or overly tired.”
Charlie looked ready to throw up.
“Can you help us, then?” I asked, desperate and pleading. I’d beg on my knees if I had to. “I love him. He deserves a life. A real life. Can you help us get it back?”
An eternity of silence stretched before us.
“Is that possible? For me to be alive again? To be real, without hurting Reece?” Charlie asked into the quiet, voice so small I wanted to wrap him up and hide him from everything that’d ever hurt him, forever.
Briefly, I saw a flash of possibility in her eyes, a thought almost spoken aloud, before it flitted away. “The dead don’t come back to life, Mr. West. I’m sorry.”
I gritted my teeth. “Don’t, or can’t?”
Her gaze sharpened. “What you speak of requires great sacrifice, one of which I will never help you in achieving. Any attempt to make him stronger at this point will only make you weaker. I wouldn’t recommend it, lest you wish to join him in death.”
Charlie released my hand like it burned. “I’m going to be sick,” he said, shooting up from the sofa and heading for the front door.
I jumped up too, following him. The tightness in my chest had grown unbearable. “Charlie, wait.”
The mugs of tea rattled against the serving tray, and one of the lamp lights popped, shorting out as he passed by. “Sorry,” he said, voice full of despair. “I’m sorry.”
His outline flickered. He scrambled for the front door handle, but his fingers kept slipping through, unable to grip the knob. “I can’t,” he said, choking back emotion.
My hand fell through his shoulder when I tried to steady him. “It’s okay,” I said, reaching around to open the door.