4
The next morning when Gerard went to reheat Regina’s leftovers, the containers were empty.
“What in the living hell is going on?” he said to no one.
In the night, before he’d fallen asleep on the sheets Regina had so kindly let him borrow, he swore he heard the soft patter of bare feet on the wooden floor.
As if someone were tiptoeing through the darkness.
Stirred, he turned on every light and inspected every crevice.
There were no signs of a person—or a ghost, for that matter—anywhere.
Though what had he been looking for? Tracks? A trail of ectoplasm?
Something strange was afoot.
That day, he tried to forget about the stress-induced terror that was happening inside his new apartment because he had an unheard-of completely unscheduled day.
With his hat and sunglasses on, he explored town, ate full-fat ice cream for the first time in years, and in the notebook his therapist had encouraged him to use for documenting his emotions, he jotted down interesting names he found etched onto gravestones in the vast cemeteries.
In the afternoon, he practiced his guitar playing on the beach before picking up his pen and writing:
October 3, 2026
I’m so happy to not be on a bus or a plane or a jet. It’s nice to not be moving for a change. Life seems slow here.
Iping is as beautiful as the song described. I knew I could trust Hallowitz & Hart.
The apartment I found might be … haunted? Still investigating.
As an outsider, the islanders look at me with contempt more than interest or recognition. I can’t tell if I should be relieved or offended. Either way, the ice cream is really good here.
I think I’ll stick with “relieved” for now. Try that emotion on for a bit.
At night, he set about testing Regina’s sleepwalking theory.
He closed the heavy curtains all the way so not a sliver of moonlight snuck in, avoided all screens for an hour before sleeping, and did a fifteen-minute meditation to wipe away the anxiety over running away from his life before crawling under the covers.
Still, the next morning, food was gone, equipment was moved, and a beaker seemed about to bubble over with a strange, slime-green concoction. What was his unconscious mind doing?
In the grocery store that afternoon, he bought a small bag of flour.
Before going to sleep, he dumped the flour on the floor around the bed as if to create a circle of protection that would ward off whatever demons might or might not be lurking about.
If he got up in the middle of the night, his footprints would appear in the white dust and track his movements around the apartment. Too bad when 7 AM rolled around, the flour sat undisturbed and proved a damn pain to clean up.
Determined still to validate his theory, he went to the bike shop and bought two bells.
At night, he tied the bells to his wrists and cocooned himself in as many blankets as he could procure, fashioning a quasi straitjacket.
If he moved in his sleep, the bells would wake him up and stop him from messing around with random science experiments.
That stuff had to be dangerous even if you were fully awake and knew what the devil you were doing.
Morning came, and he found himself still cocooned. No jingling bells had startled him. Yet the scientific workspace was coated in new mess, and the deli meats he’d bought were ransacked. Either the world’s smartest, sneakiest rat was living inside the walls or he had his very own ghost.
“Spirit?” he called to the air. “Can I call you that? Spirit? No, I guess that makes you sound like the horse from that movie. Never mind. Gender-nonspecific ghost, if you’re there and you hear me, I’m only here for a short while to reset and wind down.
I’ll leave you alone if you leave me alone, okay?
There’s plenty of space here for both of us. Cohabitation isn’t that bad.”
The room remained stagnant. Perhaps the ghost was sleeping? It did seem to be nocturnal by nature. Hopefully he hadn’t disturbed it and invoked some sort of interdimensional rage.
“If you hear me, and you understand, could you give me a sign?” he asked.
A breeze blew through the open window, causing the curtains to dance.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, needing to believe the shenanigans had come to an end.
When he awoke the next morning, everything seemed to be as he’d left it the night before. Beakers upright. Scales untipped. Food uneaten. Peace, for once. Peace. That’s all he’d come to Iping for, and he was damned glad to get it.
Then, he traipsed into the bathroom, flicked on the light, and found the mirror broken.
He gasped. The unmistakable punch of a fist pierced the center of the glass, creating a spiral of shards, some of which had fallen away and into the sink.
The fractals beamed light into his eyes at odd angles, which caused him to stumble back into the main room.
He inspected his knuckles. Unless he’d had the sleepy foresight to wrap them in a rag before pummeling the mirror, the seven years of bad luck were not on his head.
But perhaps a target was on his back.
His breath hiked up into his throat as he once again sensed a second presence in the room hovering not far off his left shoulder. A weird scent filled the air that reminded him of campfires and sour candy.
He shuddered. His skin was itchy all over.
In that studio apartment above Regina’s house, scared to peer back into the bathroom but also wanting to lock himself inside it for protection, Gerard closed his eyes as tight as they would go.
Whatever spirit he’d upset was powerful beyond his wildest imaginings and suspended within arm’s reach.
How do you fight back against something you can’t see or touch?
Something phantasmal swished near him. An inexplicable heat radiated at his back.
Unable to stand still any longer without a clear visual of the threat, he rolled his luggage into the center of the room and made a mad dash to pack what little he had with him.
He’d take his chances on the sodden rooms with the tangerine doors out back if he had to.
He’d brought a bathing suit! He knew how to swim!
As soon as he opened the wardrobe, the clothes flung themselves off their hangers. The drawers rattled by unseen forces. A ghostly moan bounced off the walls as if amplified. Amidst the chaos and the pounding in his chest, Gerard could almost make out the words Get out! Get out!
He abandoned his suitcase, grabbed his shoes and hat, and ran for it.
His survival instincts thrummed on the surface of his sweat-slick skin.
Jesus. What was that?
Maybe if he kept running, he wouldn’t have to think about it.
His shoes clomped on the boards of the bridge into town. Perhaps those personal-training sessions were worth it, after all. Only a week without them and he was winded by the time the pink awning of the ice-cream shop came into view.
Fuck it. He’d been run out of his own apartment by a malicious spirit. He deserved a scoop of mint chocolate chip. On a waffle cone. With some goddamn sprinkles.
The electric-green treat melted down the side of the cone and onto his fingers as he sat on a bench in the shade and tried to make sense of everything that had happened since he left New York, attempted to recall another time he’d ever felt that scared.
With a thin napkin, he blotted at the pool of ice cream in his lap but mostly didn’t care about the mess, because agitation bloomed hot in his belly. He couldn’t let some spontaneous spirit spook him away from the rest and relaxation he promised himself he’d get on this island.
Up ahead, the church he’d seen on the first day stood with its front doors propped open. A sign to the left of the doors read ALL ARE WELCOME. OPEN PRAYER.
It had been ages since he’d stepped foot in a church.
His career and religion didn’t really mesh.
Without overthinking it, he finished his ice cream, cleaned his hands, and then trudged inside.
He worried momentarily that he might burst into flames from sin—greed, gluttony, lust—but all he felt was the cool blast of air on his face, and he inhaled the familiar smell of incense.
Music spilled out from the nave. Gerard poked his head in. The choir of no more than twenty people was rehearsing beneath a lifelike statue of Jesus affixed to the cross hung above the altar. To the left, candles remained lit in offering. To the right, Regina played the organ.
For a moment, he soaked in the music, letting it lap over him like he’d let the salty, frigid waves of the bay do the previous afternoon.
A woman in slacks appeared behind him and whispered with the same accent as Kellen except thicker, “Hats off in the house of the Lord.”
Quickly, Gerard removed his cap.
“Can I help you?” she asked. She wore peach-colored lipstick that was visible on her teeth.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m looking for the priest or, um, pastor.” He hadn’t seen any mention of denomination on the signage outside, though he was in such a rush that he hadn’t looked closely.
“Priest. Father Daniels. I believe he’s in his office,” she said. “Are you new ’round here?”
He nodded. “Just got off the ferry five days ago. I’m staying with Regina.”
“You are not the thief, are you?” she asked, distaste in her tone.
“No, that was the guy before me. Promise,” he said.
She nodded. “Follow me.”
She led him down a corridor. On the wall, a mural of Jesus in a field was painted.
He was reading scripture to some children.
One was in a robe and sandals. One was blond with pigtails and a children’s Bible open.
The other was suntanned and twirling a …
soccer ball? Jesus had never struck him as a sports fan.
The woman knocked on a slightly ajar door. “Father Daniels. A new-to-town visitor here to see you. His name is— What’s your name?”
“James,” he said.
“A good Christian name,” Father Daniels said, appearing in the doorway. He looked like all the other priests from Gerard’s youth. Tall, skinny, white, balding, with thick knuckle hair and chapped lips that cracked as he smiled. “Come in. Please.”
The chair across from Father Daniels’s desk was wooden and rigid. It made Gerard sit at a perfect ninety-degree angle. “Thanks.”
“What can I do for you, son?” he asked.
Gerard bristled at the word son. He looked anywhere but at the priest’s face as he said, “I came seeking guidance on the spiritual.”
“Your spiritual self?” Father Daniels asked.
“More like spirits. Ghosts,” he said meekly, certain he sounded as ridiculous as he felt. “And, um, how to get rid of them.”