Ode to the Bandit

They tear trash open with no thought of me.
And from the limbs of a tree, chatter away.
Compost bins are necessary now—
But the problem was: How to keep wildlife out?
Green bin makers hatched a plan and a latch was installed.
The bandit on camera, flipped the latch, and dinner was served.

They’re an annoyance and a nuisance, I don’t disagree.
But one early morning when she saw me, she scrambled a foot up a tree.
Her girth wide, stopped her there. She seemed to think, “Well, good enough.”
Then, there were two little ones who attacked our downspout.
I tell myself: They weren’t hunting for lunch.
Just a little mischief, trying to figure things out.

Lately, I don’t always see the comical side of things.
But the bandits’ antics are sometimes a friend.
Except when they left a package on my deck.
I threw my hands up and asked, “Why me?”
Not a peep did I hear. So, I told myself, it’s one time, it’s fine.
But a year later, my defences down, they did it again.

It was quiet for awhile and I have to say—I missed them a little.
When one rainy night a figure on our deck, darted under the cover of our outdoor chair.
The water pooled on the cover and two blobs moved back and forth.
Now, we wondered, “How many are under there?”
A worry crept into my mind they might be trapped and suffocate to death.
So, we lifted the cover with a broom handle, and he sat up human-like with a look of, What did you do that for?
We retreated indoors as his coat dripped. He inched close to the window and seemed to ask, Do you mind if we stay until the rain goes away?
He reclined back and watched us for a few minutes. And then, crept under the cover.
We did what we do—turned the lights off and let them stay for the night.

Rhythm

TV on, music playing
fingers slide across the screen
punch the keys, the characters create
a question to a friend

heart pounding, feet walking,
fingers twitching, sweat swells
and drips along my cheek

bellows break through a closed car window
“Get out of the way!” a driver shrieks.
“Are you stupid?” she asks, huffing,
her heels stomping away

I hold the horn too long
a curse, a rant —
I swear, I’m right this time

perspiration peppers through my shirt
stoney eyes watch me from the rearview mirror waiting . . .
and now I wonder, Who the hell is she?

I close the door
take a breath
leave the phone on the floor
turn out the lights and walk away

I tread upstairs and shut the blinds
lay down and whisper to wraiths I’ve wronged
when the day turns anew
I swear: I’ll be a better me

Alone in Loneliness

Grey-haired, stomach-turning,
I am outside of it all.
Someone who doesn’t fit but refuses to turn,
to be broken, so I fit into a mold.
And where I’ll find my place
and fold onto the board.

Someone not seen, and not heard,
a silhouette of who I am.
Except when whispers echo down long hallways,
and with a pointed finger, they’ll say,
“Why can’t she play the game?”

I am alone in loneliness when I walk,
and sometimes on an early morning run,
or if I stand in the kitchen with a wine glass in hand
where I’ll wonder, how even as a child I felt unknown
and an annoyance, somehow, at the same time.

I walk alone in loneliness, and the lyrics of a lullaby
drum a melancholy beat of stargazers who meet—
the cast-outs on the outside. The outsiders looking in.

My father’s long gone—
But from a photo I saw when he was a boy . . .
He wore shorts to his knees, a white cap, and a shirt,
after he landed on these shores.
He came to Canada as the place
he was born lay in ruins.
He brought with him an unsayable name,
he changed to something sayable.

And now I know, I am alone in loneliness.
I exist on the outside. Somehow, though,
it’s reassuring that I am not alone . . .

Because this feeling from within—
this solo sense is short-lived.
Because the lullaby hints,
others have felt this way.

And this shared shadow of loneliness links me with others and reminds me it will be alright.

Shell & Sea

A gurgle of laughter from a nearby child makes me turn,
and a boy bounces a ball down the driveway.
Sun beats warmth on my skin—
and the rays of happiness sting.

I stare at my feet when a neighbour passes.
Keep my head down, pretend I don’t see her.
I know she may mistake distance for unkindness.
But if I talk, tears may fall—
And I don’t have the words to explain it.

If I were a turtle, I could retreat into my shell.
Everyone would know, it’s just about protection.
And if someone knocked on my door?
I’d pull my house up and toddle along the shore.
When waves lapped at my feet, I’d swim far away into the sea.

Collide

                                                                                                           

Rows and rows of white townhouses were like steps beneath the hanging quarter moon and dotted stars. Dorman Knott elbowed through people in suits, cashiers with name tags pinned to their shirts, and others in blue jeans, hard hats, and boots. He weaved his way around parents who clung to children’s hands with the odd child in a baseball cap. Why the child wore a baseball cap, he didn’t know. After all, there wasn’t any sun on the streets as the town clock banged eight beats. The children were most likely going to the School of Ebony Shells—or some other school that started at nine o’clock in the evening. The parents would then be off to work.

“Dorman! Old man, how are you this night?” John Neck clapped his back, and whether it was the smack or his voice, Dorman gulped in the air as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

“Fine, fine.”

“It’s a beautiful night, don’t ya think?” John Neck’s muscles bulged under his tight leather jacket. His lips curled into a grin, and his yellow teeth stuck out. Neck’s breath had a hint of tobacco, coffee, and garlic. “Remember those days? Running after school to the arcade? And sometimes we would play paintball before sunrise? Good times, don’t ya think?”

 “Yes, good times.” Dorman sighed. “Well, mostly . . .” There was that one time when a car careened down the road—the white-haired woman with the cane never had a chance.

“It’s been good chatting with you, but I need to push off. Work and all that . . .”

Neck grabbed Dorman’s elbow and pulled him close. “Dorman, I need Rachel Sooter’s address. If you give it to me, you wouldn’t need to go to your shitty job. I might even be able to put in a request for a shift change?”

“I’ve never heard that name before in my life . . . and I like where I work, and when I work.”

Neck, let go of Dorman, and stuck his hands on his hips. His chest ballooned up. It reminded Dorman of the Zeppelin from history books.  

Firestarter. Highly explosive. Deadly.

“Listen . . .” Neck placed a hand on Dorman’s collarbone, and he sank under John’s hand. “I need her address.”

Dorman straightened. “And I’ve told you, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Fine,” Neck said as he slapped Dorman on the back. He walked backward down the checkered sidewalk. “If you can’t help me, you can’t help me.” Neck shrugged. “But if you’re lying to me, I’ll find out.”

John Neck was far enough away that Dorman could only make out the shine of his eyes and the outline of his build. “I’m not lying.”

John snapped his fingers. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about!”

***

Dorman stood over his desk and pressed the button on his phone. “Marcus, send in Rachel Sooter.”

“Yes, right away, Dr. Knott.”

The door opened, and Rachel stood in the doorway and dabbed a tissue to her nose. “Rachel, please, come in . . .” Dr. Knott walked across the room and ushered Rachel to the couch. Marcus closed his door.

“Dr. Knott . . . I can’t do this anymore. I’ve never been happy—and now with my report—” Dr. Knott slid into his chair and opened his book. “The head of the Committee said I should never have been put in charge of the research because I was biased . . .”

“Do you believe that?”

“A little.” Her voice quivered.

“But the Twilight Economic Development Committee funded your research.” Dr. Knott flipped back a couple of pages in his book. “You told me that your findings’ showed depression was higher with the cohort that worked at night and with the children who attended school in the evening and early morning hours . . .” he turned a couple of pages forward, “and costs of policing had tripled with more accidents, robberies, and petty thefts . . . and an outreach report showed homelessness on the rise.” Dr. Knott reclined in his chair. “I know those weren’t the results the Committee wanted. But the data was pulled from other sources. So, tell me, how your work is biased?”

“Because of me . . . I must have somehow skewed the results.”

“You told me the junior researchers conducted the interviews when required. The other data, you stated, was gathered from pre-existing hospital, police, and outreach worker reports.”

“The head of the Committee said I had acknowledged at the start of the report that I struggled with living and working at night. So, right there—it proves the report is flawed.”

Dr. Knott shifted in his chair. “Yes, but you’re supposed to reveal any pre-existing biases when you write a report. We all have them.”

“I know. But Rutherford Little said our numbers were too small, and I deliberately hunted for data that showed the day/night split economy was too costly to maintain. He said I dismissed any evidence that showed the model was profitable for the city.”

Dr. Knott clicked his pen. “Again, you told me much of the data was gathered from hospital and police reports. Also, you said junior researchers gathered data from businesses, and the information was submitted anonymously—from my perspective, you did everything you could to ensure the integrity of the data.”

“Yes, but . . .” Dr. Knott stared at Rachel, his pen poised to add to his notebook. Rachel cleared her throat. “They won’t release it to the public.”

“They spent several million dollars on it. The public will demand something for money spent at taxpayers’ expense.”

“They said they’ll claim the report was never finished.”

“Is the report finished?”

“Yes! One hundred percent! Sorry, but I hate being accused of not completing a project.”

“Let’s say the report is flawed . . .” Rachel’s eyes widened. Dr. Knott lifted his hand and shook his head, “I’m not saying it is. But I think the report needs to be released and the findings shared with the public. Let the people decide. And that way, more studies can be done, if needed.”

“There’s been a reporter who contacted me about it—they wanted to know the status. I didn’t tell them anything.”

“Rutherford Little—who is he?”

“He’s the head of the Committee.”

“So, maybe let a few other members of the Committee know the report is done.”

“Shouldn’t I give the report to Rutherford Little to distribute?”

“He didn’t pay for it out of his own pocket. Taxpayers did.”

Rachel nodded. “Dr. Knott?” She glanced up. “I never asked you, but between the two of us, what do you think of the split economy?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is you and your well-being. And you don’t strike me as someone who would set out to fabricate report findings—under any circumstances.”

“No, of course not. I stated my biases in the opening remarks. Then, I outlined the testing methods used to compensate for biases—both my own and those of my team. I brought in researchers who struggle with the evening shift. And those who enjoy the late and early morning hours. Both types of researchers reviewed the data. I tried to be transparent.”

Dr. Knott sat in his chair—still.

“Is there something the matter?”

“No, of course not.” He checked his watch. “It looks like our time’s up.” He sighed. “So, I’ll see you next week?”

Rachel stood up and clasped her purse and coat. “Dr. Knott, are you okay? You look a little pale?”

Dr. Knott glanced at his leather couch, his lamps with the yellow light that glowed in the room. Books were stacked on shelves, lightly coated with dust. “Rachel, how many people do you have on your team?”

“About twenty? Why?”

“I had a man approach me tonight. He knew your name and wanted your address. He threatened me . . .”

Rachel covered her mouth. “Am I at risk?”

“I don’t know—I hope not. He didn’t get your name or any information from me. But tonight, when you mentioned Rutherford Little saw the report and how he’s trying to bury it—I had thought the whole Committee saw it—well, it occurred to me the man I’ve spoken with, and Little may be connected.” Dr. Knott tapped his pen on his notebook. “Given that you’ve been working with the same team over the last few years, it seems unlikely any of them are responsible for sending the man my way.”  

“How do you know the man you saw tonight?”

“A friend from school. I’ve said a quick ‘Hello’ when I’ve seen him around over the years. But that’s been about it. Until tonight . . .” Dorman ran his fingers through his thin hair. “I suggest you send it to the other Committee members as soon as possible. I wan to notify the police, if it’s okay? I would need to give them your information.”

“Yes, that’s fine.” Rachel’s lower lip trembled. “I’ve placed you in danger.”

Dr. Knott stood and clutched his notebook to his chest. “Our conversations are not the most dangerous ones I’ve had.” He walked over and rested his hand on the doorknob. “And it’s ridiculous. They’re going after you when someone else could have pulled the same numbers. And for what? Is it easier to recruit criminals with more people out at night? Does Rutherford Little have stock in light bulbs?” Rachel smiled. “I’ll call the police and ensure they have the details of the man who made the threats. You need to distribute your findings to the other committee members tonight. Once it’s out there, there’s not much anyone can do about it.”

“I’ll send it tonight. And also, to the Reporter . . .”

“Good. And please, make sure you’re not alone after work.”

***

The sun broke at the horizon as Dorman closed his office door, turned the key, and locked it. He glanced at Marcus’ empty desk and the dimly lit pot lights that cast light on the empty chairs in the waiting room. Dr. Knott craned his neck and caught some shadow on a wall. “Hello?” He shook his head and rubbed his face. “My mind’s playing tricks on me.”

He opened the door to the stairs, stepped down one step, and then another. When he rounded the corner, he looked at the number on the door—only six flights to go, and he would cross the road to the parking lot, and he’d be in his car, and then it was a short drive home. 

He clutched his briefcase in one hand as his coat hugged his knees with each step. There were five flights to go. Dorman quickened his pace, his heart thudded, and his breath became laboured. He was almost there. One more flight and he—

“Hello, Dorman,” John Neck said. He leaned against the door with the red exit sign above. “I told you not to lie to me, didn’t I?”

Dorman wiped the sweat that trickled down his brow. “What are you talking about?” he said, annoyed.

“Rachel Sooter—I had a couple of my guys follow her to your office. But then we never saw her leave . . . we lost her.”

Dorman doesn’t know how Marcus did it. The man’s a bit of an enigma and rarely talks about his military experience. Clearly, though, after he told Marcus to make sure Rachel left the building without being seen, he’d done it.

Dorman sighed. “You can’t stop the report from being released. You know that. It was a publicly funded report.”

John’s lips curled into a sneer. “I don’t understand it. When we were kids, we loved going to school at night and running free after class. Why the hell would you want the report to be released? The night economy is good for your business, isn’t it?”

“Business isn’t bad. But it’s not just about me. It’s about how the city is doing overall . . .”

“You’re going to make me do something I don’t want to do.”

“Do what you must.”

Neck poked Dorman in the chest. “You’re an idiot!” He spun around and shoved Dorman. He swayed. John stretched out his hands. “Why?”

Dorman laughed, quietly. “The data is out there. It’s everywhere. We know this experiment hasn’t worked. We’ve known it for years. Anyone paying attention and reading the papers knows it’s failed.”

Dorman saw the calloused, thick hand form a fist, and then it came down hard across his jaw and knocked him to the ground. Somehow, he still clutched his briefcase. So, when the Zeppelin’s foot was up and aimed at his head, he lifted his case, swung it hard, and Neck fell backward against the wall and slumped to the floor.  

Neck wiped the trickle of blood that dripped along the side of his ear. “You fucker!” he roared.

“Huh?” Dorman lifted the brown case and stared at it. John grunted. “Shit!” Dorman hissed. He scrambled to his feet, swung the door open, and raced into the hallway. Dorman’s heart pounded as bullets punched through walls, ricocheted off the copier, and a glass window shattered. Then, silence was everywhere except for the clicking of bullets that Neck reloaded into his gun. Dorman tried to move his feet, but for some reason, they wouldn’t budge. It was as if he’d fallen into quicksand, and he was anchored to this bullet-holed, riddled brown building. The gun was raised again at him. “Fight or flight,” he whispered and shook his head. He threw the door open as a bang rang out, and a bullet punctured the door.

Dorman, on the street now, saw some pedestrians, wide-eyed and crouched close to the ground. Others, further away, stood still. Other people skittered away in a zig-zag as they looked over their shoulders.    

A woman, hands over her head and face contorted, asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Dorman hurried down the sidewalk and to the parking lot across the road.

“Dorman, it’s time to go to sleep . . .” Neck shouted. John’s gun was aimed at him. Someone screamed. Other people scattered nearby, like orange-red leaves in the fall after the wind has blown them from a tree.

Dorman raised his chin. His normally slumped forward shoulders straightened. “Do what you must.” He watched Neck as he pulled back the trigger—

It was another scream Dorman heard first. John turned his attention from Dorman, and a garbage can lid banged against the Zeppelin’s head. Neck collapsed to the ground and shook his head. Marcus, in a plaid t-shirt and a toque, pushed Neck into the sidewalk and held him down. Rachel stood close to the wall of a nearby building out of view. Several other people piled onto the Zeppelin’s hands and legs.   

“Get off of me!” Neck roared.

“Shut up!” Dorman shouted. He held John’s gun now and pointed it at his old school friend. Sirens sounded. Red lights flashed from cruisers.

“You wouldn’t?”

“Under the right circumstances, anyone would. Now, stay down.”

Ruins

A raven sits on top

the crumbling stone

 and as I pass, I wonder,

was the hearth beneath?

Built two centuries back, it’s tucked in with pine trees, wild rosebushes, and weeds. Only half of the roof remains, the inside houses dandelions, field mice, ants, and a sapling. Who was there? What did they do? How did it happen the house fell into ruins? When the steps began to creak, and the joints swayed with the wind, or a thunderous clap brought with it a northeasterly breeze that blew the roof off where there was no need for a chimney sweep—did they walk away and leave the house to decay? But that’s tragic and may not have been the case. There may have been another choice I sometimes forget—maybe they stayed? Windows gone and exposed, hope crumbles, and yet—the foundation holds.

When Heroes Die

He strolled with a scar on his 
chest and a shine in his eyes 
and kept his sword close
as foes followed nearby.    

Blue-bruised skin told the tale
of treachery. Still, he laughed 
a laugh to convince passersby 
he was supremely fine. 

He rebuilt fences, 
and defended the defenseless 
who lived under the crush 
of gold-lined fingers. 

His pace slowed and his hand 
held the helm of his weapon.  
But he rubbed his knuckles
when the fight was at an end. 

Air swept up his capri blue cape, 
and it swirled as he sat on his steed.
He was worn yet
stood by his solemn oath.  

It happened the way it does . . . 
a spirit dragon called his name. 
And he answered—
and the light went out again.

FIFTEEN YEARS

No card, call, on my birthday. No, From Us, To Him labels on gold wrapped paper that cover boxes. At night, dizzying lights spin like a mirror ball against snow bloated trees and pin hole stars. No world events—did you hear what’s happened? What about that? Solar and wind and electric cars? How do they run?

Yes, time had passed, and I babbled on about you. Then, no, no—

In a chair, I tell your story, the clouds of smoke, you’re fourty-plus year habit. It crept up like a hand over a crypt that poked me in the eye and made my cheek twitch. It’s been fifteen years—what the hell is the matter? I blink the tears, take a breath, and straighten in my chair. No, no, yes, I’m fine. Yes, yes, I’m fine . . . this is the rhythm of time . . .

The Bachelor’s House

Just in time for Halloween, a little witch and ghost story…

***

I place a hand on the stone, and I see snow on the roof while a girl with a bow in her hair runs on the hardwood floor. In the dining room, a family is gathered at a set table with candles, and there’s the scent of oregano, roast beef, potatoes, and fresh bread everywhere.

Imagination is a beautiful thing, filling up a cold house with warm memories that may never have been. 

Turning the handle, the door creaks, and I peer inside. A fireplace from a nearby room sheds some light into the hallway. Yellow-stained curtains are hung, and there are light switches, a coat hook, and nothing else. There’s warmth, but it escapes through the open door. So, I close the door.   

“Elizabeth,” Helen says in a red dress with a two-foot train—the same one she wore last time I was here. The fire in the hearth hisses as she passes, and dampness drips from somewhere. Helen leans in, touches my elbows, and kisses me on the cheek. “Are you ready to start?”

“Yes,” I say, hanging my coat and purse on the coat hook. Before I leave, I remember I need my hard hat and dig into my handbag to find it. Helen places a hand on my elbow as we walk through the hallway. I look up the stairs and into several rooms and ask, “Where’s Paul?”

“I’m here,” he says, leaning against a doorway. Paul wears brown trousers and a white shirt. His thumbs are hooked under his suspenders.

“I will wait here,” Helen says.

I nod. “Are you still coming with me?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, straightening.     

I turn the knob on the door to the basement. There’s no railing, so I place my hand along the brick to guide me and carefully take a step down the stairs. Paul’s cool breath is in the back of my neck and stays there until I reach the bottom step. 

***

Tucking my hair under my hat, I flip the switch on. Light spreads out, and a rat runs across my boots and squeezes into a hole.

I stare at the beams with webs where spiders cling to them and touch one spider called Eve, who apologizes that she wasn’t here the last time I visited. Eve tells me about dishes that were thrown, a child who couldn’t sleep without a light on, and how a waiter ran out of the house one night and never returned. Eve’s eight legs tap the beam, and she says, “The man who built this house, he drank gin nearly every night. Poor thing, he was in love. But he never told anyone. Not even his best friend . . .”

I see. 

Paul slouches nearby and looks around, bored. Ghosts can’t speak Spider, thank goodness. 

I nod to Eve, and she returns to her artwork. “Where are you?” I say. My fingers fumble over the switch on my hat, and it clicks.

“You still can’t see them?”

“Like I told you the last time—I’m a witch exorcist, not a clairvoyant.” Paul shakes his head. “Hey, you’re a ghost that can’t get rid of a ghost.” Paul doesn’t say anything.

Annoyed, I take the cap off and move the knob to another setting. Sure, it’s great that I can see in the dark. But I need to see everything.

I flick the switch with my finger and shake my head. Witches aren’t allowed to use their magic to pay for their day-to-day living expenses. It’s part of the rules. So, I’ve got a nine-to-five job to pay for rent and such, but I have to work these jobs to pay for Mom and Dad’s costs in Trolls Thumping Residence.

“What?” Paul asks.

“Nothing,” I whisper. The knob clicks. “Ha! Now we’re in business!” I cheer. I place the hat on my head and tighten the chin strap. And now I see everything.

***

Stepping forward, five large snake-lizards are wrapped around the beams.

Paul leans forward, bumping into me. His hand slips through my back and comes out of my stomach.

“Gross,” I say. Some ghosts are good at making themselves flesh-like. Paul is not.  

Weaving through the room, the snake-lizards hiss as we pass by them. I’ve seen these creatures before—they belong to light and shadow and can kill the flesh and devour souls. I suspect Paul might know this, too, based on his raspy breathing.

There’s a flash. I scan the room, looking around the snakes-lizards and the—

“Oh no,” I hiss. Air rushes around as I fly up, hit the wall, slide down, and fall to the dirt floor. “Ow,” I mutter. 

Paul shakes and looks around. Then running toward me, he stumbles. Paul hits the ground, and a snake-lizard unravels itself from a beam like lightning strikes and hisses. It snaps when it’s within reach of Paul. “No,” Paul says. The snake-lizard’s head rises, and Paul and the creature stare at each other.     

I’m eye to eye with a snake-lizard, too. “Did you get the memo? I’m a witch exorcist. I can destroy you.”

The snake’s head bobs back. His black eyes blink. I’m sure I see his head tilt, and then, he vanishes.     

“Paul!” There are heels on the stairs, and a translucent red hem appears.

“Stay there!” I yell.

Helen crouches down and covers her mouth. “Oh, Paul!” she cries.

“I love you, Helen. I always will.” Paul’s voice is steady, and his eyes are misty. But he keeps both eyes on the snake-lizard.  

I smack my hands together, and bits of scales and leathery skin fly up and explode in the air and onto the dirt floor.

I’m not sorry about killing the four remaining snake-lizards. They heard what I said to the other one and knew Paul and I were traveling together. Paul drops his head to the floor. I raise one finger, Paul rises from the ground, and I place him beside Helen.

“Is the ghost gone?” Paul asks.

“No,” I say. “But I don’t think he’ll come out with both of you here. So, go upstairs and stay there.”

“How do you know?” Paul asks. 

“I got a message,” I say, pushing my hair back. “Besides, Paul, I don’t want you to get hurt. You and Helen couldn’t be together because of her hateful, controlling, abusive husband. Now, you can be. You’re only here because you think you should be. But those creatures could have taken your soul. And where would that leave Helen?” So there’s no doubt, I add, “I’ve got this.”

Helen and Paul glimpse down at me. Even though their ghosts, their eyes shine with some look of understanding. Nodding again, they turn and climb the stairs, and the door creaks closed.    

“Perfect,” a man with dark eyes says, holding a watch. “It’s Elizabeth?” he asks, snapping the timepiece closed and hooking it onto the vest of his suit.

“Yes—and you are?”

“Jeffrey Sackston the III’rd,” he says, bowing.

“You can probably drop the III’rd now.”

He spins his cane, grins, and says, “Yes, I suppose I can.”

“I thought it was you.”

“Most people did.”

“I thought you didn’t want anyone to live in your house.”

“Well, you were wrong,” he says.

“You scared the flesh.”

“Yes, unfortunate side-effect.”

“I’m to—”

“I know what you are to do, Elizabeth,” he says. His smile dips. Then he throws his cane up, catches it, and smiles brightly again. 

“You never wanted the house.”

“No.”

Looking up the stairs, I ask, “How long have Helen and Paul been here?”

Jeffrey’s eyes watch the stairs behind me. 

“You did it because of Paul and Helen?”

“Yes,” he says. “Paul’s insecurities about how he wished he had protected Helen better in life, plagued him in the afterlife, too. Certainly, their murders at the hands of Helen’s husband didn’t help,” he says, sighing. I had hoped it would be something Paul could overcome. I guess he did, somewhat. Still, Helen knows he’s not perfect, and she loves him just the same. Thanks to you, Paul knows that too, now.”

“You could have asked for help.”

“I did not have your number,” Jeffrey says, winking. “Besides, if anyone else knew, there was a risk it would be repeated to Paul, and my old friend would be embarrassed.” 

“You’re the bachelor who wanted ghosts to have love in the afterlife?”

“Don’t tell too many people. I wouldn’t want them to think Jeffrey Sackeston the third was a softy!” He smiles and leans into his cane. 

“How did you make yourself invisible to them?”

“I’m very good at hiding.”

I roll my eyes. “How did you get those creatures to cooperate without them taking your soul?”

“Ghost secrets,” Jeffrey says, arching an eyebrow. There’s something in his smile or his eyes, and it reminds me of a saying that I’d heard when I was young—

Ghosts who want something can ask the snake-lizards a favor. But they must trade their souls—and a willing soul is more delicious than one taken!

“No!”

There’s a snap—a snap from fangs that bite into skin and a mouth that can inhale wisps of air that are phantoms. 

It’s also the snap from my fingers. And the snake-lizard I allowed to leave is gone. Permanently. Well, except for the dust.

Meow?

I stare down at the yellow-eyed orange furball. “Jeffrey . . .” I say, “you almost died a second time.” I shake my head and gather him up in my arms. “You’ll live this life as a cat as this form protects you from those scavengers. And also, that way, no one can say I never did my job. It will be our secret,” I whisper, stroking his fur. “And maybe in your next life, you’ll come back and can find love, too.” I climb the stairs, cradling Jeffrey, and add, “Now, I need to get paid.”

End of the line

Grey-toned skin with shadows that hang around her colorless smoky eyes stare at me, dark dots like black pearls. Mouth slightly open, joy glistens from the curve in her cheek, the round of her mouth, the glow in her hair. Optimism seeps from the woman’s face.

Who is she?

A black beret sits tilted on top of her head. Was the beret a rebellious attempt on her part? And if it was, were there other photos where she held a Lucky Strike between two fingers while she reclined back in the booth at a speakeasy with her friends?

My wrist twists. I’m hunting the haunting as I search for a name, a date, or a place written on the back of the yellow-stained paper. Leaning in, I squint at the scribble, trying to make out the smudged words on the back. “Unreadable,” I say to no one. 

Rubbing a hand over the letters, I say to the woman, “Tell me who you are, and how your photo ended up here, under my foot at the dump?” Scanning the hill of garbage, I see a crushed gift card box nearby. I bend forward, pick it up, and slide the photo into it.

I walk away from the mountain of black bags with rotting food, worn-out clothes, twisted blinds, and other household cast-offs and settle on a spot with weeds nearby. Pulling my gloves on, I get down on my knees, dig my fingers into the dirt and lift it over, and over, and over again until I’ve dug a hole just big enough.

I place the gift card holder into the hole. Closing my eyes, I remember the woman’s face. “I’m sorry,” I say. “This is the best I can do—,” as I throw dirt on top of the cardboard coffin.