You call them emotions, feelings, disorders.

I know them by other names.

That which you call anxiety, I call Nina Lowery. Died at age 27. Overdose.

I see her hovering over your shoulder as you study, biting your nails one by one, as if you think it will relieve the strain. You think it’s just a feeling. I know better.

Only I can see them.

I can see Nina whispering in your ear as you work, telling you your efforts will be for nothing. Telling you despite all your preparations and hard work, you will fail your test anyway. Telling you that you will amount to nothing.

She knows this feeling better than anyone. At age 27, she couldn’t handle it anymore. She took a pill. Now her shadowy form sits over your shoulder, waiting.

Across the library, I am nearly invisible in a shadow of my own. I nock an arrow on my bow and shoot. My aim is true, and Nina comes apart at the seams, dispelled. A visible weight is lifted off your shoulders as you study harder than ever before.

I see you next on the street, head down, scurrying along the edge of the sidewalk. A sketchbook is clutched to your chest as you breathe heavily, bangs askew. Earbuds tucked into the front of your ears, you have no care in the world at first glance.

I take a closer look and am able to make out a figure behind you, moving as you do. Every step you take, he takes. Every person you dodge, he dodges.

I recognize this one. He has gotten away from me before, back when I was new to this ordeal. A whole page in my notebook is dedicated to him. Simon Andrews. 58 years old at the time of death. Cause of death- drowning.

You call it depression, I call it Simon. Those waves of sadness that crash over you are the same ones that took Simon down in the end.

I let another arrow fly. He can’t get away from me this time, not when he has latched onto you so heavily. The arrow passes harmlessly through the humans surrounding you, finding a target exactly where I intended it to. Another one down. You will breathe free another day.

Coffee shops are the worst. The figures like to hang out in the corners, waiting for unsuspecting twenty-somethings to come in alone, insecure enough already. Then they strike.

I see one latch onto you from behind. Your eyes grow wide as you panic, looking around with a suspicious glare. Everyone sitting in the shop is surely stalking you.

Paranoia. Also known as Trinity Gibson. When she died, she was 35. A schizophrenic woman, she spent her life thinking that she was being followed- made so many false alarm calls to the police, they didn’t take her seriously the only time it mattered. She was mugged in Central Park after trying to report suspicious activity.

It hurts me to see you this way. An arrow through the heart takes care of Trinity. I wish her peace as I push open the door to leave, the cafe bell dinging behind me.

These cases are tricky. The same troubles that plagued these people in life prompt them to spend her time in death passing it onto others, making them feel the same way.

It happens sometimes when they die. They become a reincarnation of the things that held them back in life and pass those onto others, the evil left of their soul hoping the same fate befalls you.

My job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.

I’ve never had trouble with the ethical aspect. Besides, I am the only person left to carry out this job. No one knows about what I do besides me, meaning that I have the whole world to take care of.

It’s a tough task. Sometimes it pains me to see the people who struggled in life struggling in death. Sometimes it pains me to loose the arrow and hope it finds its target, closing my eyes as it does so. Sometimes it weighs down on my shoulders as I see the people I wasn’t able to save as shadowy figures, taking the place of the one that finally pushed them over the edge.

All these people want are to move on, but it’s a life for a life. If they get someone to die, the newly dead takes their place. One death on their count promotes them to the other side. They’ll do anything to get there.

But if I get them, it’s game over. They’re just... gone.

It doesn’t usually bother me. They don’t ever speak to me, don’t do much more than whisper in your ear, their voice sounding like crumpling parchment. Aged. They don’t have faces, just swirling darkness where their features would be. Somehow I know who they are.

I’ve been preparing for this since I was born in the rift between the worlds. The Spirit Gate, the pathway between the realm of the living and the dead. I was meant to do this job. It’s up to me to preserve the peace, to protect those who cannot do it themselves.

This is my job. This is my life. Without me, the dead would reign. The Spirit Gate would be ripped open and chaos would ensue. I keep order. I am the only thing preventing an inevitable death for everyone.

I can kill them all in time.

Except the one that haunts me.

Rule #1: They’re always watching.

No matter where you go, no matter where you are, no matter who you are, they’re watching. The eyes watch you from every crevice, every street corner. You can feel them sometimes if you concentrate, feel that prickle down your spine as unseen eyes gaze upon you. Just know they’re always watching. You can’t get away.

.........................................................................................................................................

I’ve seen them as long as I can remember.

My earliest memory is of them.

In it, I’m just a toddler, sitting in my crib.

My mobile spins above me absentmindedly, distracting me as I wait for my mother to come and pick me up.

She doesn’t arrive.

Instead, a shadowy figure looms over the edge of my crib, watching me with glowing yellow eyes.

Swirling smoke takes the place of the rest of its features.

I should have cried.

I should have screamed for my mother.

I should have hidden under my blankets, trembling with fear as it closed in.

Instead, I laugh.

The creature steps back startled, and fades away.

I take this in with infantile curiosity, a smile lingering on my face.

I’m still smiling when my father comes, tears in his eyes.

They got my mother.

I didn’t know any different.

I look up at my father, wiping a tear from his face with a pudgy finger, and laugh.

The icy breeze nips at my nose as I walk, my cheeks rosy against the cold. I can see my breath in front of me, hanging suspended in the morning light. If I were to sit completely still, I would be able to feel the moisture in the air crystallize over my entire body, freezing me slowly from the outside in.

I’ve seen it too many times before. One this week, actually. Brenda Stonesmith, 46. She was watching her neighbor’s kids when one of them wandered off into the woods. She went after him.

She found him. Curled up around him to keep him warm. By the time they brought in the dogs, he was still alive. She wasn’t.

Her heroic actions promoted her instantly to the afterlife of her choice. She chose to be reincarnated. Ironically enough, she was reborn yesterday as a German Shepherd puppy. The owners hope that someday, he’ll make a good search-and-rescue dog. Hopefully he’ll be able to keep others from befalling the same fate.

It’s funny how karma works. What goes around really does come around.

I look over my shoulder, making sure no one is watching me, even though I know the streets are bare, but I’m also looking out for those shadowy figures that follow me

wherever I go.

The sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon, greeting me hello as I turn into the alleyway. There’s a large green dumpster pushed against the back wall. According to my data, I should be in the right place.

My notebook is clutched tight to my chest. I swing my backpack off my shoulders and tuck my notebook in tight among the scattered school papers, taking care not to let any of the loose sheets of paper fall out. Placing my backpack in a safe spot against the wall,

out of view from any who might walk by, I hoist myself into the dumpster.

My feet sink into what seems like miles of banana peels and ripped trash bags, torn to

pieces by frantic alleycats searching for their next meal. Suddenly I’m glad I decided not

to wear my converse today.

I fall to my knees among the rubbish, ignoring how the trash juice seeps through the

knees of my jeans. They’ll wash. I have a job to do.

My hands move of their own accord, searching for the right little pocket in the

universe. They find it- a fold in the fabric of reality, and begin to peel it back.

I’ve often searched for a metaphor to describe opening the Spirit Gate, but I can’t find

one that suits it well enough. The closest thing I can think of is somewhere in the middle

of peeling old wallpaper off and opening a zipper that holds together this world. It’s quite

the experience.

It’s very fitting that the portal to the DownSide would be currently residing inside of a

dumpster. It’s like they want me to quit.

I sigh, peeling back the extra space until the hole is big enough for me to maneuver my

body through. I hold on to the edge of the world and slip inside, then let go.

My feet hit the ground and stay planted there as my head spins. I wait until I catch my

breath and look up at the tunnel.

On the side behind me lies the door back to the UpSide, a solid oak door. Nothing

fancy. Some one hundred paces from me is the door to the DownSide, which is

constructed from bleached bone and shards of souls, glimmering with their rainbow of

colors- exactly what you’d expect from the world of the spirits.

I take a minute to look at the names that scroll past on the walls of the tunnel- the

names of those who have registered as dead in the last twenty-four hours. I see a few

famous names, mostly older actors and such, but thankfully, I don’t see anyone I know.

Moving on, I walk down the tunnel, steeling myself for what I might find when I open

the door. I place my hand on the doorknob, noting how warm it feels underneath my

palm. Never a good sign.

I crack it open and peek my head around, blinking as the white light floods into my

retinas.

“Ellis!”

I’m greeted with the familiar chorus as I step through the door, wiping my feet on the

entry mat. They don’t want souls tracked through the room- I can tell you from

experience that they take forever to get out of those white floors.

I nod a greeting to the orderlies flitting around the room as I make my way over to

Moira, who’s sitting behind the receptionist’s desk as usual, chewing a large piece of gum with her mouth wide open. She blows a giant bubble and pops it in my face as I lean against the counter.

I roll my eyes and pick a piece of gum out of my eyebrow. Her face says it all. There are dark bags hanging underneath her eyes, and her auburn hair is disheveled.

I sigh. “Rough time?”

She nods listlessly, propping her elbows up on the desktop. In her thick Irish accent,

she mumbles, “It hasn’t stopped, Ellis. All day.”

“I’m sorry.” I watch her for a minute more as a blinking light goes off on her phone.

She hits the answer button and holds up a finger for me to stay quiet for a minute.

I turn my attention to the room and the people sitting in it. It’s no wonder why this

place is called the Waiting Room- everything is white and screams ‘sterile’. Low ceilings

hang with fluorescent lights, and small chairs line the perimeter of the room, some of

them with dejected people in them.

Despite the nurses flitting around from person to person, asking them if they need

anything, and the occasional sniffles of a young woman in the corner, it’s quiet. A fish

tank bubbles in the back of the room, but all the fish died long ago. Figures.

A nurse emerges from the doorway in the middle of the room, clipboard in hand.

“Meredith Calper?”

With the assistance of the old man sitting next to her, an equally ancient woman stands

shakily. With nervous eyes, she glances back to the man.

The nurse sees this interaction. “Is this your husband, Meredith?” I lean in, curious

about their cause of death. We don’t usually get couples unless they died in some sort of

accident.

She nods, fighting to hold back the tears. “Are we dead?”

The nurse exhales, ready to launch into the usual spiel. “Yes. But we’ll take great care of

you. Come back with me and we’ll get this figured out, okay?” She looks at the man.

“Your husband can come too. I’m assuming you want to stay together?”

The husband takes Meredith’s hand in his own, veins sticking out and knobbly fingers

intertwined. They look perfect together, whole- even in death.

They nod as one.

The nurse gestures the two of them through the door. I hear her explaining to them

what is about to happen, that they are about to go to their Appointment. If they are both

judged to be worthy, they will move on to the Afterlife of their choice, depending on

their religion and beliefs.

If you believe in some sort of heaven, that’s where you’ll go. You deserve it after going

through life.

If you want to be reincarnated, go ahead. There’s really no choices on that one, though.

It’s more a lottery of sorts. I feel bad for the poor souls who get stuck as animals with

short lifespans. Then they’re back here all over again, but in the Vet’s Office this time. It’s

a never-ending cycle of life, death, and rebirth. It really is a beautiful thing.

For those who don’t believe in any afterlife at all, they simply fade away into

nothingness. It doesn’t hurt- in fact, I’ve heard it’s peaceful.

Those who chose to move on somewhere have the chance to reunite with the people

and animals they’ve lost, and eventually if they get tired of the afterlife, they too can fade

away. It’s a choice everyone makes at some point or another.

It’s all a circle, feeding into itself over and over and over again. It never stops; never

ceases for anyone or anything. It goes beyond us.

We’re just here to help it along.

Moira hangs up the phone, a scowl on her face, and I’m reminded of the reason she’s

here in the first place. The people who work in the DownSide were souls who have passed

on, but they don’t belong in either the positive or negative versions of their Afterlife.

Some religions call it Purgatory, but I can’t say I agree. This is more… eternal customer

service. Eventually, if they do enough work, they’ll get promoted and be able to move on.

Either way, on days like these, I can really see why Moira won’t be getting to move on

anytime soon. Her temper is a force to be reckoned with. I feel like I can see the fire

licking off her bright red curls as she glares into space.

“Moira,” I start softly, not wanting to anger her further. “Can I help in any way?”

She snorts. “Not unless you can file all these papers, check all these people in, and tell

the loudmouth in the corner to stop crying.”

I give her a stern look, but she’s loud enough that the woman hears her. She bursts into

tears all over again and drops her head into her hands.

I push back from the counter and go over to the woman, crouching in front of her. She

can’t be much older than me, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, with youthful eyes. A

bundle sits in her lap, cradled close to her chest.

I move to sit in the chair next to her, and see that within the blankets is a small infant,

sleeping soundly. Newborn, from the looks of her.

I don’t even need to ask to know, it just comes into my head. Allie McCoy, 23. Died of

a miscarriage gone wrong.

She looks down upon her baby’s peaceful face, tears dripping down onto the blankets.

All I can do is offer a shoulder for her to cry upon. Sometimes that’s all people need.

We don’t usually tell people that they’re dead until they get into the Appointment, but

they know. Despite this room being the closest part of the DownSide to what they’ve

previously known, they know.

What seems like hours pass without movement, but I know time is skewed here. By the

time I leave, no time will have passed back in the UpSide.

Finally, an orderly appears and calls Allie’s name. She stands, still holding her unnamed

baby to her chest. I pull her into a hug before she leaves, feeling her tears soak into my

shirt. But I don’t care.

This job isn’t all guts and glory. It’s not all killing demons and saving people. It’s also

comforting people, sitting with people as they grieve for themselves and the life they’ve

lost. It’s a balance, two equal sides of the scale.

Life and Death.

Rule #2: They’re fast.

However fast you can run, they can run faster. You have to be clever. You have to be sly. You have to be aware. Most importantly, you have to stay out of their way.

.........................................................................................................................................

I’ve felt it all.

The rush of your breath as you feel theirs tickle the hairs on the back of your neck.

The thumping of your heart covering up the sound of their footsteps.

The sweat mixing with the blood.

It’s all just a game in the end.

A game that if you dare to play, you will lose.

So do not run.

Do not hide.

Stand your ground and fight.

My mom tried to run.

I was told she didn’t get very far.

My dad said that despite all the training she went through to prepare for this, despite all the years she already had under her belt, something changed.

She ran.

They were on to her faster than vultures on a newly dead carcass.

And that’s what she became.

Newly dead.

The flow of people is slowing down. It’s almost night here, but death doesn’t stop for anyone. All we can do is hope that it’ll take a short break.

I put my hand down heavy on the front desk, taking Moira’s attention from the large panel of wireless computer screens in front of her as she fills out online paperwork. I’ve been told that the DownSide’s technology reflects that on the UpSide, and evolves as things on the UpSide advance. The Waiting Room even has their own Wi-Fi network, but they still refuse to tell me the password. From the way the nurses giggle when I press the subject, I’m guessing it’s something questionable.

Moira looks up at me, her eyes bloodshot and hair askew. Her mascara is beginning to crumble and stick to the skin around her eyes as she stares blankly. “What do you need?”

I show her my watch, its leather buckle clasped tight around my wrist. It’s one of two- one shows the time in the DownSide, and the other back home. The UpSide watch is frozen at 7:19 A.M., but the running watch is nearing 9 P.M. “I gotta go. I have class in an hour- the asshole classmate one.”

She squints at the hands on my watch as if she doesn’t believe me, but sighs. “I thought it was Saturday there.”

I shake my head, already stepping towards the exit. “Nope, I wish. It’s Thursday.”

I’m gone before she responds, the door squeaking behind me, sounding uncomfortably like the groan of a soul in eternal punishment. I wish I didn’t know what that sounded like.

I toss my keys down into the dish by the door of the apartment and head straight for my room, quickly slipping on a more comfortable outfit, discarding my black dress clothes onto the floor near my bed.

I didn’t believe at first that the other side would have a dress code, nevertheless one that made us all resemble the Grim Reaper, and I made the mistake of showing up in casual dress on my first day. I never knew that the enraged spirit of an Irishwoman could be so menacing, but as she loomed over me with all five foot four of her, I knew that she would be quite the piece of work. Six years later, she hasn’t gotten any calmer, just a bit easier to deal with.

It seems like it’s been so long since I was a scared three-year-old having my father hold my hand in his, showing me how to feel the air for the edges of the Spirit Gate. I remember how I should have been watching for shimmers, ripples, anything. Instead I just looked up at him with admiration in my wide eyes. It’s hard to believe it was almost eighteen years ago.

I wish he was here now to see how far I’ve come. Him and my mom, both.

My seat is warm already when I sit down for my 8:30 AM Psych lecture, and I inadvertently make a face. I cast a glance over my shoulder, surveying the room for those dark figures that are sure to be hanging around. As expected, one sits in the seat next to a girl at the corner table, who is furiously staring at her notes, as if she’s trying to absorb the information through osmosis.

Arnold Baker. 75 at time of death. Natural causes.

I frown, wondering why he might still be left behind. Usually the cause of death gives some sort of clue, but I’m coming up with nothing. Either way, he needs to be taken care of.

I slip the knife out of my pocket and up my sleeve as I make my way to the pencil sharpener on the wall near her. Casually, the pencil falls out of my hands and rolls across the floor to the seat where the figure sits, but he has his back to me. The knife finds its way in between where his ribs would be and he fades away, leaving the girl staring at me.

I wave shyly and pick my pencil off the ground, scurrying to the sharpener. I grind it to a stump as I picture the look in the girl’s eyes- as if a weight had been taken away from her abruptly.

Returning to my seat, I wonder when the last time I killed one from that close was. Usually I would pull out my bow, but it’s hidden deep within my backpack, and I really don’t think that’s a good choice within a school.

People have a way of seeing what they want to see, though. In the same way that they can’t see the demons, they don’t ever seem to notice my weapons. Either way, I don’t like to take the chance. One wrong sighting and I’m in jail for armed assault.

I stare at the clock on the wall as I wait for the lecture to start, minutes ticking by before a boy slumps into the room. His hair is casually messy, a hoodie pulled over his head. He nods to three or four guys as he makes his way over to the table, throwing his backpack onto the floor next to us and practically falling into the chair.

Rowan Murphy. Class A Idiot and my seat partner, everyone. He’ll be here all week. Unfortunately.

He nods to me, pulling the hood off with one hand. The other roots around in his bag until he pulls out a half-eaten pencil. I ignore him and keep watching the clock. 8:35… 8:36…

At 8:39, Professor Evans finally walks into class, his balding head ruddy and flushed from the cold. He begins to talk in a scratchy voice before he even finishes unwrapping the scarf from around his mouth.

“Today we’ll be going over Sigmund Freud’s Parts of the Personality…”

I sigh. I’ve seen all types of personalities at work, from Moira’s hot-headed temper to Ginger, a nurse, who can’t go a sentence without calling someone honey. Nevertheless, I pull out my class notes and begin to write.

We don’t even get five minutes in before Rowan nudges with me with his shoulder. “Could you scoot the paper over?” He whispers out of the corner of his mouth, a slightly apologetic tone in his voice.

I shake my head, still taking notes. I hear him sigh next to me and scoot his chair over until we’re shoulder to shoulder. I scoot my chair farther in the opposite direction.

“I can’t understand him!” He complains lightly. “His voice is too gravelly.”

“Well, I can’t help you with that,” I shoot back. “Get your hearing checked.”

Apparently, I say this too loudly, as I manage to catch the professor’s attention even across the room. He looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Mr. Graves.”

I don’t say anything.

“Is there a problem?”

I still don’t say anything, instead shaking my head. An outbreak of snickers ripples across the room.

Professor Evans pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger and turns his attention back to the PowerPoint, but not before gazing pointedly at me, as if to say, “Make one more wrong move and you’re getting an F.”

Honestly, I’m not sure why I’m still in college. I have my career lined up for the rest of my life, or until I can’t anymore. I’m destined for a life running back between the UpSide and the DownSide. I’m not sure where exactly it comes from, but every month, an envelope shows up on my nightstand filled to the brim with gold coins. It’s a pain trying to trade them in, but the banker has gotten used to my antics by this point.

Either way, I’m set for life. However long it lasts. With the patterns in my family, I’ll be lucky if I get twenty more years.

The rest of the lecture passes without incident, but I can feel Rowan’s eyes staring holes into the side of my head the whole time. I stay facing forward.

As everyone is filing out of the room, Rowan stays in his seat. He clears his throat as if he wants to say something.

I turn sharply. “Yes?”

His cheeks heat up, an unusual look on him. This is the kid who is adored by many, but something about him just pisses me off. Maybe it’s the way he carries himself as if he expects people to bend to his will, like with the notes. That’s just one part of the unspoken routine of Psych. Soon I’ll be needing a personal psychiatrist if I keep having to put up with him.

“I’m sorry that I got you in trouble with Evans. I really just can’t understand him.”

I grumble deep in my throat, somewhere between shock and annoyance, and wave him off. “It’s fine.”

To others, this behavior is endearing. To me, it’s annoying beyond belief. I can’t explain it, but it’s the equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard. Maybe I’m turning into Moira.

With that lovely thought, I exit the classroom, but I pause. I can’t help but turn and watch Rowan through the window of the door. He stares at where I had been sitting for a moment longer, then picks up his bags and hoists them over his shoulder. I see him rub his eye for a minute. Is he… crying?

I shake my head. I can’t pretend to understand him. Never have, never will. A small voice in my head reminds me that at least I won’t have to see him again until next Thursday.

If I would have known this was the last time I’d see him alive, maybe I would

have acted differently. Maybe I would have realized that the true asshole was me.

But I didn’t, and I will regret it until the day I die.

Rule #3: Don’t say their names.

Don’t do it. Don’t say their names. They’re always listening. They will hear you. And if they hear you, it’s over.

.........................................................................................................................................

I tried it once.

Tried reasoning with one as he backed me in an alley corner, his breath rancid against my neck.

I remember how I had spotted him across the street as he followed a middle aged man.

I remember how the blood had run cold in my body as I stared at him.

And he stared back.

Because I knew who he was.

And he knew I could see him.

I remembered those eyes.

Those eyes were the last thing my mother saw.

And I snapped.

Dodging through New York City traffic as they honked their horns, not wanting to hit me, but at the same time, utterly indifferent.

I reached the other side in one piece, and he was waiting for me.

Rufus Clemingsworth. 34. Murder.

How ironic that a man who lost his life to homicide would take the lives of so many in death.

My father told me he got a kick out of it. He killed many. Never took the chance to move on, though.

He just kept killing. And killing. And killing.

And I made the mistake of trying to fight him.

As he came at me, I froze.

“Rufus.”

The words left my mouth before I had a chance to speak.

He was on me in a heartbeat.

Slammed my head into the wall.

I tasted the iron of blood.

I managed to get the knife out of my pocket as his hands were at my throat, his inky being cold

and foglike against my skin, pulling me in.

He was gone, but I was injured.

I limped home, the blood running down my forehead and into my eyes, mixing with the tears.

Either no one noticed, or no one cared.

Another day, another shift of working with the dead.

You’d think I’d get tired of it, but I don’t really. Once you get past the realization that

all your coworkers have been dead for decades, sometimes centuries… And that you talk

to more dead people than you do living… And that you have no friends besides the

temperamental redhead who sometimes yells at you, who is coincidentally also dead…

Once you get past all of that, it’s a cakewalk.

I’m joking, of course. It’s hell. But at least it’s not literal Hell. I can hear the screams at

work sometimes, and it’s then that I thank my lucky stars that I got stuck working in the

Waiting Room.

I’ve just finished up seven hours of checking people in and out and in and out and in

and out, because Moira’s gone today. Something about visiting a family member who’s

newly dead.

I didn’t think they allowed us to take time off for that, but I guess I’m not dead like the

rest of them. Sometimes I think I get treated unfairly because I’m still alive- I don’t even

get sick leave like others do, which makes no sense. They’re dead.

Either way, I’m stuck working the front desk all day. It’s tedious work, and as I sift

through online paperwork between checking in souls, something catches my eye.

On a list of the people who have died today, one name stands out to me.

Rowan Murphy.

I shake my head. Statistically speaking, it’s not likely that the Rowan in question is the

same one from my school. There’s so many people in the world with the same name, and

the sheet doesn’t provide any other information. Besides, my Rowan is healthy-

unfortunately. It would have taken a lot to get rid of him so quickly.

I shake my head and exit out of the document, but a lingering sense of unease comes

over me. Even if it was the Rowan I know, shouldn’t he have come through the Waiting

Room today? Maybe I clicked on the wrong document.

I log off the computer and grab my coat from the back of the chair, calling for Ginger

to come and man the station, slipping out the door before any more lost souls can show

up.

While I walk through the tunnel, I look for Rowan’s name, but see nothing. I take a

deep breath, convincing myself that I had worked myself into a panic for nothing.

Besides, why did I care if the kid was dead? He was annoying as hell. Death happens, and

there’s nothing I could do about it.

Trust me. I would know.

As soon as I walk into Psych, I know that something’s off.

The atmosphere is sullen, somber. People are going about their daily business, chatting

with their friends as usual, but I can just tell that there’s something terribly wrong.

I look to see if there are any spirits nearby that could be causing this, but surprisingly, I

see nothing.

After reassuring myself that there was no logical reason for me to be stressed, I pull out

my notebook and wait for the lecture to start.

The clock turns to 8:29, and I prepare myself for the usual ten minutes to pass before

the Professor will actually arrive. But something happens that never does.

At 8:30 sharp, Evans walks through the door.

His shoulders are slumped, and despite his normally dull exterior, I can tell that there’s

something else going on.

It’s at this point that I begin to panic.

I hear his voice speak as I look next to me, confirming my fear.

Rowan isn’t there.

With horror, I turn back to the professor, hoping the tone of grief in his voice is just a

figment of my imagination. But despite all the signs, there’s no way to prepare myself for

what comes next.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

No.

“I have some terrible news I just found out…”

No.

“We lost one of our students early this morning.”

No no no.

“Rowan Murphy was in a car accident. He did not survive.”

NONONONONONO...

“I know you are all likely in shock right now. I am as well.”

NO. NO. NO.

“Because of this, we are calling classes off today, and likely for the rest of the week.

There will be counselors in the main office if you would like to talk. I don’t have any

other details as of right now. Please go.”

No. No. This isn’t happening.

I just saw him on Thursday. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s not dead. I would have seen him

come through the Waiting Room. He’s fine.

The little dumbass is going to live another day. I know he will. Because he’s not dead.

He can’t be.

I don’t even remember getting home.

I don’t really remember going into the bathroom and splashing my face with water,

looking at the dark bags that hang underneath my eyes, taking note in how gaunt my face

is.

What I do remember, though, is what happened afterward.

I straighten, looking in the mirror at my own pale reflection, and notice a dark figure

looming over me, one finger reached out, as if to tap me on the shoulder.

My heart racing, I turn instinctively, a hand racing to my pocket and pulling out the

knife. I thrust it straight through the creature’s ribs.

Nothing.

I pull it out, noticing how the shadowy black sludge covers the blade, and stab it again.

And again. And again. Waiting for the figure to dissolve, for the chill in the room to go

away.

But it doesn’t.

It just stands there until I give up, taking a step back, cornered against the edge of the

vanity.

My eyes trace their way up its body until they land upon a face. Unlike the other

spirits, though, this one has fully defined features, and I immediately recognize who it is.

That telltale smirk-turned-confusion, that messy brown hair...

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Rule #4: They don’t speak.

They whisper. It sounds like crumpling parchment. But no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to understand. They do listen, though. If they’re close enough to hear you, they’re too close.

.........................................................................................................................................

I remember when my dad died.

I wish I didn’t.

A figure whispered in the bus driver’s ear as he drove, standing right over his shoulder.

Eloise McClean. 46. Car accident.

Fitting.

I was still in training.

I didn’t have a weapon.

I told my dad that there was a spirit.

He didn’t believe me.

He said if he couldn’t see it with his own eyes, then it wasn’t there.

It was there.

It was his fatal flaw.

He had to be right.

He couldn’t accept that some things slipped under his radar.

I’m not sure why he couldn’t see it, or why I could.

All I know is that he should have listened to me.

If he had, he would still be here today.

Eloise must have gotten to the driver.

He jerked the wheel.

We went off the overpass.

Landed in the middle of the freeway.

There was a screech of lights and sound and flames.

And I don’t remember much more.

I woke up connected to tubes.

Tubes in my throat, in my nose, in my stomach.

Tubes keeping me alive.

But they couldn’t keep my dad alive.

I could have kept him alive.

If he would have listened.

But he didn’t.

I was the only one to survive.

After recovery, I realized what I had to do.

I took over the job.

The one that my dad would still be doing.

If he would have listened.

So now, seven years later, I’m here.

By myself.

Forever.