4

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.

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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.