Dead to Me

5

I often imagined how cool my life would be if I were in a movie. I would say all the right things and have all the right reactions in any given situation. Most importantly, I would no doubt be as cool as I have always imagined myself, but at that moment in the Lovecraft Café, I found that reality was having no part of my delusions. As soon as Connor mentioned that the brunette was dead, I felt a chill run up my spine and I literally jumped straight out of my chair. Apparently, I had taken the remedial Deadside Manner: Staying Cool in Troubled Times seminar for nothing. I helplessly watched myself with the same type of slow-motion detail that I used in my visions.

My foot caught the edge of the coffee table, causing an alarming clatter of cups as it began to flip over (-1 to me for causing a commotion). I started to fall, but not before my replacement coat billowed out around me like bat wings while I spun out of control (-2 for appearing spastic). As I fell back, I accidentally kicked Connor’s coffee right out of his hand (-3 for punting my partner’s drink).

That’s when things got weird.

The delicious beverage flew through the air, sailing toward the woman on the sofa, but instead of splashing all over her (regularly a -4 offense), it passed straight through her (with no previous scale to judge it on, I’d have to give it a -8 million at least). Oddly enough, she didn’t seem to notice, but suddenly I could see what was wrong with her. Now that I was looking at her closely, she was semitransparent. I could see the plastic cup resting inside her form against the back of the sofa, its contents sloshed all over. The woman seemed to become slowly aware that something was going on, but the look of confusion on her face told me she wasn’t quite sure what exactly had happened. She glanced back and forth between Connor and me, searching our faces in silence. Connor broke the tension in a way I was getting used to—he yelled at me.

“Simon!” he shouted. He grabbed a napkin from the table and beginning dabbing the area around the woman without actually reaching through her.

She stared at me and I shrugged sheepishly, and then we both looked to Connor.

“I’m sorry about what the kid did there,” Connor said, continuing to clean around her. “I know this must all come as quite a shock to you, the way things tend to phase through your semicorporeal form. Being dead and all…”

A look of absolute confusion spread across her face.

“Dead and all…?” she repeated. Her voice was quiet but refined.

She looked around quickly to see if perhaps Connor was talking to someone else. Finding no one there, she turned to me. “Who’s dead?”

“Oh crap,” I said. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. “Connor, you want to field this one?”

I looked to Connor for help, but he was too busy scooping ice cubes off the mauve sofa back into his glass. I felt absolutely useless in the situation. I had enough trouble talking to living women. All I could do was smile and stare. Here was this beautiful—but clearly deceased—woman sitting across from me, and she was seemingly unaware of her situation. How could she not realize she was dead, especially after a coffee cup had passed straight through her?

I had to say something, though. “Who’s dead?” I repeated. “Well…you are.”

The woman’s face scrunched up in immediate disbelief. She laughed.

“Oh, I don’t think so!” she said. Then, with total conviction, “No, absolutely not.”

“Hrmh,” Connor said. He stopped cleaning up the spill and finally turned his full attention on us. “I think we may have a problem here.”

“What sort of problem?” the woman asked, nervousness creeping into her voice. “The spill? It’s nothing, really. I’m sure a good dry cleaner will be able to get the stain out. If you’d be kind enough to pick up the dry cleaning bill, I’m sure everything will be—”

“Look at your clothes,” Connor said abruptly.

The woman looked as if she had been slapped in the face.

“Excuse me?” she said.

I found myself taken aback by his interruption, surprised by the gruffness of it. He certainly could have handled it with a gentler tone, but remembering that the deceased were his bailiwick, I held my tongue and let him work.

“Just…” Connor said, exasperated, “just take a look, okay? Humor me.”

The woman looked down at her outfit, and her eyes widened as she finally noticed what Connor was talking about. Her body was even more transparent than before and I could see the entire couch through her now. The area on the couch where Connor courteously hadn’t reached through her to wipe was still covered with ice, coffee, and whipped cream. Her outfit, however, was spotless, untouched by even a drop of the drink. She grabbed for the pile of ice sitting inside her but her ghostly hand phased straight through the mess. “Oh…my…”

Connor and I waited in silence as we watched the realization set in. Connor’s mood had changed from moments before. His early morning tedium—another day of pencil-pushing at the office—had just gotten interesting. This mysterious apparition wasn’t acting according to the book, whatever arcane text that might be…probably 50 Hauntful Tips for the Helpless.

Connor turned to Mrs. Teasley nearby and chuckled. “You see, Mrs. T? Here’s the ‘unexpected visitor’ you mentioned.” He turned to me and whispered, “The old broad may not see too far in the future, kid, but at least she still keeps the ball in the park. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, huh?”

I worried that the people around us might have noticed the cup go flying through the woman and I checked the rest of the coffee shop. Normal customers who had simply stopped in for a cup of coffee, a stale muffin, and nothing paranormal had momentarily turned their attention toward us, but only because of the noise from kicking over the table. Everyone had quickly turned back to their conversations. Had I remembered my training better, it made perfect sense. The Department’s orientation pamphlet, D.E.A. or DOA: Your Choice, stated that most regular folk were ill equipped for dealing with this sort of supernatural situation. Yes, they sensed something out of the ordinary, but their minds were protective of their sanity and made them happily oblivious to things such as this woman’s unlivingness. If I polled them about what was wrong, they simply wouldn’t be able to put their finger on it. Instead, they would grumble about how crumbly the muffins were or that their coffee needed freshening up. Nothing out of the ordinary for them, thanks.

“Maybe we better take this out back?” I suggested. Connor nodded.

“Miss?” Connor asked. The woman was flustered and paid him no attention. Despite the oddness of her circumstance, she was desperately trying to keep her composure.

Admittedly, I was, too. The only thing that made sense right now was taking this situation out of the front room of the Lovecraft Café. It was perhaps the best idea I had come up with during the entire encounter. Things would be better once we were out back in the Department’s offices.

Being the well-meaning gentleman that I am these days, I tried to help the woman up from the couch by taking her arm. My hand passed effortlessly through it and a shock tingled through my fingers, startling her. Connor shot me a look.

“Please don’t do that,” he warned.

“Why not?”

“Because you might force me to say ‘please don’t do that’ again,” he said, agitated.

“Oh.”

I had never experienced such a sensation before. My fingers continued to tingle as if they were charged with electricity. In the reflection of the glass covering a Bogart poster on the wall, I checked my hair to make sure that I hadn’t suddenly become a member of the White Stripes. Luckily, I was fine.

I turned my attention back to the situation. Connor finally caught the woman’s eye. He smiled purse-lipped at her. “Yes, hello? Hi, could you tell me your name, please?”

My heart softened as she attempted to smile back despite the obvious stress this situation caused her.

“It’s Irene…I think.”

Connor looked at me and lowered his voice. “Not good. Memory displacement’s already set in.” He turned back to her. “Hello, Irene. My name is Connor Christos and my young colleague here is Simon Canderous.”

“I’m not that young,” I mumbled. Connor shot me another glare and I fell silent. Now was not the time to be glib, apparently.

“If you’d just follow us back to our offices,” he said, “I think that I or one of our other ‘guidance’ counselors can help make sense out of everything you’re experiencing.”

Irene cocked her head, distrustful. She looked far from convinced, and I didn’t blame her. How would I react to being told that I was dead? Probably far worse than she was.

“We’re here to help,” Connor said with a smile. “Honest.”

He reached into his right pocket and pulled out a small vial like the one from the other night, and twisted its stopper free with a well-practiced motion. I watched as the same smoky haze rose from the vial and twisted dreamily around Irene’s head. The familiar smell of patchouli and cloves hit my nostrils, and the woman’s face went slack. She rose from the couch like smoke rising from a fire. Just like that, Connor took control of her.

Connor’s approach bordered on wrangling her like cattle, and I wanted to speak up—but what was I really prepared to say? None of the departmental seminars or brochures had covered this, and my own training had yet to cover the shaky legal gray area of spirits’ rights. Wasn’t Connor somehow violating those, coercing Irene by magical means? Before I could give it another thought, Connor turned away and led our brown-haired beauty toward the back of the coffee shop. I stumbled my way over the upturned coffee table and followed. The counter jockey scowled at me for leaving the mess, but I pointed to Connor and the ghost, shrugging as if to say, Whatcha gonna do?

Irene floated along with an unnatural, ghostly grace. But she took care to avoid tables, chairs, and other people as if she were still alive. We moved like a procession of geriatric zombies. I smirked at the image it conjured in my head. If she had been a zombie, at least she’d be something I had read up on in the departmental pamphlet Shufflers & Shamblers.

Her body flickered as if she had a loose bulb inside her.

“You okay, Irene?” I asked.

“I think so,” she said. Her voice came out as if she were off in a faraway dream. “Just troubled a bit. I want to follow your friend here, but…I’m not sure why. Strange.” She tried to move her head to look at me, but her eyes couldn’t turn away from Connor. “It’s that intoxicating scent, isn’t it?”

I stopped. Surely this was coercion at it basest level. “Connor…”

My partner stopped and turned.

“Kid, it’s okay,” Connor said in an effort to soothe both of us. “Nothing’s going to happen to her.”

As we passed through the black velvet curtains at the back of the shop, Irene gasped. The ordinary confines of the coffeehouse gave way to a majestic, old movie theater that embodied days of glory gone by. In the soft glow of the movie’s projector, I could make out the muted gold leaf fleur-de-lis hidden on the wall amid the decorative architecture. I was especially taken with the ornate chandelier that glittered in the darkness high overhead. What stories it would tell if I ever got my psychometric mitts on it.

We headed down the right-hand aisle. The theater was enchanting, but not in a paranormal way. It always gave me the impression that something magical would happen if only I were to fall back into one of the red velvety cushions of the Lovecraft’s hundred seats. But that was the point of old theaters—to weave a spell, preparing a journey beyond these four walls. Up on the screen, Clark Gable was noisily chomping a carrot as he sat on a fence talking to Claudette Colbert.

Irene craned her head about the theater. She was taken in by the majesty of it all. At the end of the aisle, Connor stopped opposite a large wooden door marked H.P. and produced a ring of keys. He sorted out a plastic keycard and waved it in front of an electronic plate to the door’s left. The latch clicked softly and Connor pushed the door open, gesturing for Irene to enter.

“Welcome to the world of weird,” Connor said.