Seeing the Light (A Marie Jenner Mystery Book 1) Read online

  Anyhow, calling my mom was out.

  I decided to assume Farley would be back. One thing I could do was get information for him about some aspects of his life. That had sometimes worked for Mom when she dealt with a “recalcitrant spirit.” Her words, definitely not mine. Then, maybe, Farley would move on the right way, and I’d be free. I set my fingers on the computer keyboard, and thought, hard. What did Farley need?

  I tried to remember what Mom did when she first encountered a ghost with awareness, but couldn’t grab onto any one thing. She’d talked to them about their lives, their work, the way they died, everything associated with them. No true starting place.

  I decided to fake it, and Googled the Palais. Maybe it was the place itself. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t leave.

  I thought I’d lose it when the search engine ground out thirteen million hits. I pulled my hair back in a quick ponytail, punched in “Edmonton” with Palais, and was rewarded with a much more manageable number. “Let’s see what you can tell me,” I whispered as I opened the first page.

  Four hours later, I’d gone through most of the information I could find online about the office building, carefully cleared the history cache file on my computer, typed two more letters for Mr. Latterson, calculated my monthly budget, had a small cry, and tried a new hairstyle using pencils to hold my hair in a catastrophic attempt at an up-do.

  I shook out the last pencil and stared down at the small pad of paper on which I’d scribbled information about the office building and its history. I hoped I hadn’t wasted my time, because Farley had still not returned. I glanced at the clock above the door, and started to tidy up. It was nearly time to head to my other job.

  Mr. Latterson came back just as I was emptying the coffee carafe, which I had decided was my last job of the day.

  “I need you to stay,” he said. “I have a call coming in, and I want you to handle it.”

  I looked at the clock. If it was only five minutes, I’d be fine.

  “Who’s calling?”

  I swear I heard Mr. Latterson’s teeth grind as he said, “My ex-wife. I’ll tell you what to say. Just write it all down.”

  I wrote down everything he told me on a scrap of paper, and then sat, purse in hand, as he floated in and out of the office, nervously, sweat staining his off-white shirt in large damp patches.

  “Would you rather take it yourself?” I asked, laughing inwardly. I knew, without a doubt, that no-one voluntarily talks to an ex-wife. No-one.

  “No, I have work to do,” he replied, wringing his hands and brushing back his bad comb over until it stood at attention on the top of his head. “Say exactly what I told you to. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  I glanced at the clock again, feeling a nervous flutter in my stomach when I saw seven minutes had passed. I was going to be late if I didn’t leave very soon.

  “You’re certain this call is coming in?”

  “Yes, absolutely, without a doubt.”

  He nodded, his hair dancing in a fuzzy greying halo on the top of his head. Laughter fought nervousness until I felt hysterical. I did a little deep breathing, to calm down.

  We both squawked when the phone beeped, and Mr. Latterson retreated to his office as I picked up the receiver.

  It took me fifteen minutes to get his furious wife—I was certain she was not yet an ex, no matter what he said—off the phone, and by that time he had snuck out, leaving me to lock up. I was definitely late for my cab job, and the one thing my boss Gerald the Tyrant could not abide was my being late.

  The same rule didn’t seem to apply to the others, I thought as I half-ran down the crowded sidewalk to the dank office building I’d inhabit for the next eight hours of my life.

  I was lucky. Gerald wasn’t at his desk. Jasmine was, though, and looked pissed, because I’d made her late getting home to her kids.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said, throwing my purse under our desk and taking the headphone from her hand. “Any way I can make it up?”

  Jasmine smiled, in spite of herself. “You come to my house for a meal and some TV,” she said. “We haven’t done that in a while, and my show has gone right off the deep end! You have to catch up.”

  “That sounds nice,” I said. And it did. It really did. Going to her house with all her kids and noise and laughter was always nice. Kind of like going home, without the fights.

  “Then you can tell me all about your new job and why you’re still here,” she continued.

  I nodded. She headed for the door, and then turned.

  “And you bring the dessert,” she said. “Got it?”

  “Got it,” I replied, and then she was gone, and I was alone with the headset for the rest of the night.

  Not counting the beginning, the shift ran surprisingly smoothly. I was standing in my apartment at 1:57 in the morning, looking forward to a full five hours of sleep, when Sally wandered into the kitchen.

  She examined the counter tops with fascination, something I’d never seen her do before. I felt a touch of dread. New was never good. Not with ghosts.

  I tiptoed around her and into the bathroom to splash warm water on my face and wash the day away. Sally followed me, and stood next to me, staring at our reflections in the mirror. She’d never done that before, either. She glanced down at her hands, then back up at the mirror.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, staring right into the reflection of my bloodshot eyes. “What’re you doing here? And why do I keep sinking into the floor?”

  As if to push home her last question, she oozed a few inches into the cheap lino of the bathroom floor. She didn’t pull herself up to floor height, just walked through it as though through the surf on the beach.

  “Feels odd,” she said. “It should hurt, but it doesn’t.” She frowned. “Did you tell me your name?”

  “No.” I sighed as I watched my chance for a good night’s sleep disappear. “No, I didn’t. My name’s Marie.”

  “Why are you in my apartment?”

  “It’s my apartment, now.”

  Sally looked surprised and stepped up out of the floor to look me in the eye.

  “Did I forget to pay the rent?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  I dried my face slowly, carefully refolding the towel before facing Sally. This next bit was tricky. I remembered what it was like for Mom when ghosts became aware, but didn’t realize they were actually dead. For some reason, more often than not, this happened to drug addicts. Mom had never figured that out. I had some theories, but wasn’t going to test them now. I wanted some sleep, and I wouldn’t get it if Sally became hysterical. “Come into the kitchen. We need to talk.”

  The ghost started to shake as she followed me out of the bathroom. Then she frowned, and pointed. “Where’s my TV?”

  “This isn’t your apartment.”

  “Oh. Right.” Sally glanced around the fairly empty room, and her frown deepened. “Where’s your TV?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  She snorted. “You gotta be kidding. What do you do? You know, for entertainment?”

  “I don’t have much time for entertainment.”

  I shook my head, impatient with myself. This wasn’t helping Sally, and it sure wasn’t getting me any closer to sleep. “We have to talk.”

  “Okay.” Sally would not focus on me. She wandered around the small kitchen, running her hands—which were getting brighter by the moment—over the counter tops.

  “I loved this place,” she whispered. “It was the best place I ever had. In my whole life.” She smiled wistfully. “That’s kinda sad, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a nice place, Sally. You picked a very nice place.” I watched the woman fade, and tried to match the tone Mom had used. This wasn’t going to be hard. Sally was very close. I could feel it. “There are people who would never have had such a nice place.”

  “Yeah. That’s true. And I paid the rent. Every month.” Sally touched the faucet, and ran
her hand into the sink. “So I guess that’s the best I could have hoped for. I did all right, I guess.”

  “Sally—”

  Sally held up her hand, stopping my words. “I died, didn’t I?” She glowered. “Was it an overdose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Son of a bitch! I knew that shit was bad.” She shook her head. “Well, you get what you pay for, I guess.” She glanced at me, a quizzical look on her face. “You some kind of an angel? You know, like that TV show?”

  I had no idea what she was talking about, and shook my head. “No. I’m not an angel.”

  “I gotta repent my sins, all that stuff—” Then she frowned. “Man, I’m too late for that, aren’t I?” She put her hand to her mouth and groaned. “I’m too late for all that. I thought I had time.”

  Sally began to glow. It was weak, no doubt about it, and just around the edges of her torso and the hair on her head, making her look like she was standing in front of a high powered spotlight. She wasn’t standing in front of any light, though. The light was coming from her.

  “Sally, look at me. Focus on me.” I stood in front of the ghost and stared into her eyes. “What you do next is up to you. Entirely up to you.”

  I remembered Mom speaking those words. Sally was so close to the end. So close. I felt my strength running to her through the connection our eyes made. Oddly, it made me feel stronger, more alive.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “What would you like to do? If you could choose anything, what would you like to do?”

  I half-expected her to say, “Get high.” Lots of drug overdoses said that, at first. She didn’t.

  “I would like to stop.” Her eyes closed briefly, and tears, glowing eerily in the half-light of the room, hung on her lashes. “I’ve had enough. It’s enough.” Her eyes opened, and I was surprised at their startling green. I’d never noticed the colour before. “Is that okay? If I just—stop being?”

  “Yes. If that’s what you want.”

  “I wish you could hold my hand. I’m scared.”

  So was I, but I didn’t let her know that. I stepped closer, so she could feel my heart. I remembered Mom doing that. I could see it calmed the ghost. She was glowing brilliantly. She was almost ready.

  “Don’t be afraid,” I said. “It’s nearly over. Can you see the light?”

  “Get outta here!” Sally grinned at me, briefly regaining some substance. Her glow was bright white, flecked through with red and black. “I’m actually going to walk toward a white light?”

  “No, that’s not the way it works. The light comes from you. Can you see it?”

  Sally glanced down at her hands, then held them up in wonder. “Yes, I can.” She smiled. “I look kinda pretty. What are the flecks? The black and the red?”

  “It’s your life—what you’ve experienced. You take it with you wherever you go.”

  “And if I stop being?”

  “Then this light stops too.”

  “That’s probably for the best.” Sally began to cry, gently. “I’m really tired, you know?”

  “I know.” Her weariness hit me in waves, and I tried to stay strong for her. She needed it, and I gave as much as I could.

  Sally’s glow cast my run down furniture in a stark, flat light. The only place the light took on life was within Sally. It began to swirl around her, through her, and the red and black flecks slowly drowned in the white. Her eyes glowed, ever brighter, as she made her final decision.

  The white light, which glowed through her translucent skin, brightened until all I could see were her eyes, brilliant green. Then the green drowned in the white, and the light folded in on itself, until it finally was one point, tiny, floating in front of me until it too disappeared. With it went her fear, her weariness, everything that had been Sally. I was finally, truly alone in my apartment.

  “Good-bye,” I whispered. Then I tottered to the phone, carefully staying away from the last place Sally had inhabited, and dialed Mom’s number. I felt about 100 years old.

  “Hi Mom,” I said, and burst into tears. “I moved Sally on.” I couldn’t stop crying. Didn’t want to. “What do I do now?”

  Mom explained what would happen to me in the next few hours. Sleep was not in the mix. I listened carefully to her, and promised I’d do everything exactly as she said.

  But I didn’t tell her about Farley. Not a word.

  Farley:

  What Nightmares Are Like When You’re Dead

  I don’t know what happened, but it was horrible.

  I was having a nightmare, like nothing I’d ever had before. I was used to the snake dream, and the falling from a high place dream, and that nasty series of screamers I had when the wife left me and I was really alone for the first time in my life.

  It wasn’t anything like that. This felt like reality. Reality through hand blown glass. You know the stuff. Crappy glass with bubbles and shit in it, to make it seem genuine or something, distorting what you see through it until it’s hard to say what it is you’re looking at. I couldn’t make sense of anything, and wondered if this was what Hell was like.

  Was I in Hell?

  After what felt like an eternity, I blinked back into Marie’s darkened office. How long had I been gone?

  I stumbled into the hallway. It was dark there, too. Jesus, how long had I been out? I started to run, then stopped that foolishness and dropped through to the main foyer with the nice furniture and fake-but-so-good-you’d-swear-it-was-real greenery, and pressed my face up to the ornate glass and steel door.

  I could see the sun touching the trees across the street from the building and people trudging to work, sipping their coffee in their to-go cups and acting like they wished they were anywhere else.

  I wasn’t in Hell. I was back in the Palais.

  “Thank God.” I leaned my head against the glass of the door, wondering if it felt cool or warm to the touch. Of course, I wasn’t really pressing my head against the door. I was pressing it against that barrier that was holding me in the building.

  I lost it again for a while, banging my fists and screaming until my throat was raw and my voice was nothing but a harsh whisper. Then I slid down the door, leaning against it and crying. And I couldn’t seem to stop.

  Marie:

  Post “Moving on my First Ghost” Blues

  I was tired—read exhausted—after my no-sleep-and-moving-Sally-on night, but I also felt exhilarated. I’d moved a ghost on. Well, she’d done most of the work, but I’d helped. As I grabbed a coffee on my way to the Palais, I thought that maybe, just maybe, I was going to be able to pull off moving Farley on to the next plane of existence. Then I’d have my office to myself, and would be able to live my life the way I wanted. Ghost free.

  One thing that surprised me, though. My apartment felt really empty without Sally. Almost creepy.

  The coffee helped. By the time I walked up the front step of the Palais, I was feeling energized and ready. Ready for Farley, if and when he came back.

  Even though I hadn’t asked my mother about Farley specifically, she’d talked my ear off about what can happen to a ghost who doesn’t move on.

  Most do. Move on, I mean. They understand, they are prepared, and they take the next step, whatever that is. However, some don’t. They could be like Sally, and not even realize they are dead. Or they could be like Farley, and decide they aren’t going to move on.

  This resistance usually comes from fear, or so Mom says. They don’t want to face judgment, or whatever. If they can be convinced that the only one doing the judging is them—and that judging is wrong—all is good, and on they move.

  Sometimes, they feel like they didn’t live a real life, and decide to stay and live vicariously through the people around them. Those usually get bored, really quickly. Hanging around with the living can do that. As much as we living like to think we’re fascinating and all that, most humans spend a lot of time sleeping, and eating, and watching television. Not really the high o
ctane lifestyle these ghosts are craving. So, they eventually make the move, with a little help from someone like my mom.

  Some of them stay for other reasons. Revenge is the top of the list, with hubris running a close second. Unfortunately, trying to “get the guy who got me” is as detrimental to a spirit as “nothing as small as a germ could have killed me, so I’m sticking around to find out what it really was.” These ones slowly lose all connection to this world. Mom calls it “losing the light.” They darken and fade until there isn’t enough essence left to attract anyone. This includes people like my mom and me. Then, they truly are stuck, forever.

  She didn’t mention a ghost blinking out, though. Not once.

  I should have asked her about it. I know that. But she just would have started in on the “You know this is your calling, Marie,” and I would have said something stupid like, “I don’t want a calling that leaves you alone and dying in your fifties,” or something. I didn’t want to fight, so I didn’t mention it to her.

  I was pretty sure that the blinking out wasn’t another form of fading away. Mom had said that the first thing all spirits had to come to terms with was the manner of their death, and Farley couldn’t remember how he’d died. Maybe blinking out had to do with his memory loss. If he could just remember how he died, then the blinking would stop. I was almost sure of it.

  So, I was feeling energized and sympathetic and hopeful. Until I saw Farley, that is. Then all those feelings took a back seat to feeling dread. Lots and lots of dread.

  He was leaning near the inside of the front door of the Palais, and he was crying. No. He was sobbing like a kid would, open mouthed, with tears streaming down his face, leaving a trail of light, like phosphorescence, from his eyes, down his cheeks, to the floor. Those trails of light were the brightest thing about him. That was not good.

  When he saw me, he scrubbed his face with his hand and then pointed at me. I could tell he was yelling angrily, even though I couldn’t hear him yet. Great. Fear and anger, rolling off of him in waves. First thing in the morning. Just what I needed.