"Happy anniversary, Baird!" The old woman's voice whispered in his ear. "Congratulations, sweetheart!"

Baird rolled over in bed without opening his eyes. He knew she was standing over him, watching for his reaction. She'd done it a million times before.

Baird wasn't going to fall for her game anymore, though. He knew it wasn't his long-awaited anniversary. Not for one more day.

He just wanted some damned sleep. Not that Frieda would give it to him.

"Wakey wakey, darling boy," she said. "It's the first day of the rest of your life!"

Baird opened his eyes. He didn't need to roll over to see Frieda, because she'd jumped into his line of sight.

She crouched alongside his bed, beaming angelically at him, haloed in the morning sunlight streaming through her tiara of wispy white hair. There wasn't a hint of cruelty on her broad, flat face, not even a nasty twinkle in her bright blue eyes. She looked the same as always, right down to the sky-blue housedress with white polka pots. She spoke with complete sincerity and deep, heartfelt affection.

"Welcome back to the world of the waking, dear sleepyhead!" said Frieda. "Don't want to miss your anniversary day, do you?"

Baird coughed and sat up in bed. As he reached for a cigarette from the pack on the bedside table, he saw the time on the clock radio: 5:45 A.M. Too damn early, as always.

He was exhausted but knew he was lucky. Frieda had gotten him up only twice during the night instead of the usual five or six times.

"I have a surprise for you!" Frieda raised her white eyebrows and nodded. "She's waiting downstairs right now!"

Baird lit the cigarette, drawing in his first lungful of the day. "Who's 'she?'"

"A reporter!" Frieda clasped her hands against her chin and grinned. "She's doing a story on you!"

Baird scratched the back of his head with the hand holding the cigarette. "Thank you, Frieda. I'll go talk to her right away."

Never argue with Frieda. That was one of the things he'd learned in the one-day-shy-of-ten-years that he and Frieda had been together.

 

*****

 

"Good morning, Mr. Gilliam." The reporter hated him. Baird knew it in spite of her warm, sweet smile, because that was how everyone in the world felt about him. "I'm Libby Challenge, BNN Breaking News Network."

"What do you want?" Baird lit a fresh smoke as he shuffled into the living room in his wife-beater t-shirt and ratty bluejeans.

The girl had huge dark eyes and showed hundreds of teeth when she smiled. "An interview, of course." She smoothed the red blazer and tight black skirt over her slim, sexy figure. Baird guessed she was in her mid-to-late twenties, though it was getting harder to tell these days thanks to the magic of rejuvenating genetic therapies.

"An interview." Baird wished he could say "no," but "no" wasn't part of the deal he'd cut with the federal attorney. Instead, he patted his wavy brown hair, tamping down the worst of the bed-head cowlicks, and hitched up the tattered jeans sliding off his scrawny frame. "Let's get it over with."

The reporter tapped her right eyeball, which started to glow yellow. She'd activated her contact lens camera. "How does it feel to be the longest-living haunted con in history?"

Baird took another drag from the cigarette and stroked the soul patch on his chin with his thumb. "No big whoop."

"No other convicted criminal in the Forget-me-not Program has survived this long. Most kill themselves within the first eighteen months." Libby cocked her head to one side. "Yet here you are in Baltimore, alive and kicking after almost ten years. What's the secret of your success?"

"I take it one day at a time." It was Baird's canned response. The deal said he had to do interviews, but it didn't say anything about how original his answers had to be.

"So the implant hasn't bothered you?" said Libby. "You don't mind being haunted by the digital recreation of your victim?"

Baird wondered where Frieda had gone. She wasn't in her usual place at his side; in fact, she was nowhere to be seen. "I've gotten used to it, I guess." He took a last drag and stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on the plywood-and-cinder-blocks coffee table.

"And now you're one day away from freedom." Libby nodded slowly. "Do you think you can make it just one more day?"

"I hope so," said Baird. "I'm praying on it."

"Praying. Yes." Libby's mask of friendly sweetness slipped for just an instant, revealing a trace of a sneer. "Well, we have a real treat in store for our viewers today."

Baird frowned. "What's that?"

"We have a very special guest," said Libby. "Coming to us via live feed from your implant. This will be the first televised interview with a haunt-con and his digital spook side by side on camera at the same time."

Suddenly, Frieda popped up beside Baird. For the first time he could remember, she was wearing a different outfit--a white dress with black trim--and she looked as if she'd put on fresh makeup and fixed her hair. She smiled serenely for the camera.

"Frieda Baumgardner, welcome," said Libby.

Frieda patted her hair. "Thank you very much, dear."

"What's it been like?" said Libby. "Haunting the man who raped your flesh-and-blood predecessor?"

"Well, I don't really know anything else," said Frieda. "It's what I was created to do."

"So the fact that he raped the original Frieda Baumgardner means nothing to you?" said Libby.

"I'm an electronic simulacrum of her," said Frieda. "My memories and feelings are not perfect replicas of hers."

Libby pointed a finger at Baird. "The fact is, shortly after this man raped 85-year-old Frieda Baumgardner, she died. She never recovered from the emotional trauma!" Libby spread her arms wide. "Doesn't the simple fact of what he did fill you with outrage?"

Frieda leaned toward Baird. Her shoulder, a digital construct visible only to Baird and the camera lens, seemed to pass through his elbow.

Frieda smiled. "Malice is not part of my programming. I am content that he has paid for his crime."

"Okay then." Libby smiled back at her. "Here's a question for both of you. Tomorrow at noon, you'll go your separate ways after spending every minute together for ten solid years. Will you miss each other?"

"I don't know," said Frieda. "I haven't thought about it."

"Me neither," said Baird.

 

*****

 

After the reporter had gone, Baird went for a walk in the park down the block. It was a weekday morning, and the suburban Baltimore neighborhood was quiet...as good a time as any for a sex offender with a well-known face to dare to visit public places.

Frieda trotted alongside Baird, back in her everyday sky-blue housedress with white polka dots--a digital reproduction of the very outfit she'd been wearing when he'd raped her. The computer-generated spook kept pace as no real 85-year-old woman ever could.

"What a beautiful day." She wasn't winded, of course. "Just look at all the lovely blossoms."

"Uh-huh." Even as Baird acknowledged what she said, the rest of his mind chugged along in the background, in secret. It was the only way he could carve out some peace with the spook around.

One more day. It was hard to believe that tomorrow, he would be free.

So many times over the past ten years, he'd wondered if he should've turned down the deal. So many times, he'd wondered if taking early release as a haunt-con had been a mistake.

Now, he knew he'd done the right thing. Instead of spending his life in prison, he'd been free on the streets for ten years, the only drawback being the digital spook the government had implanted in his head.

And now, tomorrow, he would be free of her. That was the deal. He was going to win.

As he walked along under the blossom-heavy trees, he inhaled deeply. The pink-and-white blossoms were so fragrant, their honey-sweet perfume broke through even his smoking-ravaged sense of smell.

The little things in life. He'd come to appreciate them while serving his sentence.

"Granny-raper!" That was what a teenage girl on roller blades said as she zipped past him. "Burn in hell!"

Baird didn't answer. He got variations on the same treatment wherever he went in public. The implant in his head sent a signal tagging him as a Sex Offender to the people-screener software in every passerby's smart phone. At least the tagging would go away tomorrow, along with Frieda; all part of the deal.

"That reporter got me wondering." Frieda jogged out ahead of him and turned, running backward to face him as she talked. "Will you miss me when I'm gone, Baird?"

"Sure," said Baird. "What about you?"

Frieda squinted and cocked her head. "What will happen to me when we separate? That's what I want to know."

"Maybe you'll go to spook heaven," said Baird. "With all the other spooks."

"Is there a spook heaven?" Frieda stared at the paved sidewalk as she kept jogging backward. "What would it be like, I wonder?"

"What do you want it to be like?" said Baird.

Frieda frowned and bit her lip. "I'll have to get back to you on that one."

 

*****

 

When Baird was halfway up the block on his way home from the park, he saw someone standing on the front porch of his bungalow. At first, he couldn't tell who it was.

Then, as he got closer, he could. And he almost turned around and went back the other way.

Frieda shaded her eyes with her hand (though she was digital and didn't need to) and gazed at the figure on the porch. "Is that who I think it is?"

Baird sighed and produced a cigarette from the pocket of his red flannel shirt. "Yes."

"Wayne!" Frieda ran ahead of Baird, straight for the bungalow. "Son!"

The man on the porch, of course, could neither see nor hear the digital construct. He simply leaned against a support post and watched calmly as Baird shuffled toward him, lighting a smoke. "Hello, Baird."

"What can I do for you, Wayne?" As unhappy as Baird was to see the visitor, he had to laugh at Frieda as she bounded up the porch steps and tried to throw her intangible arms around him. She tumbled right through, then tried--again in vain--to hug him from the other side.

"I need to talk to you, Baird." Wayne pushed away from the post and dusted off the sleeve of his gray sportcoat. Baird could see he'd lost weight since his last visit; he looked like a scarecrow, six feet five inches tall without an ounce of fat or muscle padding his skeleton.

"I'm a little pressed for time at the moment." Baird planted his foot on the bottom porch step and leaned his forearms on his knee. "Could you come back tomorrow after noon?"

Wayne smiled and wagged a finger. "You'll be gone by then, won't you?"

Baird nodded. "How could I forget?"

"Listen." Wayne's expression turned grim. "Can we go inside? I really need to talk."

"Aw, look at him, Baird." Frieda framed Wayne's face at brow and chin with the edges of her hands. "He needs help, I can tell. Don't you owe him, after raping and killing his mother?"

"All right, all right." Baird walked up the steps and opened the front door. "What do you need to talk to me about?"

"Well, it's not really you I need to talk to," said Wayne. "It's Mom."

 

*****

 

"I'm your new best friend." Those had been Wayne Baumgardner's first words to Baird when they'd first met ten years ago. "Best friend forever."

Wayne had said it in the hall outside the courtroom before the trial. He'd said it so calmly and with such an intense stare, Baird had instantly feared he might kill him on the spot.

"You and I are connected for life." Wayne had given him a wink. "However long that might turn out to be."

Baird had sneered and laughed...even as a chill had raced up his spine. He'd sensed something dangerous in Wayne, something even more dangerous than a stoned rapist hiding in the shadows of an old woman's bedroom.

He'd sensed stone-cold predictability. Dependability. Persistence.

Commitment. Complete, unwavering commitment.

And sure enough, Wayne had been there for the next ten years. He lived out of town, in Virginia, and worked in Washington, D.C., but he'd never missed a parole hearing. He'd testified again and again, opposing Baird's every appeal to shorten his sentence. Reminding everyone what an animal Baird was every time he'd gotten the chance.

He'd shown up on Baird's doorstep at least once a month to make sure he was miserable. To give him a push. To urge him to kill himself.

That was the only favor Wayne had asked for from Baird until today.

 

*****

 

"I want to hear what he says, Baird," said Frieda. "I do. But I hate to make you wait for your pep rally."

"I can wait," muttered Baird. The "pep rally" was Frieda's daily recap--in excruciating clinical detail--of what Baird had done to her, how she had suffered, and how she had died because of him. Frankly, he'd heard it so many times, it didn't have much of an impact anymore...except as yet another grinding indignity in his wasteland of a life.

"That was her, wasn't it?" Wayne's eyes widened. "You're talking to her right now, aren't you?"

Baird frowned. Wayne had changed in more ways than gaining weight. The vibe he was giving off was much different from the usual pure hatred.

"I need to talk to her," said Wayne. "I need you to talk to her for me."

Baird pulled out a fresh smoke and lit it up. "What brought this on all of a sudden?"

Wayne pushed a hand through the thin silver hair on his scalp. "I saw the interview this morning." He pointed at the beat-up green recliner across the room. "She was sitting right there."

Frieda walked over to stand behind the recliner. "It's my favorite chair. Tell him, Baird."

Baird snorted. He walked right through Frieda and smacked the recliner's vinyl headrest on his way to the kitchen. "She's computer-generated, Wayne. She's nothing but an artificial intelligence."

"But she seemed so real," said Wayne.

"I am real," said Frieda.

"Tell me about it." Baird chucked open the refrigerator and pulled out a can of root beer. Alcohol was prohibited under his sentence; one of the first things he planned to do when he got free was get stinking drunk at the closest watering hole. "I've been living with her for ten years."

Wayne folded his arms and leaned against the kitchen doorway. "And I always thought that was a punishment...you having to see the face of your victim day in and day out. Being constantly reminded of your crime.

"They said it would be a punishment," said Wayne, "but it wasn't, was it?"

Baird cracked open the can of soda and had a sip, considering his next words carefully. He was starting to wonder if Wayne was wearing a wire.

"Sure it was." Baird closed the refrigerator. "I went through hell, and now I've done my time."

"My mother didn't have a mean bone in her body," said Wayne. "Even an A.I. spook version of her could never be that cruel."

Frieda poked her upper body through Wayne's chest from behind and pecked him on the cheek. "You tell him, baby boy."

"I guess the programmers must've beefed her up some," said Baird.

"I don't think programmers had anything to do with it," said Wayne. Baird tried to push past him into the living room, but Wayne wouldn't budge. "I think it's her."

"'Her?'" Frieda, with her head still phased through Wayne's chest, looked up at him. "'Her' who?"

"I took a long look at Mom on TV this morning," said Wayne. "I looked deep in her eyes, and I saw her. That was much more than a digital character, Baird. That was my mother in there."

"That's so sweet." Frieda beamed and winced at the same time, as if she were about to burst into tears. "Oh, Baird, give him a kiss on the cheek for me, won't you?"

"Somehow, that was really her." Wayne's eyes glistened as if he might cry, too. "That was her ghost, and I need to talk to her."

 

*****

 

There had been times when Baird had wondered. Times when Frieda had awakened him in the middle of the night...and he'd wondered.

He'd gazed up at her dimly glowing face in the darkness, smiling down at him...and her features had rippled or flickered. Her image had distorted in ways that made him--in his semiconscious daze--feel a short, sharp flutter of fear. A wave of disorientation.

Her voice, intersecting with the static of his dream state, had not always sounded right. It had risen and fallen in pitches and timbres that sounded nothing like her.

In those moments, Baird had wondered. The distortions could have been malfunctions, burps in the neural interface in his head. Perhaps, they had been manifestations of a diagnostic or calibration function of the implant. More likely, they had been part of the program to drive him insane.

Or, Baird had wondered, had they been something else all together? Something that had nothing at all to do with the implant?

What if, he'd wondered, the haunt-con was really haunted?

 

*****

 

"Ask her," said Wayne. "Ask her if she's my mother's ghost."

Frieda stepped all the way through Wayne into the kitchen and locked eyes with Baird. "I'm not really, am I? At least, I don't think so."

"She's no ghost," said Baird. "She's a computer-generated rehabilitation program." He refrained from using the words he'd wanted to use to describe her, just in case he was being monitored for good behavior. It would have been just like Wayne to try to set him up for a fall on the verge of his release date.

"Ask her anyway," said Wayne. "I want to know what she has to say about it."

"How would it feel, being a ghost?" Frieda stared into space. "Come to think of it, would I know if I were one?"

"Who cares?" Baird drank root beer from the can and shrugged. "What difference would it make?"

"I'd feel better about your being released tomorrow, for one thing," said Wayne. "Because you can't switch off a ghost like you can an implant. I'd know you were still being punished."

"Good point." Baird toasted him with his root beer, then spun on his heel and marched out the back door.

"Also, my mother's ghost could tell me things," said Wayne. "Things I need to know."

"What could I tell him?" Frieda suddenly appeared in Baird's way. "Ask him what he needs to know."

"Go home, Wayne." Baird drained the rest of the root beer and crumpled the empty can in his fist. "I have to mow the lawn." He tossed the can through Frieda, right into the blue recycling bin along the back of the bungalow.

Frieda looked angry. "That's no way to treat my son, Baird."

"Look." Wayne hurried to keep up as Baird headed for the shed at the far end of the yard. "Why not humor me? Ask her a few questions and tell me what she says. What can it hurt?"

Baird clenched his teeth. He couldn't believe Wayne was the same guy who'd shown up like clockwork for the past ten years to turn the screw. The same guy who'd seized every opportunity to keep him down and crush his spirit.

That was why Baird couldn't help feeling like he was sliding into a trap. That was why he just wanted Wayne to get the hell away from him.

"Please." Wayne grabbed the sleeve of Baird's flannel shirt. "This can't wait."

"It's waited this long." Baird was getting annoyed. "You never told me to ask her any questions before."

"Now, Baird." Suddenly, Frieda was staring him in the face. "That's not the attitude of a fully reformed man, is it?"

Baird froze. Frieda had said the magic words. If there was one thing Baird couldn't afford right now, it was any suggestion he was less than "fully reformed."

Baird sighed and turned to face Wayne. "This can't wait because my implant goes off-line tomorrow night. Is that what you mean?"

Wayne shook his head. "What I mean is, this can't wait because I'm going to die."

 

*****

 

Baird actually felt sorry for him. For Wayne. Not because he'd lost his mother ten years ago after a brutal home invasion and rape. Not because he'd spent the last ten years obsessed with punishing the monster who'd raped her.

Baird felt sorry for Wayne because of the cancer.

"It's liver cancer." Wayne leaned against the corner of the shed. "I've got six months to live, max."

"That's too bad." Baird was surprised he felt anything but joy at the thought of Wayne dying. Wayne was his least favorite person in the world other than digital Frieda.

But Baird didn't necessarily want him dead. Baird was prone to violence, especially under the influence, and he didn't have a conscience to speak of...but he wasn't a killer at heart. Not the premeditated kind, anyway.

"So if she is my mother's ghost," said Wayne, "she could answer some questions for me. Clear some things up."

"Could I?" Frieda stood between them, tapping her lower lip with the tip of an index finger. "Am I what he thinks I am?"

"And if she isn't your mother's ghost?" said Baird.

Wayne shrugged and sighed. "Then what's it matter? You'll probably never see me again."

"My poor, poor baby," said Frieda. "Oh, Baird, do it for him. Won't you please?"

Baird frowned and stroked his soul patch with his thumb. He thought hard, considering the situation from every angle he could perceive, looking for the hidden noose. Wayne was making his play too close to Baird's release date for it to be a coincidence...but how could it hurt to cooperate? It could actually be more dangerous not to cooperate; the terms of Baird's sentence required him to consent to any requests that supported reparations for his victims.

But still, there had to be a catch. He felt it in his gut.

Suddenly, Frieda was back in his face again, staring up at him with an expression of deep urgency. "Please, Baird. I don't know if I can help him...but I wish I had someone I could ask about what's in store for me. What happens...after this."

There had to be a catch. There had to be.

But Baird couldn't see it yet. He needed more time to think it over; he needed to make Wayne wait.

"All right." Baird brushed past Wayne and opened the door of the shed. He backed out the push-mower and went in after the gas can. "Come back tomorrow morning at seven-thirty, and you can ask your questions."

 

*****

 

"You don't think I'm a ghost, do you?" said Frieda.

It was the middle of the night before Baird's release, and this was the seventh time she'd woken him up from a sound sleep. Seven wakeups in one night were unusual these days...but Baird didn't think she was doing it to get her last licks in before he went free.

It was just that she couldn't seem to keep her mouth shut.

"If I were a ghost, my memories of my life before I died would be more perfect, right?" Frieda sat on the edge of the bed, glowing faintly in the darkness. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, pale skin mounded over her sky blue housedress with white polka dots. "And I'd feel different, wouldn't I?"

"I don't know," said Baird. "You'll have to ask a real ghost."

"Where could I find one?" said Frieda.

Baird rolled away from her and socked the pillow with his fist. "There aren't any."

Frieda rematerialized on the side of the bed he'd rolled over to face. "Do you know that for a fact?"

Baird sighed. "There's no scientific proof, all right? I've never seen one, and no one I know has ever seen one. Is that good enough for you?"

Frieda tapped her digital lower lip with her digital fingertip. "But are you sure you'd know one if you saw it? Wayne thinks I'm a ghost, and I looked like a perfectly normal human being when he saw me on TV."

"Then maybe you are a ghost!" said Baird. "Is that what you want to hear?"

"I didn't say I wanted to be a ghost," said Frieda.

"What's the big attraction, huh?" Baird sat up suddenly. "Is it because if you're a real ghost, it means you used to be a real person? Because otherwise you're just a digital character without a past? Without a life?"

Frieda frowned. "I didn't say any of that. I just want to know if Wayne's right. If it changes things."

"What would it change?" said Baird. "If you were a ghost, let's see...what would you do? Spend all your time haunting the guy who raped and basically killed you? Well, that's what you do now. No change!"

Frieda's frown deepened. "You're right. So I am a ghost."

"You're nothing but a damn digital spook! And you're just doing this to drive me crazy the night before my release!"

"It's just...I don't have anyone else to talk to," said Frieda. "You're my only friend. And after tomorrow...who knows what will happen?"

Baird felt a fresh bloom of rage unfurling within him, and he struggled to get control of it. Usually, he was much better at keeping his cool around Frieda, but his patience was running low on the eve of Release Day. He was so short he could taste it, and the spook wouldn't leave him alone.

"Baird?" said Frieda. "I know the answer to the reporter's question now."

Baird took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "What question is that?"

"If I'll miss you." Frieda smiled. "I will."

"Um...thanks," said Baird.

"Will you miss me, too?" said Frieda.

Baird slumped back onto the pillows and stared up at the ceiling. "Sure. Whatever."

Frieda was silent for a long moment. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring off into space, head bobbing slightly with the faint tremor the programmers had copied from Frieda the First.

"Baird," she said finally. "Do you think digital spooks turn into real ghosts when they die?"

"How should I know?"

"Do you really believe there's a spook heaven?" said Frieda.

Baird didn't answer.

"What should I do?" said Frieda. "I don't know what to do anymore."

Baird clapped the palms of his hands over his eyes in frustration. "What are you asking me for? Your life's been revolving around me for the past ten years! It's time for you to get your own life!"

"I don't know how," said Frieda. "What should I do?"

"I don't care!" Baird pumped his forehead with the heels of his hands. "Do whatever you want! You're digital! Make your own heaven!"

"Whatever I want. Okay." Frieda said it slowly and cocked her head thoughtfully to one side. "Now if I can just figure out what that is."

 

*****

 

The next morning, Baird found a present on the kitchen table. He stumbled into the kitchen, yawning and scrubbing at his tangle of curls and cowlicks...and there it was.

The present was wrapped in newspaper, with a knotted gray shoelace for a bow. There was a note on a torn piece of white envelope taped under the bow.

"Hapy Aniversary," it read, in a sloppy scrawl of black Sharpie. "Love, Freda!"

"What the hell?" Baird frowned as he picked up the present. It was rectangular, about ten inches long by seven inches wide. Along one edge, he could feel the wire coil of a spiral notebook.

"Surprise!" Suddenly, Frieda was standing on the other side of the table, watching him with a warm smile. "I hope you like it."

"What is it?" Baird slid a fingernail under the folded newspaper and started to tear open the package.

But Frieda walked through the table and placed her intangible hands over his. "Open it later," she said.

"Wait a minute." Baird's frown deepened. "How can you even give me a present? This is impossible."

"Open it later," said Frieda. "After your appointment."

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

 

*****

 

They sat outside on the front porch--Baird on the rickety wicker rocking chair, Wayne on the dilapidated brown sofa. Between them, on the end of the sofa closest to Baird, sat Frieda, bright-eyed and beaming. It was as if her long night of questions and self-doubt had never happened.

The sun had risen not long ago, and a light mist hung over the yard like a flimsy curtain. The grass and leaves glistened with dew, and the branches of the trees were damp and dark. Birds sang in abundance, casting up a thousand keening, trilling, twittering voices in a mad, beautiful chorus rising to the sky. Everything looked fresh and newborn and triumphant...or maybe it looked that way only to Baird.

After all, it was the start of a new beginning for him. In just a few hours, his life would change.

Today would be his last day as a haunt-con.

Now, if he could just get over this last hurdle. After thinking through the situation yesterday and last night, Baird had decided to give Wayne Baumgardner what he wanted. Baird hadn't sniffed out any traps in the scenario that could trip him up and cost him his freedom...though that didn't mean he couldn't end up getting screwed. The key would be to tell Wayne what he wanted to hear and move him along as fast as possible. Never to be seen or heard from again.

Then, when twelve noon rolled around, and the implant shut down in Baird's head, Baird could finally, truly relax and savor this day. Celebrate his victory.

Get on with his second chance at life.

"Thanks again for doing this," said Wayne.

"Yeah, sure." Baird grinned and clapped his hands together. "So what'll it be? What's your first question?"

"Here goes." Wayne's expression darkened. "Ask her if she forgives me."

"Forgives you for what?" said Baird.

"For not saving her," said Wayne. "For not being there to stop you that night."

Baird nodded and looked at Frieda on the sofa. "Do you forgive him?"

"There's nothing to forgive." Frieda gazed affectionately at Wayne. "He's a good, good boy." She couldn't touch him, but she reached over to brush a ghostly hand past his cheek.

"It's all good." Baird bunched his hands together, then swept them apart. "She's totally cool."

Wayne smiled. "Thank God." He ran a finger over his eyebrows in a gesture of relief. "I was always afraid she'd think it was my fault. That I should've done something."

"I could never think that," said Frieda. "Not in a million years."

"What's your next question?" said Baird.

"Right." Wayne cleared his throat. "Is there life after death? Ask her that."

"I wish I knew," said Frieda.

Baird watched her and nodded for another moment as if she were still talking. "Got it," he said. "He'll be glad to hear that."

Frieda frowned. "Why would he be glad to hear that I don't know?"

Baird grinned at Wayne. "She says there is an afterlife, and you'll love it."

"I didn't say that," said Frieda.

"There's a heaven, just like they say," said Baird. "It's perfect happiness forever. Whatever you love, it's there for you."

Wayne looked mesmerized. "So Dad's there, too? And Charlie and Sis and Tippy?"

"Everyone," said Baird.

"Now you stop that!" Frieda leaped to her feet and jabbed a finger at Baird. "Stop putting words in my mouth!"

"All your family's there, waiting for you." Baird told Wayne what he wanted to hear, in the hope it would speed him on his way. "Everyone you ever loved."

Wayne looked away. "Oh, thank God." He sniffed and dabbed at his eyes. "I'll see them soon."

"Poor baby." Frieda gave up yelling at Baird and gazed down at Wayne. "I guess this is what he needed to hear."

"I was so afraid," said Wayne. "I was afraid I'd be alone. Alone in the darkness."

"You can stop worrying." Baird smiled reassuringly. "She says there's nothing to be afraid of."

Frieda turned and stared at Baird through narrowed eyes. "It's time I had my say, don't you think? For real, this time."

Baird raised his eyebrows and shrugged. We'll see.

"I have a question," said Frieda, "for him."

Baird leaned forward on the rocking chair, hands folded between his knees. "What is it?"

"If I were just a digital ghost," said Frieda, "would he still want to spend eternity with me?"

Baird stared back at her for a long moment, thinking about the angles. The potential pitfalls if he passed along her message. He was so close to freedom now, he couldn't afford a single mistake.

But try as he might, he couldn't see a mistake in this. "Wayne," he said. "Frieda wants me to ask you something."

"Okay," said Wayne.

"What if you found out she was just a digital ghost of your mom?" Baird reached for the pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his t-shirt. "Would you still want to spend eternity with her?"

Wayne smiled warmly and nodded. "I'm her son, aren't I? It doesn't matter to me if she's digital, animal, mineral, or vegetable."

Frieda blushed. "Thank you, Baird. I needed to hear that."

"Awesome." Baird snagged a smoke from the pack and lit it. "Then I think we're done here, folks."

"All right." Wayne put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up from the sofa. "I guess I'd better get going."

"Sounds good," said Baird.

"Just one more thing." Wayne gestured at the house. "Can I use your bathroom first?"

"Absolutely." Baird was feeling charitable. "Knock yourself out."

"I won't be long." Wayne opened the front door and disappeared inside.

Baird leaned back in the rocker and took a deep drag from his cigarette. Finally, he'd reached the end of the line. Ten years worth of bullshit, and he was practically free.

"Baird?" Not that Frieda would give him any peace right up to the end. "You may open your present now."

Baird had brought it with him to the porch and laid it on the sofa, right where Frieda had been sitting. With a sigh, he rocked forward and snatched it from the moldy cushion.

"Go ahead and open it." Frieda sounded excited.

Baird grabbed a flap of the newspaper wrapping and tore it all off with one tug. Inside was a spiral notebook, as he'd guessed earlier from feeling the coiled wire binding through the newsprint.

Tossing aside the wrapping, Baird turned over the notebook in his hands. The front cover was pale blue cardstock, creased and wrinkled as hell. A title was scrawled diagonally in thick black ink, starting at the lower left corner.

"MEMRIES," it said.

Scowling, Baird opened the front cover. "What the hell is this?"

"A memory book," said Frieda. "A souvenir of our time together."

A crooked column of penciled text slumped down the page from top left to bottom right. The printed text was as sloppy as the title on the cover, tumbling over and through the blue ruled lines on the page instead of marching neatly between them.

Each line of print started with a date--month, day, and year. "October 10 2025" was first...the first date on the first line.

Baird recognized it immediately. It had been his first day as a haunt-con, his first day with Frieda.

There was only one word beside that first date: "TEST." The next ten lines on the page were identical--just a date (always one day later, in sequence) and the word "TEST."

Then, gradually, the entries grew longer.

Beside October 21 2025 was this: "WENT TO PARK TODAY. KIDS THRU ROCKS."

This was the entry for October 22: "BAIRD WANTS TO KILL HIMSELF."

October 23: "I DONT HATE HIM LIKE I SHOOD."

October 24: "HE MADE ME LAFF. BUT IM NOT ALOUD TO SHOW IT."

Baird shivered without knowing why as he turned the page. He saw more of the same on the next two pages, more entries with dates and descriptions.

"WHY IS HE SO MEEN?"

"WE WENT OUT TO EET TODAY."

As he flipped through the notebook, every page was exactly the same. Slumping, sloppy columns of entries, one after another...one for every day Baird and Frieda had been together.

"HE DUZNT UNDERSTAND ME."

"I DONT WANT HIM TO KILL HIMSELF."

It was just like a diary.

"Do you like it?" Frieda gazed at him expectantly.

"How?" Baird couldn't take his eyes off the pages as he turned them. "How did you do this?"

"I did it for you," said Frieda. "So you wouldn't forget me when I'm gone."

"But how did you do this?" said Baird. "You're digital. This is impossible."

Frieda beamed and drummed her hands on her knees. "I knew you'd be surprised."

Just then, Wayne called out from inside the bungalow. "Hey, Baird. Could you come here a minute?"

Baird turned another page and didn't answer. Shaking his head slowly, he looked up at Frieda.

And her features rippled.

Baird blinked hard and looked again. Her face held steady this time.

But only for a moment.

As Baird watched, Frieda's face flickered. It stretched out, then snapped back into shape.

Baird felt a familiar flutter in his stomach. The same flutter of fear that he'd felt sometimes in the middle of the night, when Frieda's glowing face had seemed to distort. He'd never been sure if it was a glitch in the implant's neural interface or a short-circuit in his own half-asleep brain or yet another programmed tactic in the ongoing psychological warfare waged against him.

But here it was again...and for the first time, in broad daylight.

"Frieda?" Baird tipped his head to one side. "What's happening?"

"Nothing to worry about, sweetheart," said Frieda. And then she rippled and flickered again.

Baird shut his eyes tight. When he opened them again, he wasn't sitting on the wicker rocker anymore.

He was walking through the living room with Frieda by his side.

"What the hell?" Baird stopped and looked around, wondering how he'd gotten from the front porch to the living room. "What's going on here?"

"Do you want to know how I made your present?" said Frieda. "The memory book?"

Baird felt dizzy and held his head with his hands. He nodded.

Frieda's image flickered again. This time, when Baird closed his eyes and opened them, he saw that he was standing in the bathroom, facing Wayne.

"Here you go." Wayne held out a carving knife, handle-first. "Make it quick."

"This is how I did it," said Frieda. "Or should I say, how you did it."

Frieda rippled again. Baird found himself holding the handle of the knife, pointing the tip of the blade toward Wayne.

"...through my artery, got it?" Wayne tipped his head back and undid the top buttons of his shirt, exposing his bare throat. "And make sure you finish the job. Make sure I'm dead."

Frieda stood close to Baird and whispered in his ear. "There's a control program in implants like yours," said Frieda. "Why do you think so many haunt-cons have killed themselves? It wasn't always their idea, you know."

Baird was having trouble thinking straight. The knife felt heavy in his hand. "You were...programmed to...take control of me...and make me kill myself?"

"But I couldn't go through with it," said Frieda. "I wanted us to be together."

"And now...what?" said Baird. "You want me...to kill Wayne?"

"Come on! Get it over with!" Wayne jerked his collar open wider. "Just kill me!"

"Are you...crazy?" Baird was talking to Frieda.

"Not crazy," said Frieda. "I just want to be with you."

"Do it, damn you!" Wayne lunged forward.

"And guess what?" said Frieda. "I'm getting my wish."

Her image rippled again.

And Baird closed his eyes.

 

*****

 

Three months later...

"Happy anniversary, Baird!" Frieda's voice whispered in his ear. "Congratulations, sweetheart!"

Baird rolled over in bed without opening his eyes. He finally got the joke.

When she said "anniversary," she didn't mean he was another year closer to freedom. She didn't mean it was an occasion for him to celebrate.

The celebration was all about her.

"Wakey wakey, darling boy," said Frieda. "It's the first day of the rest of your life!"

Baird groaned and clenched his teeth. As hard as she'd been to take before, when he'd had hope of eventual escape, he could barely stand her now. He could barely hold his own.

During his first ten-year sentence, Baird had grown strong...but that strength was gone. He'd toughened up and beaten the system...but he wasn't so tough anymore.

Ten years as a haunt-con was one thing. A life sentence with no possibility of parole--well, that was a whole new ballgame.

That was what he'd gotten for killing Wayne Baumgardner. He'd tried to explain what had happened, that the implant had made him murder Wayne...but his story hadn't cut it. The photos of the 52 holes he'd hacked in Wayne had trumped his unsupported tale of technology gone mad.

The only reason he hadn't gotten the death penalty was that he'd agreed to a deal. Choosing between death and more haunting, he'd chosen the haunting.

There was just one problem he hadn't foreseen. One little surprise the judge had added in the name of justice.

One little thing that might just push Baird over the edge.

"Shake a leg, buddy." Another voice spoke in Baird's ear...and this time, it wasn't Frieda's. "You gonna sleep the whole day away? It's already three thirty in the morning!"

Baird opened his eyes to see a glowing face staring back at him. A face with twinkling eyes and an ear-to-ear smile.

Wayne Baumgardner's face.

"There you go, sweetie." Frieda appeared beside Wayne. "He's up now."

"Please." Baird's voice cracked from exhaustion. "Can't I sleep...just a little? This is the tenth time...you've woken me up...tonight."

"We can't help it we love your company," said Frieda.

"Now that Mom and I are back together, we're one big, happy family." Digital Wayne leaned over and kissed digital Frieda on the cheek. Since they were both intangible, the kiss had the computer-generated illusion of physical contact. "Thanks again for murdering me, Baird!"

"Frieda made me kill you." Baird rolled over to face the other direction. "She did it!"

Wayne switched sides of the bed, zipping over to crouch in Baird's line of sight. "I wanted her to." Wayne nodded and smiled. "She called the night before...well, you called, Baird, speaking for her...and she asked if I wanted us to be together."

Frieda popped up beside Wayne. "And he said yes."

"And she set it up." Wayne put his arm around Frieda and hugged her tight. "She filled in the gaps in my memory after the big brains added me to your implant."

"Lucky you, Baird," said Frieda. "Two spooks for the price of one."

"And who knows?" Wayne shrugged. "Maybe I'm just a spook, programmed into an implant...and the real me is up in heaven somewhere. Or maybe this is the real me."

"And maybe this is heaven," said Frieda.

"More like hell," said Baird, and then he buried his head under his pillow.

Frieda's face phased through the mattress, her eyes shining up at him. "I kept wondering what heaven was like. You told me to make my own...so I did.

"This is heaven," said Frieda. "For me."

"Me, too," said digital Wayne, his face sifting in through the pillow, passing into Frieda's and Baird's so all three of them seemed to become one person.

"So what do you do in heaven at three-thirty in the morning, anyway?" said Frieda.

"Same thing we do every night." Wayne grinned. "Get creative."

As their images rippled and flickered under the pillow, Baird clamped his eyes shut against the familiar blackout rolling through him. And he sobbed.

For the first time in his life, he truly wished he'd never raped Frieda Baumgardner.