Immortal

On my way to work, I pass the worn-out white cottage where I lived as a little kid. The windows are boarded up. So is the door. I expect it’ll be put up for auction. I expect it’ll go cheap. Nobody’s moving to Spirit, Texas.

Every year, the high school grads pack up and leave—one or two for college, the rest for jobs in bigger towns. And every other week, a crowd gathers at the funeral parlor to pay their respects to one of the old folks. Death is the most lucrative business in town.

It seems like everyone dies or leaves. But I’m not going anywhere. Spirit is home. It’s the little piece of the world that makes sense to me, which, lately, is saying a lot.

“Cody Stryker!” exclaims the teenage daughter of the new mayor—the one who’s going to turn the empty store-fronts into antique shops and the abandoned houses into bed-and-breakfasts and offer Spirit a future again, or so he says. “Wait,” she pleads. “I need to talk to you.”

I pause, turn. Did I say nobody moves here? The girl standing in front of me this evening is an exception to that rule. Last fall, Ginny Augustine and her folks arrived in Spirit after the bank foreclosed on their home in The Woodlands.

Typically, you have to live in town for at least a year before running for office, but nobody else wanted the job, so the city council passed a waiver and Mr. Augustine ran unopposed.

I feel a faint flash of guilt when she blinks, startled. “Well,” Ginny begins again, “someone’s cranky. Here’s the deal: I’m going to handle ticket sales for you. Cool, huh?” When I don’t reply, she adds, “You know, at the theater. Movies? Tickets?”

For the first time in more than fifty years, the Old Love Theater will open tonight at 8 P.M. After Uncle Dean’s death, I sold off a third of his cattle, his antique gun, and his fishing boat to make the down payment. None of it was worth much, but neither is the Old Love.

It’s reassuring to have somewhere to be on a night-tonight basis, though, to have another purpose beyond satisfying my thirst. To have something else to think about besides the night I faced down my uncle for the last time.

At sixteen, she’s girl-next-door pretty, medium height and curvy. Her teeth are even and pearly white. Long, honey-blonde hair frames her friendly face. What with the powder blue baby T that reads sassy in rhinestones and her faded denim cutoffs, Ginny looks like she was born and bred in Spirit, like a real small-town girl.

“Really?” Ginny asks, shoving a sandal-clad foot in the doorway. “You mean you’re going to run the projector, pop the corn, restock the concession stand, ring up food and drinks, vacuum the carpet, change the toilet paper, and do . . . whatever managers do—paperwork and bills—all by yourself? Think about it, cowboy. How do you plan to sell tickets and handle concessions at the same time?”

On one hand, I don’t want to encourage her. On the other, I don’t need any trouble from her leaving pissed off. I don’t need trouble—period. I wish she would just take off. “I’m not opening the concession stand.”

“Well, there go your profits! You’re charging—what?—three bucks a show? I know people around here are cheap, but do you have any idea what, say, electricity alone is going to cost? It’s summer. It’s Texas. Think: air conditioning.”

Honestly, I hadn’t considered that. It’s not like I have an MBA or anything. I just graduated from high school a couple of weeks ago. I used to mow lawns in the summer, but this will be my first real job off the ranch. I may have been over-ambitious.

“Plus,” Ginny goes on, “insurance, taxes, and you might want to advertise the place as a tourist attraction. The founders of Spirit were key players in the early days of the Republic, and historical tourism is becoming—”

“Enough.” She’s a politician’s daughter, all right. Opening the door wider, knowing I’ll regret it, I say, “Come in. We’ll talk.”

I wonder what, if anything, she knows about the building’s tragic history, its lingering reputation. A teenage girl—Sonia Mitchell—was found dead in a storage closet in 1959. Another girl, Katherine something-or-other—Vogel maybe—went missing for good. She was new in town, like Ginny, and her body was never found. Both girls worked at the theater. And again, like Ginny, both girls were sixteen.

Everyone hereabouts has heard the story. Partiers have busted in over the years, too, and every now and then a whole pack would run out hollering about a ghost.

There’s no denying that the theater has an eerie quality to it. Over the past week, I’ve seen the letter “S” written in the dust and wiped it away again and again. Once or twice, I could’ve sworn I heard a soft voice coming from somewhere in the building. Enticing, musical, feminine . . . I’m starting to hear it in my dreams.

Instead, I take in my new business, trying to see it the way tonight’s customers will. It’s a grand old place with a huge antique crystal chandelier, built when cotton was king. Granted, the gold and crimson wallpaper is faded, and the blood-red carpet is worn. So are the red upholstered seats in the screening room—both on the main floor and up in the balconies. But there’s still a romance to the place, a whisper of the past.

Besides, my mom loved it. Every time we passed by, she’d say the Old Love was a ghost of the glory days of Spirit, a reminder of who we’d been and could become again.

“Hmm,” Ginny says, scanning the lobby before brightening. “I know! We can lay out candy and popcorn on the counter, post prices, and provide a box with a slot in it so that people can pay on the honor system. Like at the library for folks with fines on overdue books.”

That makes two of us. The thing about living forever, I suddenly need a long-term financial plan. And, I realize, so far as Ginny is concerned, there aren’t any other jobs within walking distance. I bet she used to have a flashy car. I bet it was repossessed.

I can’t help wondering if there’s more to her being here than that. Not to be conceited, but I’m fairly good-looking. I’ve got Mom’s blue eyes, and they stand out against my deep brown skin, slick black hair, and the sharp features I inherited from whoever was my dad. I’m wiry but solid enough from working on Uncle Dean’s ranch.

The locals, on the other hand, they pity me. When my mom died, everyone said what a shame it was for me to be orphaned at only ten. They saw my bruises in the years that followed. And they knew what Uncle Dean was like.

For a long time, I thought sooner or later somebody would report him to social services—a preacher, a teacher, the school nurse—but it never happened.

Ginny is looking at me with an oddly knowing smile, and I realize she’s waiting for my decision. I can’t help thinking she may be useful. I can’t help wondering if she has a boyfriend. But spending quality time around that flesh-and-blood girl is intrinsically problematic. The flesh is a problem. The blood is a problem. At any given moment, it’s a toss-up which is worse. “Okay,” I say. “You’re hired.”

After a ridiculous amount of negotiation, I agree to ten cents above minimum wage, send Ginny home to change into a white button-down shirt, black slacks, and black shoes, and tell her to come back in a couple of hours.

Unlocking the door to my cramped office, I’m less than thrilled to realize that I may need to hire a second person. Someone local. Quiet.

Within the next few years, I need to sew up an understanding with the good people of Spirit. They may not know what I am, but they’ll figure it out over time. On the off chance that Ginny’s daddy’s “revitalization” plan works, I’ll be here for generations. I need to reassure them that my presence is no more threatening than the fact that Edwina Labarge collects snow globes or that Betty Mueller talks to her dead husband or that Miss Josefina and Miss Abigail have been “roommates” for more than thirty years.

I’ll need front people, I realize, so that the customers who drive in from nearby towns don’t notice that the “young” owner never seems to age.

Inside the office, I hit the ceiling-fan light, and begin sifting through the old newspapers and boxes, looking for one that will do for the concession stand.

The headline of a yellowed copy of The Spirit Sentinel from June 13, 1959, catches my eye. It reads “City Mourns Daughter; New Girl Missing.”

I lift it, studying the black and white picture—Sonia’s dimple and laughing eyes. I trace the hairline around her lovely face. Sixteen forever.

Reaching into my small half-fridge, I grab a bottle of blood, pour a quarter of it into a Texas A&M mug, and pop that into the microwave on the shelf.

It’s funny. I used to roll my eyes at all those media stories about the trouble kids get into on the Internet. How every generation of grown-ups assumes that whatever’s new—from flapper dresses to rock-and-roll to the World Wide Web—is automatically a sign of the apocalypse. My theory was that parenthood triggered amnesia followed by paranoia, though I had to admit it would’ve been nice to have someone who cared.

Not long after Uncle Dean cracked one of my ribs, I heard at school that there was this guy in Athens, Georgia, selling a “power elixir” on the ’net. I figured it was some kind of steroid cocktail. Probably risky, but it’s not like my life was all that safe to begin with. Anyway, the guy supposedly supplied a vat of the stuff to the Varsity football team in El Paso that took state last year.

Someone has used a finger to write something in the condensation on the glass. It looks like the letter “S.” It wasn’t there a moment ago. She’s getting bolder, making a bigger play for my attention. It’s flattering, I admit. “Sonia?”

“Not bad.” I have to give her credit. In Ginny’s make-do theater uniform, complete with ponytail, she looks like the picture of all-American wholesomeness. She also had her mom swing by Wal-Mart (two towns north) and they picked up ice, several two-liter plastic bottles of coke (diet, regular, Dr Pepper, Sprite), and several discounted packages of candy bars. It’s quite the display of enthusiasm, of spirit, you might say.

She grins and grabs a black marker to write out prices and instructions for paying on the honor system. Ginny brought the marker and poster board with her too. I set the box from my office on the counter before she got back. It’s already been wrapped in bright gold paper, another Wal-Mart purchase.

My gaze lands on the skin over her jugular. Luckily for Ginny, I’m able to buy fresh-shipped “provisions” from the same site that sold me the original dose.

The night I buried my uncle’s body behind the barn, I received an e-mail from the vendor, telling me I qualified for “special customer status” and giving me a code to log in for future purchases. What I found was a series of pages within the site that included a long question-and-answer document about our kind, information on how to mix various blood-wine blends, and from there, an online dating service (“Love That Lasts”) extended to all registered members at no additional fee. I admit to clicking through it, despite everything amused by the ads for growing your fangs and shrinking your thighs and finding your “eternal consort.” I have no intention of going there.

I may be an easy mark, helping to finance some other fiend’s long-term retirement. But I got what I wanted. Now I can defend myself against anyone.

Looking out the theater window onto Main Street, I’m pleased to see a line has already formed—a handful of teenagers and a county deputy with his wife.

This week, I’m showing Phantom of the Opera. I’ve scheduled The Haunting with Vincent Price, Ghostbusters, and Ghost for the three weeks after that.

I’m taking advantage of the place’s spooky rep. I hope Sonia doesn’t mind. More and more, whenever I fix a loose board or vacuum the carpet or add Crème Caramel potpourri to the ladies’ room, I can’t help wondering if Sonia approves. I can’t help feeling like I’m trying to impress her.

School has been out for a couple of weeks now. The newness of summer has already worn off. Football players and cheerleaders are in double practices, but they’re done by sundown and eager to blow off steam. I should be able to pack in the locals and folks from nearby towns, if only because there’s nothing better to do.

“Three minutes,” I announce, noticing that the line outside is longer now. Much of it is curiosity, I’m sure. But I can build on that.

I can stand the sunlight, though it seems to weaken me. Just like Ginny’s bright smile. She half skips toward the ticket counter and then, with a “Whoa,” goes flailing. Without thinking, I pour on the supernatural speed in time to stop her fall.

During life, I didn’t have friends my age, not in-person friends anyway, just some people I’d chat with on the Internet. It never occurred to me that I’d feel pulled toward someone now. I know better than to care. I ask anyway. “Are you okay?”

Ginny’s doing a bang-up job at the register. She’s all “yes’m” and “yes sir” with the grown-ups, amicable with the teens, and a charming reassurance that, despite the “haunted” theater and its murderous history, the ghost-movie theme is tongue-in-cheek. We’re all just having fun here.

Meanwhile, I’m serving up another row of cokes. It’s great. With the honor pay system, I don’t really have to interact with the costumers.

“Yes, sir.” I keep my voice level. I’ve never been in trouble with the law. In fact, I’m known as decent enough—as someone who’s had a hard life, but who’s respectable, graduated with honors. “Welcome to the Old Love, deputy.”

“How’s your uncle doin’?” he asks, grabbing a coke and a box of Milk Duds and a package of red licorice. “Some boys at Hank’s Roadhouse were askin’ about him.”

I knew that, sooner or later, the questions would come. It hurts to be reminded that Uncle Dean had buddies, that there was a better side to him, one I only glimpsed on the rare holiday or when he’d score a big buck.

I swallow the lump in my throat, make a show of glancing both ways, and meet the deputy’s eyes dead on. Lowering my voice, I amp my drawl to match his. “Between you and me?”

“I’m thinkin’ he finally pissed off the wrong man. High-tailed it to Matamoros before the guy came after him. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

The deputy takes that in. “Good riddance,” he mutters as he starts to walk off. Then after handing the coke to his wife, he turns back toward me, and adds, “I’m glad to see you makin’ something out of yourself. Your mama was a fine woman.”

For a while, I pour more drinks and offer a “hey” or “howdy” now and then as customers make their selections and pay. But it’s not long before I notice the ruckus at the ticket counter.

Ben Mueller was a year behind me in high school. His older brother plays football for Baylor, his mom teaches at the elementary school, and his dad owns a used car dealership on the highway. His granddaddy, Derek Mueller, died two years ago of a heart attack after serving as sheriff for four decades. Ben himself is popular, a solid all-around athlete, and church-going. I only know him by reputation, but he smirks a lot and looks like one of those fungible blond guys on the CW.

Behind him, Tricia, the lady who owns the beauty shop, is whispering with her best friend, Martie. They’re the unofficial news hotline. If the Old Love becomes known as a place for “wild young hooligans,” it’s all over. I’ve got to deal with this fast and without making a bigger scene.

I grab his arm, and I can tell he’s surprised by the strength of my grip. I stare him in the eye, realizing I’m a couple of inches taller. According to the FAQ on my blood dealer’s site, some of us have the power to enthrall the traumatized or weak-willed. It’s worth a try. Keeping my voice steady, I say, “You’re going to take off now.”

I’m surprised that it worked. Again, I don’t know Ben well, but I’d never tag him as weak, and as for trauma, anyone could tell he’s led a charmed life.

“My hero!” Ginny exclaims, and there’s real appreciation in her voice. Then she beams at the two ladies next in line. “May I help y’all?”

After the last customer settles in, I get Phantom of the Opera running from up in the projector room. Then I hear Ginny call my name. She sounds shocked, terrified.

I half fly downstairs and burst through the swinging door into the ladies’ room where she’s pointing at GET OUT, written on the mirror in plum-colored lipstick.

It wasn’t there before we opened. I didn’t notice anyone walking into the room before the movie started. From the look on her face, I’m pretty sure Ginny didn’t do it, but the color of the lettering matches her lips. She grabs the tube from the counter.

It must have been Sonia. I didn’t know she could do that, move objects. In any case, it’s starting to look like she wants to keep the place to herself. I don’t understand. We’re still getting to know each other, but it was going so well.

Ginny opens the small storage cabinet to grab a spray bottle of glass cleaner and a roll of paper towels. “What did you do to Ben?” she asks in a measured voice, and I realize how sloppy I’ve been.

If I want to stay above suspicion, I’m going to have to learn to deal with people—especially run-of-the-mill troublemakers—without using my powers. No more enthralling. For that matter, no more super speed.

It’s a bigger question than she realizes. I’m not sure I know the answer. “You can talk to me,” I say. “Ask anyone. I’m no gossip.” That’s true enough.

On our way, I fill her in on the history, characterizing the haunting as local folklore. From Ginny’s severe expression, I figure she either finds the idea of ghosts offensive or blasphemous or, at the moment, she’s invested in a more corporeal issue.

I let us in, take the desk chair, and wait, trying not to let my impatience show. We can’t stay in here long with the door closed. She’s still a minor after all.

There’s something about her, though, some strange connection between us. I’ve said more words to Ginny today than I probably have to anyone in the last year.

Ginny crosses her arms. “I don’t know the people of Spirit that well yet, nowhere nearly as well as they know each other. I didn’t know about Ben.”

She takes a seat. “I . . . We went to prom together. Ben got a motel room on the highway afterward. I thought it meant one thing. He thought it meant, um—”

“I understand,” I say. A lot of guys have expectations about prom. I can’t help wondering how badly Ben took “no” for an answer. The fact that he was still hassling Ginny tonight suggests it was an ugly scene.

“Yes,” Ginny pauses, standing again. “No. I’m fine. It’s just . . . I never meant for things to turn out this way. I never thought going on one lousy date would—”

Once the last happy customer leaves, Ginny skips across the lobby with a large black trash bag. “Let’s get this over with and go celebrate!” With that, she flashes that sunshine grin and disappears into the screening room.

Celebrate? I’m going to have to sit her down and explain that we’re employee and employer, that we can’t ever be anything more. Except . . . she could use a friend right now. “Hang on,” I say. “Let me help you.”

I grab a bag, and then it dawns on me that I should probably hit the restrooms first. So, I head down the hall, my steps slowing when I hear the mysterious voice again. “Sonia?” Is that her singing? “Sonia!”

I let the plastic bag slip from my fingers onto the red carpet and begin walking faster in the direction of the sound. It’s louder, clearer with each step I take.

I’ve heard the song before. Spirit only gets three radio stations—one in Spanish, one that plays country western, and one that plays golden oldies. It’s a 1950s hit, “To Know Him Is to Love Him.” It’s kind of sweet and kind of insipid and, once you’ve heard it, it’s hard to get out of your head for the rest of the night.

The voice leads me to the door of a dingy break room that, in the push toward the grand re-opening, I decided to worry about later. I’m reaching for my keys when the supposedly locked door opens on its own.

Inside, the temperature is cooler, much cooler than it should be, especially with the vents shut. I’m greeted by the sight of a sink and cabinets, an empty space where a full-size refrigerator used to be, a beat-up table big enough for six, and five metal chairs.

From behind, I hear something smack the table. Turning fast, I see the dust still flying up from where the little cloth-bound book landed. I walk over, and the song dissipates with each step I take, ending altogether when I pick up the . . . it’s a diary.

I flip through the entries, each signed with the letter “S.” I slip out an old photo of a lovely dark-haired girl, the same girl whose photo is on the front page of the 1959 copy of The Spirit Sentinel in my office. She’s cuddling a tabby kitten.

Ginny is easy enough to figure out. But Sonia? The singing, the diary, even the mysterious “S” here and there all seem a lot more welcoming than the GET OUT in the bathroom. Does she really want me to leave, or is she just playing along with the haunted-theater theme?

When I reach the screening room, she’s clutching her right forearm. Blood is dripping through her fingers. I can smell it. I can almost taste it. I feel my fangs slide.

I jog to her side. “What happened? Did you cut yourself on a chair?” They’re old, and the heavy cushioned seats fold down. She could’ve torn her skin on a spring.

“No.” Ginny lifts her hand from her arm to show me three short, deep scratches. They look like fingernail marks. Sounding mystified, she adds, “It was like being clawed by the wind.”

Embarrassed by the misunderstanding, I’m already unbuttoning by the time she’s finished the sentence. I fold the material as best I can and tie it around her arm.

“My hero,” Ginny says again. She rises on her toes to kiss my cheek and, losing her balance, her lips land, lingering, on my throat instead. “About that celebration. . . .”

Later, at my uncle’s ranch, I walk to his unmarked grave behind the barn. I buried him deep, wrapped in a Mexican blanket. The ground is bare, packed hard. I try to tell myself it’s more fitting that he’s here instead of at the old cemetery in town. Uncle Dean loved this land as much as he was capable of loving anything.

Now, I’m surfing the Web at the dining-room table, drinking microwave-heated blood and researching ghosts. Sonia’s history does track with what I’ve learned so far. Her death was traumatic. Her murderer was never caught. In the spirit world, that’s textbook “unfinished business.” A reason to haunt. And it’s clear that Sonia wants me to know who she is—writing her initial and giving me the diary are clear enough hints.

According to the newspaper article, though, Sonia was a sweetheart. She used to teach Sunday school and run errands for her elderly neighbors. A quick skim of the diary—peppered with initials—confirms that she was a good-hearted girl with loopy handwriting and typical teen angst: home-work, a boy (“D”), a rival girl (“K”). She adored Elvis (“E”), had a kitten named Peso (“P”), and collected toys at Christmas for the poor.

Maybe Sonia thinks I’m a threat to Ginny, and she wants me to know she’s on to me. I’m not sure why she attacked Ginny, though. Maybe in her ghostly state, Sonia’s confused. Or maybe she’s trying to protect Ginny by scaring her off.

I guess there’s always the possibility that the Old Love is home to more than one ghost. Katherine, the girl who went missing, is probably K. According to the diary, she and Sonia didn’t get along in life. But there’s no hard evidence of more than one entity, and the singing voice that lead me to Sonia’s diary in the break room matched the accusing one that whispered “murderer.”

In any case, I can’t overlook the lipstick message or the fact that Ginny was injured. If I can’t somehow convince Sonia (or whomever) that I’m not dangerous, I’ll need to force her out. Either that or my effort to resurrect the Old Love is over.

Why would Ben call here? Does he seriously think Ginny came home with me last night? It’s not like I’ve got any kind of rep with girls. Then again, he knows Ginny better than I do, and considering the way she kissed my neck. . . .

Still, calling after the way they fought earlier, that’s stalker behavior. Maybe Sonia’s right to fret Ginny’s safety, only she’s worried about the wrong guy.

The following evening, patrolling the theater hallway, I don’t hear any singing. I don’t step into a cold spot. I don’t see a fresh letter “S” written anywhere.

Today I was the one who fetched refreshments. I also made some calls, ordered a regular shipment of candy, popcorn, and coke. Tonight I have to put Sonia to rest.

Ginny comes bounding into the lobby at 7 P.M. sharp. She’s wearing a different white shirt, its sleeves down and buttoned at the wrists.

“No!” I exclaim. At Ginny’s expression, I add, “Not you.” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave. We’re not opening tonight. There’s. . . . Someone’s here. This is going to sound crazy, but she’s a—”

Wow. That was the last reaction I would’ve expected. I can’t help admiring Ginny’s bravery, though. Maybe we could have a future after all, if we’re willing to fight for it.

I glance at my mom’s Bible, wrapped in a kitchen towel, on the concession counter. I don’t know whether I’ll burst into flames if I touch it. I don’t know what I’m doing at all. Even though Sonia lashed out at Ginny, I can’t help having mixed feelings about taking her on. After all, I’m no innocent, and by all accounts, she used to be.

“Seriously, let’s do it now.” Ginny takes a step in my direction, only to be violently shoved back by a whirlwind, a fierce wall of air, separating us.

Candy and cups fly off the counter, splattering coke. A bloody slash appears on Ginny’s forehead. The crystal chandelier shakes and sways.

“Sonia!” I shout, trying to reach Ginny. “Sonia, please! Listen to me! You’re making a mistake! Don’t you see? You’re hurting her!”

Ginny is knocked onto her back. She struggles like she’s being choked by invisible hands. She kicks with both legs. Then she’s lifted, spun, and dropped again.

For a split second, I wonder if Sonia is jealous, if the girls are fighting over me. But then Sonia wails “murderer, murderer!” again.

“You’re right! Sonia, you’re right!” I never intended to kill my uncle, even though sooner or later, he probably would’ve killed me. I just wanted to become stronger, strong enough to protect myself. I didn’t know that the blood lust would come with that strength. I hadn’t gained control of it yet. “Sonia, stop! Please! Punish me!”

I’m resigned to face her judgment when Ben tears into the lobby from the service hallway. He has a battle-axe in one hand and—dear God—the decapitated heads of Ginny’s parents, by the hair, in the other.

“Sonia!” I duck a box of Milk Duds that whizzes by. I want to help. I need to, but the supernatural wind is holding me back. “Let her go! He’ll kill her!”

Ginny looks so small, huddled on the red carpet. We’ve known each other only a couple of days, but she’s brought sunshine into my life and made me feel like I belong in the glow. It’s not love. It’s the hope of love. But it’s the closest I’ve come to it since I was ten years old. If Ginny wants me, how can I be a monster?

I reach for the Bible again and hold it over my head, ignoring the pain. “In the name of. . . .” I raise my voice, start again. “In the name of the Father, the Son—”

With a roar, Ginny raises her face. Her mask of innocence melts away, and I see her for what she is. Undead. Demonic. Like me, a vampire.

“I was going to tell you,” Ginny says, her voice pleading. “When your profile showed up on the system, I thought it was a sign.” Her shoulder jerks, struck by the ghost. “I want the kind of love that lasts.”

“Sonia!” she screams. “Don’t you have anything better to do? You were a loser in life, and you’re still a loser now. I told you this town would be mine someday!”

So, Ginny was the one who killed Sonia. Sonia was never trying to scare her off, to protect her from me. When Sonia said “murderer,” I wasn’t the one she was talking about. Ginny had been Katie, Katherine, the girl whose body was never found.

From her crouched position, Ginny lunges at Ben as a swath of blood appears across her torso, staining the white shirt. She knocks the axe from his hand and kicks his boots out from under him. He’s no match for her.

“Let me help him,” I say, and the ghostly force dies as quickly as it rose. I vault over the concession stand, snatch the axe from the carpet, and stand between them.

For a moment, I see the hope in Ginny’s eyes. Unlike Ben, she knows that I’m one of her kind. She’s already admitted that she wants me. She’s already called me her “hero” twice. I slowly shake my head, leaving no doubt about my intentions.

“You wouldn’t,” Ginny breathes as reality sinks in. She’s been beaten by me, Sonia, and Ben together. Her voice is resigned. Her last words are: “Daddy had such big plans.”

“I tried to warn her off,” Ben adds. “I tried to scare her off. I went to my family for help, but nobody believed me. She didn’t seem like a vampire, you know?”

What happened here will stay with Ben for a long time. He isn’t the kind of person who can destroy someone else, even something else, without it weighing on him. I know how he feels and then some.

It’s been two weeks since that night, since the last time I noticed any sign of Sonia. I already miss her. I’m sorry for having doubted her goodness, and I’m glad that the monster who killed her will never hurt anyone again.

Ben and I burned Ginny’s and her parents’ bodies (heads too) behind my barn. We buried the axe, which he’d taken from the mayor’s office, near my uncle.

The next day Ben fibbed to his aunt Betty that the Augustines had packed up and left in the middle of the night for some six-figure job that the mayor landed up north. Ben explained that Ginny told him her dad was too embarrassed to own up to running out on the town after all his big promises. He claimed that’s what their spat in the ticket line had been about.

Betty repeated the story the next day at the beauty shop, and it’s become common knowledge since. The deputy is circulating a petition to put his own name on a mayoral ballot. I signed it last week.

Turns out, Ben’s not a bad guy. His granddad, Sheriff Derek Mueller, had been the vampire hunter who originally chased the Augustines out of town back in the day. The sheriff had passed on what he’d seen, what he’d learned, to Ben so Ben would know what to do if the homicidal undead ever swung back through town.

Ben has decided to work at the Old Love and save up for college. Apparently, being a good athlete by Spirit standards isn’t necessarily the same as being scholarship material. Facing down the undead has grown him up a lot.

He doesn’t know what I am, not yet, but he took it well when I explained about Sonia. I hope that when the day comes, when he realizes I’m not just another home-town boy, he thinks back on what happened and gives me the benefit of the doubt.

Tonight after the Ghostbusters save New York City, I thank Ben for a good night’s work, lock the front door behind him, and once again hear Sonia singing “To Know Him Is to Love Him.”

When I look toward the voice, I see Sonia herself for the first time. She’s taken over one of my jobs, wiping down the concession counter, like it’s no big deal.

Sonia is a see-through figure in a uniform not much different than the one Ginny wore, except that Sonia’s includes a red vest with a gold patch that reads “Love Theater.”

“Sonia,” I say in case she didn’t understand what happened, “your murderer has been destroyed. It’s over. You can move on now. You can, uh, go into the light.”

Sonia tilts her head. “It wasn’t all about justice.” Her voice has a hollow quality to it. “Tell me, Cody. Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Staring at her, God help me, I just might. I read on the Web that the more you believe in a ghost, the stronger your feelings for them, the more substantial they become.

With each passing second, Sonia appears more solid, more alive. And I have to admit, in some ways, we would be perfect for each other. We’re both tied to this old theater, we’ll both be teenagers forever, and we’re both dead. Even better, I don’t have to worry about physically hurting her. No flesh. No blood. No problem.

This could become more than the hope of love. It could become the real thing. But there’s something she has to be told first. She may not know what happened at my uncle’s ranch, but I thought she’d figured out what I am from the bottle of blood in the office mini-fridge. I guess Sonia didn’t realize what the liquid was or maybe in her ghostly state, some details are fuzzy.

“Sonia,” I begin again as she floats toward me. “There’s something you should know. I’m a monster, the same kind of monster—”

Her cool fingertips press against my lips, and in her gaze, I see complete understanding, total acceptance. “No,” Sonia says. “You’re not.”