Alastair had been right about the poltergeists. I didn’t particularly want to find out what else he might’ve been right about, but I needed to know more.
I closed my eyes and pictured that annoyingly lovely face. As I spirited, I braced myself for the pulse, chanced being pulled under the tide if the dancing started at sundown. But I found myself amidst a much smaller crowd, in a far closer space. They gathered in the sultry red and smoky blue of neon, better than a drunken haze for its glow of deceitful appeal.
That must have been why, even with twangy old country blues on the jukebox rather than the pulse, I figured I must’ve been back at the mansion. All the walls flashed naked brick under the plaster, and the floor made you look twice, with a different pattern of black and white tile snaking through the brown. Coiling along the ceiling were cheap Christmas lights that failed to illuminate the smoky din.
Yet most of the partygoers were holding what looked like beer. As I peered closer, their clothes gave them away, mostly jeans, all more or less modern, though some of the outfits had perhaps seen better days. Just like this bar. In the window, a neon sign proclaimed the name backward: Clementine’s.
For such a dive, there were so many people, wide-eyed tourists and trendy kids right alongside older locals and a couple of barflies paying no mind to the rabble. And on top of that were all the ghosts. If I couldn’t tell from their clothes, passing right through people gave them away.
One of the living backed into me, literally. We stood in the same space, our bodies overlapping, my soul exposed to his. For such a big guy, he couldn’t hold his drink. I laughed, because I couldn’t hold his drink, either. It made me stumble, my stomach suspended with panic, as I tried to plant my feet with no ground beneath them.
That must’ve been how the other spirits were getting drunk, picking up on the spins and giggles, bellowing and bravado. Yet despite all the rubbing elbows waiting for drinks and clusters looking to snatch seats, the ghosts stood untouched in the middle of what might become a dance floor after a couple more rounds. It was as if they were haunting each spot, giving every passing drinker enough of a sober chill to urge them elsewhere.
Alastair had his arm around a girl. She definitely looked modern, in her loose tank and yoga pants, not pretty, but thin and blonde. They made such an odd pair, but perhaps he liked them young. I wondered how long ago she had died, whether she’d gone to her wake and funeral and everything, mourning along with the family and friends she’d left behind—or if she’d come straight here.
As soon as he saw me, he let go of her, rushing over—then slowed down, like he could still play it cool. “Well, well,” he said, slightly louder than usual, possibly tipsy. “Looking for me?”
I tried my best to sound sober. “Don’t get too excited.”
“What are you having?”
“I’m not.”
I wouldn’t be able to stop at one more drink.
“It looks like I’ll need another, then.”
Blondie caught up to him, throwing her arms over his shoulders and letting her mouth brush his ear as she whined, “I wanna go dance.”
“So go,” he said, casual but firm. “I’ll catch you in the ballroom.”
She kept it classy and made sure to glare at me before sulking off.
“Why are there so many of us here?” I asked.
“Haven’t you heard?” He leaned in, his voice low, reveling in the showmanship. “It’s haunted.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to trespass any boundaries.”
“Do you see any of us breaking glasses, stacking chairs, harassing the staff? I’ve long taken care of the old geists that inspired the stories. It’s come back around as a cover for us.” He leaned just far back enough for me to see his conspiratorial grin. “Watch this.”
He put up his hand, and with an unnecessarily showy flick of his wrist, all the lights began to flicker. In the crowd, there were a few whoops and hollers, but other than that, nobody paid much mind, especially not any of the servers and cooks hard at work behind the counter.
“I told you there’s ghosts,” said one of the drinkers beside us.
“It’s an excuse not to renovate the wiring,” said her killjoy friend. “It’s not haunted, it’s falling apart.”
I squinted up at Alastair. “How come you get to spook the tourists, but I’m not supposed to reach out to my grieving family?”
“I’m not affecting anyone’s beliefs. This place is a stop on ghost tours. It’s hokey enough that nobody’s going to be swayed by anything they see, whether skeptic or believer, tourist or regular.”
“What about the staff?”
“They’re usually soused.”
I wouldn’t want to deal with both customers and ghosts while sober, either.
“And what if you did get someone’s attention?”
He beckoned me to follow him, toward the entrance, and then to the left, through a locked door. On the other side, up stairs that creaked without any weight on them, stretched a long hallway with peeling wallpaper and wooden planks exposed beneath like ribs. All the doors on either end, not to mention the red light, put me in mind of a real specific kind of shady hotel.
“Is this what I think it is?” I asked.
“These rooms were indeed once rented for that use.”
They still could have been, from the moans behind one of the doors. I had a vision like something out of my younger and wilder days of pushing him into the nearest bathroom, bending over the sink, getting him out of my system before drinking enough to forget him.
We were met by voices from the next room. It must’ve been used as an attic by the staff, who probably meant nothing by stashing that busted-up pool table and pinball machine and ancient jukebox up here and forgetting about them. All the drunken, shouting ghosts sure appreciated it, as if these were offerings to appease us.
As we ascended, all the ghosts we passed, peeking heads out of doors and bumping elbows in the hallway, cried out to him in greeting. Alastair hailed them, stopping for back slaps and fist bumps, even a couple of kisses of varying modesty. But he didn’t hog all their attention.
“Is that a fresh face?” asked a lady with a beehive hairdo.
“Who’s the rotter?” said a blonde girl with a mullet.
A man in a zoot suit grinned. “Got yourself a graveflower?”
I tried my best to nod and smile, acknowledge every potential start of conversation, even though I didn’t follow through on any of them. It had been so long since I’d been the center of attention, I’d forgotten what to do with it. I couldn’t have been any further from cool.
“Why don’t any of the living come up here?” I asked.
“Once they stopped renting out to ladies of the night, one of the original owners lived up here for the rest of her life, until she died. The new owner and staff believe she’s still here—and they’re right.”
We reached the end of the hallway, which opened into a lounge. Not as big as the one downstairs, but it had another small bar, still decked out with yellowing photos on the back wall and various vintage advertisements for alcohol no longer being served. In the corner, a tiny, wizened Black woman jangled away on a dusty, slightly out of tune old piano. Even with the jukebox downstairs, I doubted it would go unheard through the ceiling.
“Hot stuff, Clem,” said Alastair.
She looked up from her playing just long enough to wink.
“That’s not asking for trouble?” I said.
“On the contrary,” said Alastair. “The tourists love it.”
We passed between clusters of ghosts, each vying for his attention, wondering who I was and how I’d earned the coveted place on his arm. The cliques were divided by age, with older ghosts in longer skirts and gentlemanly hats around the piano, and younger ones mostly in jeans of varying wash and width on the barstools. Once we’d passed by, though, none of them followed us, familiar enough with his habits to know he wanted to be alone with me. Some of them might have known him for actual decades. I wondered how many girls he’d paraded around like this through the years. If they were still here, asking about me.
He sat us by the window, right beneath the neon bar sign, casting us in green light and stark shadow. So that was why he’d brought me up here. Showoff.
I repeated the question. “So why the boundaries, and the bad feeling in my gut, and all that? Who cares if we show ourselves?”
“Ask anyone who’s been here long enough, talked to enough people, corroborated stories. We all know of someone who’s tried showing themselves to the other side. Those souls tend to disappear.”
“What, like they finish their business and cross over?”
“They never get to finish relaying their message, or revealing themselves, or anything of the kind, before they vanish.”
“Why?” I asked.
“There must be someone out there who doesn’t want the world to know.”
I laughed, because I’d believed a lot longer than I ever doubted, as much as I resented it. I’d grown up fearing that somebody watched me through my ceiling. “You mean like some higher fucking power?”
“Aside from the way our souls sever from our bodies, that’s the best indication we have of somebody being in charge, after all. Who else could be cutting us off on account of free will?”
He leaned back, watching my face. I tried not to gulp.
I just hoped whoever watched over us wasn’t the same God my mother believed in. It would kill me—again—if she’d been right all along. And that guy could be such an asshole.
“What do they even care?” I asked.
“If any of us were exposed to a whole crowd of people—strangers, skeptics and believers alike—and they all confirmed with each other what they saw, same time, same place… that’s evidence. They can’t choose whether or not to believe, because now they simply know. That knowledge precludes any possibility of faith.”
“But only if it’s a bunch of people?”
“Well, if one person sees us, they’re crazy.”
As I’d always expected, the powers that be didn’t care too much for individual people. Like Ren.
“Even a few people, especially a household, could all be hysterical, or attention-seeking, or being slowly poisoned by carbon monoxide.”
“What about poltergeists?” I asked. “Do they ever go after anyone in particular?”
“I don’t believe so,” he said. “They don’t appear to notice their surroundings anymore, certainly not on the other side. Any havoc they wreak strikes me as accidental, just a manifestation of their grief.”
“And that could happen to any of us?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“How do you know any of this?” I asked.
“I don’t,” he said. “But I’ve been around for a while, and I’ve been paying attention.”
“So where do we go?” I asked. “After we cross?”
He shrugged. “You tell me.”
I’d spent my early years in constant, quiet terror of divine retribution. Even back when I tried to behave—fighting the impulse to fidget in itchy church dresses, keeping still, not jiggling my leg during Mass and classes, repressing the urge to throw paper and steal pencils to get my crush of the week to glance my way—I’d known, deep down, that wasn’t the real me. No amount of good grades and keeping my room clean and wasting weekends babysitting ever seemed to appease my mother anyway. I could only take being tightly wound for so long before I’d finally snapped and started being myself, trying to wash down my existential dread with booze and older boys’ hands down my jeans.
And then, when I moved out for college, I realized I didn’t have to believe in hell or anything else. Especially after I finally gave in and started hooking up with girls, because I refused to give anyone the satisfaction of loathing myself for that when I had so many other so-called sins to choose from instead.
Now, I didn’t have a choice about believing or not.
I coughed up a bitter laugh. “I’ll be damned.”
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” he said, rising. “I’m sure you’re not that interesting. If I’m wrong, then as long as you’re here, we may as well enjoy it.”
He loomed over me, once again offering his upheld palm. I wanted nothing more than to take it. Not just to soothe the pins and needles in my numb skin with the warmth of his touch. If I danced with him, I could forget all about my death and potential damnation. I need only take his hand.
I flexed my fingers with a sigh. “Pass.”
“Are you kidding me?” His accent disappeared for a moment, as if he’d gotten mad enough to forget where he’d come from. “Do you realize no one’s ever resisted joining us this long? Not a soul.”
“Really?” I gulped, not wanting him to hear the unexpected lump in my throat. “Does nobody give a shit about the ones they’ve left behind?”
I’d already ditched my sister once before. Well, I hadn’t been allowed to see her, post-disownment. But I’d done a lot of partying on the road, while she grew up without me. I couldn’t do it again—especially if she thought I was suffering eternal torment.
Alastair’s voice went low, his eyes far more earnest than I would’ve expected. “They choose not to grieve alone.”
I looked away, digging my nails into my palms, because no fucking way would I tear up in front of him. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d been grieving. I’d been trying my best not to stop and feel it, keeping myself busy with my own arrangements.
No need to reveal my plans. I shot him a glare instead. “I bet you’d like having me cry on your shoulder, wouldn’t you?”
“If you need to cry, that’s as far as I’d touch you,” he said. Then, just as I’d expected, his sincerity gave way to a smirk. “After your tears are dry, I’d be glad to offer all kinds of comfort.”
My skin flushed, hinting at just how much our apparent bodies were still capable of doing, the memory of hot blood rushing through my phantom limbs. But I tried my damnedest not to give him the satisfaction of showing it, fighting the urge to squirm. I couldn’t believe I’d managed to resist joining the fun for this long. If I stayed any longer, my self-restraint might not hold out. It would be all too typical for me to give up and blow off what I owed to Cris.
I brandished some finger guns. “See you in hell.”