Halfway In

Endings are not always bad; most times they’re just beginnings in disguise. Kim Harrison He was an asshole. He made everything so much harder than it needed to be. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t just help me. It wasn’t fair. I was . . . dead. I didn’t even remember how I died. I didn’t remember anything about myself actually—name, age, favorite fucking color. In movies the Ghost Whisperer was supposed to guide the lost soul. Clearly the movies got it wrong. “What do you mean, my door?” I asked.  This was the most he’d said to me in...

Being a private investigator wasn’t all that different from being an actual detective: footwork, paperwork, and sitting around with our thumbs up our asses. This morning I was going to waste a few hours sitting outside some douchebag’s home to find out if his wife was having an affair. It promised to be brain-leaking boring—shit like this always was—but the paycheck was too nice to pass up and if she was cheating, the guy deserved to know.  I had zero reservations about informing him—I had a special dislike for cheaters. It was the worst thing you could do to a...

Today, the woman did nothing but clean her house. We left when her husband came home and Sekani drove us straight to a craft store. “I’ve done this before.” Excitement rushed through me as we walked through the art section. I remembered picking up pencils and sketch books, tossing them into a cart so I could move along to canvas and paints. Reaching out, I pressed my fingers against one of the black spiral-bound books. It was easy to touch and hold things—I’d learned how while haunting Sekani. If nothing else came of this, he’d made me a better ghost....

There were two ways to become a spirit medium—supernatural at all, actually: genetics, or event-based.  Me, I was born with a little extra-spicy DNA. Who gave me the extra spice—a parent or some distant relative—I didn’t know. River’s affinity for ghosts was event-based. And my fault. You hang around a guy who hangs around ghosts long enough, and shit happens—accidents happen. You get possessed once, twice, maybe three times if you’re really unlucky.  Maybe someone uses your door—because we all have doors that follow us around, even if they aren’t available to use while we’re alive—and ghosts stop being imaginary....

The body in the hospital bed was me.  I wasn’t dead. Was I dying then?  The woman in the room with my body smiled when she saw Sekani. It didn’t make sense. He offered her a cup of coffee. “Sorry. It took a little longer than expected. I’m Sekani Aelor.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it to her. The woman looked down at the card, a small frown pulling her brows. “Did someone hire you?” She looked up at Sekani. “In a manner of speaking. Do you recognize this young man?” Sekani pulled...