Balls Deep

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...

Was it against department regulations? Yes. Could Barnet lose her job of almost fifteen years if anyone ever found out? Yes. Did she still show up with Callum’s case file after her shift? Yes. I took the file from her outstretched hand and flipped through it quickly. Several witnesses had identified the car, but there was no indication whoever was working Callum’s case had done more than a basic search on the make and model.  No mention of collecting surveillance tapes or traffic camera footage. It mentioned where the accident happened, the time of night, the weather conditions, a few...

Now that everyone was asleep, the house was quiet.  What kind of house did I grow up in? Somewhere noisy, where we all laughed and made fun of each other like these brothers?  Or was I an only child? Something told me my house was calmer, that I had more time to myself so I could focus on drawing and painting. My upbringing probably wasn’t as loud or as chaotic as Sekani, River and Waylin’s. I was dying. It wasn’t as if it really mattered if I had siblings, or how I grew up. Would something change once I was...

The suspicious husband got home early—thankfully—and I returned to my apartment, Isla in tow. She was babbling happily as she munched on a french fry when I knocked on Mrs. Taffett’s door.  She yanked it open, heaving for breath. For once, she wasn’t an utter mess. “Come in. I’m making dinner.” I stepped inside and looked around. The whole place was spotless. The laundry had been washed. The dishes were put away. She’d picked up toys and organized the things that had been scattered everywhere. Compared to what I usually encountered when I ended up inside her apartment, this was...

There was a little coffee shop on the corner of Meadowlark and Rosewell, just like Sekani said. We arrived before four and sat where he could see everyone coming and going.  I looked around. “I know this place.” Was it because I’d walked up and down this street for so long, or was it something else?  I felt like it was something else.  I knew this shop—the smell of coffee, the sweet scent of the bakery. I’d been here a lot. “It’s not far from campus. You probably spent a lot of time here.” Sekani said.  I nodded but didn’t...

I headed straight to the hospital upon leaving the coffee shop. Maybe it was all my years as a detective, or maybe it was the freaky gut feeling Barnet accused me of having, but I didn’t trust Luke.  I didn’t like him as a person either. He was supposed to be Callum’s best friend, but he hadn’t had a positive word to say about him. That struck me as odd. Nor had he been particularly helpful, considering Callum was in a coma and the guy who put him there hadn’t been caught.  Luke should’ve been tripping over himself to be...