Ghosted

Part of the THE MIDNIGHT VAULT II series in Horror.

I spot Diva at the party right away. There’s a charge between us, a current surging over the throng in anticipation of tonight’s fun. Honestly, I think I’ve shown a decent amount of self-control waiting an entire week to indulge. I know folks who shed almost daily. What matters is I scored, and Diva and I will soon be floating.

She bounds toward me, weaving around the other guests. Her grin fades.

“I know it’s not your scene,” she shouts over the music. “But I hear it’s got some history. This used to be a farmhouse or something, open pasture—did you get it?”

“Yup.” I hold it out, hands cupped around two rusty-brown pellets.

“Nice. Where should we—”

I point to a small alcove with a loveseat no one has occupied. We migrate there, and each pop one.

Within seconds, we stand admiring our stiff bodies lying on the sofa, heads touching. Not a bad couple. We turn from our corporeal forms to bask in familiar surroundings, a washed-out overlay, the volume turned way down. Our friends and acquaintances are mere shadows now, cavorting and laughing in a separate and slowed-down world. We drift through the house aimlessly.

The current parlance is ghostriding, swinging sheets, or shedding. We’re out of body, gliding through the ether. After the first few sessions, you get the hang of navigating. Movement is more of a feeling, more intention than locomotion via limbs.

Part of the appeal is the danger. If you’re not careful, you forget the physical world and the sensation of being in your body. It’s good to have boundaries like walls or something to keep you grounded.

Sometimes you get lucky. Like tonight, we turn the corner and spy a pro. One of us, either a former rider or the real deal. By his attire, it’s pretty clear he’s a genuine spirit. It’s always a little unnerving, but we’ve both shed enough that neither drops our too-cool facade.

We approach carefully. He’s a dapper, middle-aged man with a neatly curled mustache, terribly Victorian in his suit and vest. He’s sitting on a chair by a window, intermittently checking a watch at the end of a fob. We’re right up close before he notices.

“Why, hello there.” He places the watch back in his pocket.

“Hi,” we chirp.

He looks us over, too polished to mention what must appear as odd clothing. That bit always cracks me up.

“Pardon me, dear ladies.” He gestures to the window. “Do you know when Lydia is to be expected?”

We shake our heads, stifling laughter.

Diva tugs at my hand. She’s over this sort—gets bored easily. Technically, it’s better if you don’t engage. But I’m always fascinated by the former living, locked in these tropes. My guess is he died suddenly and can’t let go of some obligation, likely one owed to this Lydia person.

I try not to get involved, but he looks so forlorn.

“C’mon.” Diva says as the man’s attention returns to the window.

I turn to follow, but notice a tiny, gauzy form hovering outside in the darkness. Peering through the window again, I spy a woman pacing in the far distance, stopping occasionally and waving in our direction. She’s wearing a long dress with a bustle and a high collar pressed against her chin. She has a parasol hooked over one arm.

“Is that her?” I gesture toward the woman.

The man half rises from his chair and presses his face to the window, squinting.

“What?” He says, excited. “Do you see her?”

“There.” I point again. “Right there.”

He looks, blinking, vying for a better angle, then turns to me with a sour expression.

“Dear lady, if this is some jest, it’s in poor taste.” He glances at his watch again. “It is well past Lydia’s arrival.”

Diva pulls at me again. “Angie, don’t—let’s go.”

I slip from her grasp. “Hold on—”

“Right there.” I point more emphatically.

He half rises, peering out into the night. I imagine a dog sitting back on its hind legs, wagging its tail frantically. “But I don’t see her.”

An instant later, he falls back into the loop, checking his watch and the window again.

Diva crosses her arms. “This isn’t fun anymore.”

“Hold on,” I say to the man, who looks up again, as though we’ve just met.

“Hello.”

“Wait here. I’ll bring her to you.”

I have a hard time letting things go. Diva shouts after me. But I’m just as eager to wrap this up so we can return to our date. I drift swiftly out of the party and into the night.

The landscape differs vastly from when I arrived. The parking lot next to the strip mall, the driveway with its cracked pavement, all translucent shadows now. A dirt road weaving through open meadow supplants the former.

The woman is standing in the tall grass near a dense thicket. She smiles when I reach her.

“Hello there.” She says in a proper English accent. “May I help you?”

I feel winded even though it took little effort.

“That man inside.” I gasp. “He’s looking for you.”

“Me.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Your husband?” I venture. “He’s been waiting for you.”

“Oh, heavens.” A gloved finger taps her chin. “I don’t recall being married.” She titters. “Oh, but I am so very forgetful—”

“Henry!” she howls, and the English slips from her tongue like a stripped gear. “You remember me getting hitched?”

A grizzled apparition in a bowler hat, dirty shirt, and coveralls drifts from behind some brambles.

“Naw, don’t reckon I do.” One hand rests on the hilt of a knife at his belt. “Who do we have here?” He grins.

I realize I’ve made a huge error.

Before I can turn back to the house, another comes from behind and grabs my wrist, somehow restraining me. Pain should be nonexistent in this state, but there is a sickly residue of violence as he wrenches me to him. This fellow has a patchy beard and a cowboy hat.

“This is what we call an opportunity.” He replies.

“Let me go.” I try to pull my arm free. “I need to return to my friend’s house.”

“Friend’s house?” They all laugh.

“Shit. You hear that?”

The man in coveralls shoves a thumb behind one strap and sticks his chin out.

“This here is the Garretty Ranch—always been the Garretty Ranch.”

He doffs his bowler and gestures to the others.

“And we’d be the Garrity clan.”

“You don’t understand. The man inside—”

“Aw him?” The cowboy shakes his head and spits.

“Stuck here plain as us, but we don’t know that fool from Adam.” The woman says, not bothering with an accent any longer.

The cowboy grins. “We know you, though. We see you folks coming and going.” He gestures to the man in the bowler. “Like my brother says, gotta be some advantage in that.”

I glance back, hoping to catch sight of Diva through the window, but the lights and the thrumming music have faded. The house is dark and faraway and devoid of living souls. There’s something else too, an absence I hadn’t recognized in all this. The connection to my physical form has slipped away, like an anchor chain loosed from its mooring. I’m marooned here, too. A ghost, a pro, a lonesome echo resounding forever.