Chris Green - Only the Good Die Young

“Sorry. I don’t.” I would’ve noticed Superstar in Elfin Forest. “I didn’t meet any ghosts there.”

“Oh,” the housewife said. “There’re more than a few. Mostly nice ones, except for the White Lady and the witch.”

My curiosity flared. On the night I’d died, my friends and I had planned to search for the White Lady. After they’d had a little liquid courage, of course. Being the designated driver, I’d been armed only with mischievous bravery.

Randy slurred, “Jensen didn’t hang around her death spot long. She’s a new ghost, got pulled out of a time loop by a spiritual medium.” Sch-pir-tual .

Everyone made interested sounds, and just when I thought they were all going to offer their own death stories, the ’fifties kid waved his hand, brought back Buddy Holly, and the dancing recommenced.

All right, then.

I glanced at Randy, who only winked.

“They’ll get around to talkin’ to ya!” he yelled. “A music war always wins out, even over a new ghost!”

So much for etiquette. But I could handle it.

As some flamenco guitar riffs filled the room, Randy waved me to a corner, where someone I hadn’t noticed yet had been sitting in a lounge chair the whole time. A human?

At least, that’s what I thought he was, with his ridiculously long black hair, which covered all of his face except for his mouth. He was a cross between Cousin It and Joey Ramone, sporting a black T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on it, ratty jeans, and bare, dirty feet.

It wasn’t hard to guess who was the pothead in the room, since he was holding some Mary Jane between his thumb and forefinger and practically emanating smoke from every pore.

I wished ghosts could get secondhand highs.

Randy motioned to him. “This here’s McGlinn. It’s his house.”

McGlinn didn’t move a muscle as he muttered, “Yo.”

“Good to meet you,” I answered, but when he didn’t acknowledge me further, I shot Randy a glance.

The verbose McGlinn took a hit off his weed, and Randy guided me away from him, an indication that we didn’t have to hang around the only human in here.

By now, the old couple from the couch had taken over the music war, airing one of those songs you’d probably hear in a Catskills resort back in the day. You know—all smooth clarinets, soft drums in the background, and lazy, muted trumpets. They were dancing cheek to cheek again, even though, as I got closer, I saw that they actually weren’t touching each other. Maybe they were just enjoying the ritual of dancing.

The other ghosts had mellowed out, some wandering to the power outlets, where they were clearly getting a buzz from sticking their fingers into the sockets and pulling them out. This was what had been making the lights flash on and off. Others were vegging and chatting. The black man was closing his eyes to the music, sitting on a fire pit step by himself.

Randy headed for the main stairway, talking over his shoulder. “There’s someone I want ya to meet, and she’s prob’ly up top.”

He zipped away from me, flying to the second floor. Used to his ADD, I followed.

But when I caught up, I stopped him. “Wait. Questions here.”

“You can get everyone’s stories later. They won’t mind.”

“Cool, but… there was a human down there. Isn’t that a little out of the ordinary?”

He thought about it for a sec. “Yeah. It’s odd to have a human in a house where ghosts are dancin’ around. But his grandparents gave this place to McGlinn, along with a bundle of money, so he has a ’tachment to it.”

“How does he even see us?”

“He can’t, under all that hair. And thass the point, I guess, ’cause it bothers McGlinn that he’s a seer. Thass what we call a human who knows we’re around. McGlinn, though… he’d rather get numb with those smokes than face the reality.”

McGlinn sounded a little like Amanda Lee when it came to living with his abilities. But, compared to him, she seemed really evolved. In a way.

“Then why does McGlinn let all these ghosts party here if they bother him so much?” I asked.

“Did ya see the old folks dancin’ on the couch? Those good-time people are his grandparents.”

Oh, man.

Randy said, “It’s awful, isn’t it? They died here. Double death. Gramps was cleanin’ his gun when it went off, and Gran didn’t wanna live without him, so—”

I didn’t want to hear it, and I held up a hand to stop Randy.

“Sorry,” he said.

After a second, I shook my head. “You shouldn’t apologize. I mean, death is our life, right?”

I just couldn’t stand any more sadness right now, and thinking of that old man and lady downstairs going out like that was… ugh. As hard as I was trying not to imagine it, I was, picturing them with heinous gunshot wounds and—

Wait.

“Randy, why don’t we ghosts show any effects of our deaths? You don’t have a bloody head from where you hit the rocks. And I’m not in pieces from an ax.”

Funny how I could say it so casually. Distancing myself from that Jensen was obviously working.

“I don’t know the big answers,” he said. “No one does. Not about our existence, not about the ultimate death. If a ghost goes with a wrangler ’n’ he finds an afterlife, he never comes back to tell us what he saw there. We’re jus’ as dumb as we were when we lived.”

That was heartening.

“As for McGlinn,” he said, “he sees how his gramps ’n’ gran’re so happy here with each other. So, deep down, it gives him a lil’ peace. The rest of us are the same when we’re here. Happy.”

“That’s why ghosts are drawn to this house? Because they like to be with others who’re happy?”

“You bet. Ghosts say that this property’s built over an eighteen hundreds anonymous graveyard, so the house’s got some energy that attracts spirits, espeshly the ones buried here from Western times. Ya saw Old Seth down there in his cowboy gear. He’s a graveyard regular. The rest of ’em? Jus’ travelers.”

“Lots of activity,” I said. “Because of the buried spirits who’re already here.”

“Yup, it’s active, all right, ’cept when McGlinn goes to sleep. Then he lays down the law, and Gramps ’n’ Gran enforce it. They guard his slumber.”

Done chatting, Randy meandered down the hall with me on his tail.

But I wasn’t done. “How did they produce that music? Were they doing it in the same way I can make smaller sounds, like knocks on walls?”

“Somethin’ like that. Only bigger.”

No doy. “They’re good at the music thing.”

“You’ll be, too, with practice.”

He urged me to a bedroom, where the door was shut tight. After we slipped underneath, I saw that a twin-sized bed with a wagon-wheel-decorated quilt was the only piece of furniture, the walls a stark white.

“McGlinn’s room?” I asked, taking a wild guess. I didn’t know why Randy would want to show me that, though.

“Nope. Jus’ wait, ’n’ you’ll see. We always introduce new ghosts to our good friend here.”

Randy stood by the bed and waved me over to wait next to him. Respectfully, he folded his hands behind his back, every inch a gray-toned military man. I copied him, lingering politely.

Within moments, the image of a young boy—five years old?—blinked to black-and-white animation on the mattress. Sweat matted his hair to his head, and his breath rasped in and out of him. His hands were propped in the air, like there were invisible people on either side who were holding on to him, grasping onto the kid for dear life.

“I… love you… Mommy… ,” he whispered, just before his image fluttered, then blinked out altogether, leaving the bed empty again.