Melissa Walker - Ashes to Ashes

I whisper the word, not wanting to speak it aloud, not wanting it to be true, even though I’m beginning to realize that I’m not in a dream. I’m in a nightmare, but deep inside, I know it’s not one I’m going to wake up from. I feel that I’m no longer living. You can’t die in a dream, I’ve heard. If you do, you’re really . . .

Thatcher opens his mouth, but I turn away before he can say another word, because I see the truth in his eyes. I’m dead. The painful knowledge nearly doubles me over. I wasn’t ready to die. I wasn’t supposed to die! Carson, she’ll go off the deep end without me to ground her. Nick . . . we were on the verge of sharing something really special. And now I’ll never see him again. My father has lost both his wife and his daughter. He gave me the BMW—he’ll blame himself. I bow my head as the sorrow overwhelms me. What will happen to my father? He’s totally alone.

A sob escapes my throat, because I know now for sure. I know what the truck did. I felt my body jolt. I felt my . . . my whatever, my soul . . . leave. I felt myself die. I hear a primal cry that sounds like it’s coming from a wounded animal, someone whose anguish can’t be contained with normal, human sniffles. And I realize it’s coming from me.

The low electric buzz ramps up inside my body, and now it’s less like I’m holding an electric razor and more like I grabbed onto a live wire, the energy twitching through me in shocks and starts. I don’t feel pain but intense vibration.

The sensation frightens me so much that I stop screaming. I swallow the ache. I stay quiet, and the energy ebbs. Staring into the distance, I feel hollow and empty.

“What’s wrong with her?” Ryan asks. “Why was she screaming?” He approaches me cautiously, bends down slightly, and studies me as though I’m some strange specimen that he’s never before encountered. “Are you . . . angry?”

I glare at him, incredulous at his confusion. “I just found out that I’m dead . Of course I’m angry. Sad. Lost. Alone. How can you think for a single moment that I would be okay with any of this?”

He appears truly baffled. “But ghosts don’t feel things the way the Living do.”

Ghosts . The word sounds so unreal, so wrong. “I’m not a ghost.”

“You’re an echo of your former self,” Thatcher says. “Once you’re here, your emotions naturally dim.”

“Excuse me?”

“This space anesthetizes you.” He gestures at my surroundings, and I take in the foggy landscape, noticing that there are soft spots of light here and there that move across the bleakness, and it seems like they could cast a warmth over the gray background, if only they’d stay still.

“It’s so . . . blank,” I say.

“It’s designed to help you detach from life.” His words are practiced, flat, like he’s said them a thousand times, and he’s not meeting my eyes now. Was it easy for him?

“I don’t want to detach from anything!” I shout, more tears coming now. I can’t give up what I had without a fight.

“Anger isn’t useful.” Thatcher shakes his head like he’s as confused as Ryan by my reaction—or maybe feeling threatened by it.

“Not useful ?” I scoff.

“It won’t help you haunt. It can hurt you.”

“So can denial.” My voice, cold and hard, echoes around us. The irony doesn’t escape me: I’m doing exactly what I’m accusing him of—denying that this gray place is my reality.

Thatcher flinches slightly, almost imperceptibly. I don’t know if he’s reacting to my words or my tone. His face becomes an unreadable mask. “Do you remember your life?”

I focus on the bright spots that move across the surface of the mist. A flash of images races through my mind—Mama’s pearl nails, Daddy’s big brass laugh, my yellow tufted rug, Carson blowing bubbles in the yard, Nick in front of me in science . . .

“Of course I remember it,” I whisper.

His forehead wrinkles with concern. “That’s unusual but not impossible to deal with.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to be impossible to deal with.” If I weren’t already dead, I’d die from the pain.

Sarah kneels in front of me but keeps her distance. “You’re going to be okay. We know it’s overwhelming at first. That’s why you’re given a Guide.”

“But there’s been a mistake, right?” I ask hopefully. “You’re going to send me home.”

“No mistake,” she says gently, cautiously, as though she’s afraid of setting off another emotional rampage.

I drop my head forward, confused, disbelieving, and the mist swirls around me quickly.

“So what do you think?” asks Ryan. He glances first at Sarah and then at Thatcher. “She seems extremely emotional. She shouldn’t be so emotional.”

Not be emotional? How can anyone not grieve when they’ve lost everything?

“I’ll take her,” says Sarah, her tone light and energetic. “It’s my turn in the rotation, so . . .” She gestures for me to stand, but before I do, Thatcher says, “No.”

He glances at Sarah hastily. “I mean, I’ll take her.”

“I don’t mind,” says Sarah. “You just finished with that boating accident guy and you probably need a break—”

“I said I’ll take her,” Thatcher repeats decisively.

Sarah shrugs and stands up, stepping back from me.

“Take me where?” I ask.

“Well, if you’ve got this, Thatcher . . . ,” says Ryan, turning to go.

“Good luck!” says Sarah as she spins around to follow him. Then she glances back over her shoulder at me. “Don’t worry, you’ll do fine. Thatcher’s a really skilled Guide—he’s been here longer than any of us.”

She smiles before disappearing into the mist with Ryan.

I give my attention to Thatcher, who’s staring right at me. He’s clenching his strong, defined jaw, his arms folded over his broad chest. If I concentrate, I can see beneath his shimmering robe to faded jeans and a tight black T-shirt that hugs his shoulders. He has a rangy, athletic build.

“How old are you?” he asks abruptly.

“Sixteen,” I say. “You?”

“Eighteen forever.”

His intense gaze slams into mine. A chill sweeps through me.

When he sees me shiver, he crouches near me, and I realize that warmth radiates, pulses, from his body. “You’re warm. Or is that another phantom sensation?”

“It’s real. The energy within souls generates heat. Sometimes it can provide comfort.”

“I thought ghosts were supposed to be cold.”

In one smooth motion, Thatcher unfolds his body and stands up. “You can’t believe everything you hear on Earth.”

I slowly push myself to my feet, my legs unsteady. “Earth,” I say, and it sounds so weird. Am I not on Earth ? “I want to go home. I have to see my dad, I have to—”

“It won’t be the same. You must understand that. You can’t interact with the Living.”

“The Living? Oh, God, this is such a nightmare.”

“It might prove helpful if we start your haunting,” he says quietly.

“So what—now I’m supposed to rattle chains and scare people, try to be featured on Ghost Hunters or something?”

I can tell that he doesn’t want to, but he can’t help himself. He smiles. If he’d walked through the door with that grin on his face, I might not have taken an immediate dislike to him and this place. It’s comforting, familiar. “That’s not what haunting is.”

“What is it then?”

“It’s easier to understand if I show you. Please, come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

His smile withers and along with it our momentary connection. I sense that he regrets both, that they were a mistake that won’t happen again. “It’ll make everything easier on both of us if you’ll just trust me.” He starts walking away from me.