APPARITION

Genre: Horror 

APPARITION

By Randy Romero

            Isaac was seriously lost. The narrow, unmarked trails had led him astray. What started out as an idyllic hike had turned into a harrowing nightmare. He tried his best to navigate his way through the treacherous woods. But the further he ventured, the further he drifted from civilization.

            Sunlight faded rapidly, and the darkness swept in. And as the darkness consumed his surroundings, the fear and paranoia consumed his mind. The anxiety was overwhelming. His legs were rubbery, his chest constricted, his lungs struggling to regulate his labored breathing. Beads of sweat accumulated on his forehead and rained down the sides of his face.

            He checked his cell phone. No reception. It was an old flip phone, one without a light. The pale, bleak moonlight was the only thing guiding his way. He eventually reached a clearing which paved the way for two distinct paths. He choose the path to his right. The path was broader than the other trails. He couldn’t see, but he felt dirt and gravel under his feet, could hear the crunching of dry leaves and the snapping of fallen branches.

            From there, it was all uphill. His calves burned and his thighs screamed as he ambled up the steep incline.

When he reached a hilltop, he stopped to catch his breath and rest his aching, burning legs. The terror still coursed through his veins. What if I can’t find my way out of here?

            “Get a grip,” he said aloud for nobody to hear but himself. “You got lost. Don’t panic. Panicking won’t help. You’ve got to find your way out of here before the temperature drops. You get stuck out here all night, they’re going to find you frozen against the trunk of a pine tree.”

            It took a few seconds for his eyes to register the sight at the top of the hill. It was a lone woman, short and thin. Emaciated would be the better word. She was young, younger than Isaac by at least a few years as far as he could tell under the veiled moonlight.

            What’s she doing out here? He wondered. Maybe she’s lost too. Or maybe she knows the way out of here.

            “Excuse me, ma’am,” he called out. “Can you help me? I got lost on a hike. I can’t seem to find my way back to the main trail.”

            The woman didn’t turn to face him. She didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice. She stood with her back to Isaac.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

            “What?” he said, bemused. He wasn’t sure if he had heard her correctly. He moved closer. The girl didn’t stir.

            “You’re not supposed to be here,” she repeated.

            He got close enough to see how pale her skin was, almost transparent. He reached out to tap her shoulder and she spun around. Her eyes were milky white, as if coated in some kind of clear film. Her irises discolored, her pupils faded. The skin of her face was drawn back, as if being stretched and pulled by some invisible force.

          “Where’s Jeremy?” she asked, hostility in her voice. “Where’s Jeremy?” she repeated, practically screaming it. “You’re not Jeremy! You’re not supposed to be here! Go away!”

            “Please calm down,” he pleaded. “Are you lost too? Maybe we can help each other find a way out. Do you need help?”

            “You can’t help me! Nobody can help me!”

            “It’s alright,” he assured her. “It’s alright. Just calm down, please.” He grabbed her wrist; she was cold to the touch. Skin like the dead of winter.

            A flashlight beamed across the hilltop.

            “Hey, you!” another voice shouted. He glanced over his shoulder. A man trudged up the hill, wearing camouflage pants and a bright orange vest. A rifle slung over his left shoulder. “What are you doing out here?” the man shouted. “You know it’s hunting season? Wandering around in these woods after dark is a good way to get yourself shot.”

            “I’m sorry,” Isaac called out. “I got all turned around. Couldn’t find my way out. And my cell phone isn’t working. Do you have a phone I could use? This girl needs help.”

            “Girl?” the hunter asked as he drew closer to Isaac. “What girl?”

            Isaac turned to look, but the girl was gone.

            “Impossible,” he whispered. “She was just here.”

            The hunter approached him with more caution than he expected from a man carrying a 12 gauge rifle. “You okay, son? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

            “I think I did,” he muttered. “You really didn’t see the girl?”

            “Son, I have no clue what you’re talking about. You were all alone when I first saw you.”

            “I must be losing my mind.”

            “It’s alright, son. I’ll give you directions back to the main trail. I’ve even got a map. Hmm…” the man trailed off.

            “What is it?”

            “Nothing, it’s just…you said there was a girl here? By herself?”

            “Yes. I’m telling you, she was right here. Why, what is it?”

            “Nothing, just reminded me of a story years back. A real tragedy. Girl committed suicide up here.”

            Isaac had a vague recollection of the story. He’d seen it in the papers, even caught wind of it on a few local news stations. He couldn’t remember all the details, but the hunter filled him in on what he failed to recall.

            “Jennifer was her name. I knew her family. I mean, we weren’t best friends, but I used to see her father around town a lot, we’d chat for a few minutes here and there. See her mom in the market. She was always kind to me. Jennifer and her boyfriend used to come up her at night to fool around sometimes. One night, she was supposed to meet him out here, but he never showed. He died in a car accident. A firetruck was racing to a call and they ran a red light, plowed right into him. The whole car was in pieces. Nobody could have survived that crash. She took her own life shortly after, right here on top of this hill. Damn shame, if you ask me. She was so young. Had her whole life ahead of her.”

            “The boyfriend, what was his name?”

            “Jeremy.”

AFTERLIFE

AFTERLIFE

By Daniel Skye

            The man sat on the windowsill, the cool wind against his back. He was a tall, lean man with wavy brown hair and a pallid complexion. His skin had an almost translucent quality. If not for his bones and organs, you’d be able to see right through him.

            The boy in the red-and-green pajamas sat on the carpet, playing with his action figures. He had all the latest WWE figures from Mattel. And his father had bought him a play set for Christmas which included a miniature ring so he could act out all of his favorite matches and bring his fantasies to life.

The boy was short, even for his age. His ruddy cheeks gave him a healthy glow. Though his belly, bloated from too many carbonated beverages, said different. Too much sugar and soda was his problem, but otherwise there was nothing wrong with him physically. He was perfectly healthy, unlike the man who had spent his life pushing his body to the limits.

A life of drugs, booze, pills, misery, and corruption had brought him to this point. And he had no one to blame but himself. But the boy didn’t know this. In fact, he knew little about the man, but he knew enough to be wary, yet slightly curious.

Casey was named after Casey Jones. You can imagine how thrilled his mom was when she found out where his dad got the name from. His dad had attended school with Kevin Eastman and was a big fan of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in his youth. He had taken Casey to see the new TMNT movies in theaters, but Casey didn’t see what the big deal was. He preferred the Avengers.

“Mom made spaghetti tonight,” Casey told the man. “Yuck! She always burns the sauce. Dad pretends to like her food. I guess you have to when you’re married. But I mean, the food’s not all bad. My mom makes a pretty decent meatloaf. It’s a lot better than her tuna casserole.” He retched at the thought of that casserole.

The man nodded, as if he understood. Though he offered no verbal confirmation.

            Casey was always warned not to talk to strangers, but this particular stranger had taken up residence in his house, and was kind of hard to ignore. And he didn’t seem like a bad man. But even six-year-old Casey understood that looks could be deceiving, that sometimes strangers had sinister agendas.

            “Wrestlemania is a few months away. My friend told me they might do John Cena versus the Undertaker this year if the Undertaker decides to come back. I like Cena, but I don’t know if he can beat the Undertaker. Reigns beat Undertaker last year, but Reigns beats everybody. I think he’s going to win the title again this year.”

            “Casey,” his mom called from the hallway. The door to his bedroom opened and she peeked in. “Who are you talking to?” She surveyed the empty room, then focused her eyes on Casey.

            “Nobody, mom. I was just playing with my action figures.”

            “Okay, well it’s time to get ready for bed. And close that window before you catch a cold.”

            “Okay, mom. Will do.”

            She closed the door and Casey turned back to the man sitting on the windowsill. The man that only Casey could see. The man who had overdosed in Casey’s bedroom three years before his family moved in.

            “Can I ask you something? Does it hurt to die?”

EVOCATION

Genre: Horror

EVOCATION

By Daniel Skye

            Meet Aaron Chase and Brent Gage: Part time convenience store clerks, part time paranormal investigators.

            In a town full of ghost stories and urban legends, Aaron and Brent were quite the popular duo in Fairview. But don’t let their pseudo-celebrity status keep you awake with envy. They still live with their parents.

            And they spend more time working the counter at Quick Stop Convenience than they do investigating and working actual cases. All day long they field moronic questions like, “Is Five Hour Energy considered an aphrodisiac?” Or, “Are Trix really just for kids?”

            That Thursday afternoon, Aaron had to bite his lower lip to stop himself from laughing when a female customer said, “I feel so guilty buying a carton of eggs. All those poor chickens that had to die to make these.”

            When Aaron went on break, Brent handled the counter by himself. When a customer asked to use the bathroom, Brent responded with an emphatic, “NO.” The last time he let a customer use the bathroom, he got stuck cleaning up the mess.

            Who smears shit all over the walls? Brent thought. What goes through a person’s head when they’re doing that?

            Another customer, a young man with black jeans, a pleather jacket, and a skull bandana, asked Brent for a pack of Marlboros.

            “You know, these things give you lung cancer,” Brent said, albeit sarcastically.

            “You’re right,” the young man said, pulling up the sleeves of his jacket that looked two sizes too big. He was practically swimming in it. “Forget about the cigarettes. I’ll just take some chewing tobacco.”

            Brent rolled his eyes, but grabbed a can of Skoal from the rack and scanned the barcode. The young man paid, and as he was walking out, an older man strolled in. He was tall, lean, dark skinned, and wearing a charcoal pinstripe suit with an immaculate cut. He was definitely a businessman. He had that air of scumbag entitlement, and he strutted around like he owned everything he set his eyes on.

            He approached the counter, and Brent could almost feel the confidence radiating from him. It was overwhelming. Or maybe it was just the smell of the man’s aftershave that overwhelmed him. It was a powerful, musty odor that lingered in the sinuses. Brent imagined there was probably a picture of a little ship on the bottle, like something his grandfather would’ve used.

            “I’m Luther Woods,” he said, introducing himself. Brent expected him to follow up with a sales pitch. Luckily, Aaron walked back in and Brent was free to go on break. But before he even left the counter, Luther said, “You might want to stay and hear what I have to say. I’m glad both of you are here. I’ve heard a lot about you guys. As I just told your friend, my name is Luther Woods. And I’m in real estate.”

            “If we could afford our own houses, we wouldn’t be living with our parents, dude,” Aaron told him.

            “Don’t worry,” Luther chuckled. “I’m not here to sell you anything. Quite the opposite. I’m here to acquire your services.”

            “Say what?” Brent muttered.

            “I want to hire you both to investigate a piece of property I’m interested in. It’s a potential investment, but it has a dark and infamous past. Before I invest, I want to know exactly what I’m going to be selling. I’ve heard rumors, stories of the place being haunted. Does the name Thomas Thorne mean anything to you?”

            “Sounds familiar,” Brent said. Aaron was more than familiar with Thorne and the property that Luther spoke of.

            “Thorne murdered twelve people in cold blood. He did it all in that house. I need to know if the house is truly haunted. I’m willing to pay you five hundred dollars each. I know it’s not much. But I assume it’s more you make in a day working here. No disrespect.”

            Aaron and Brent looked at one another, then back at Luther. “We’ll take it,” they said in unison and Luther removed two envelopes from his jacket. Then a key.

            “As a sign of good faith, I’m paying you both upfront. Here is a copy of the key. Get back to me as soon as you check the place out. And if you could, please make this a top priority. I don’t need someone else making a bid behind my back.”

           “We’ll get it done,” Brent assured him.

* * *

            They decided to check the place out immediately after work. It was a decaying farmhouse on the edge of Fairview. What remained of its white paint had bubbled and started peeling away. And green mold had devoured the sides of the house.

            Beside the farmhouse was a rustic red barn that looked more dilapidated than the house itself. They walked up the lopsided porch and chuckled at the screen door that was hanging on only by its bottom hinge. Aaron used Luther’s key to unlock the door and the rusty hinges screamed as he pushed it forward. Brent forced the door shut behind them and they turned on their flashlights. Luther had mentioned in advance that the house had no running water or electricity for the moment.

            Aaron instantly felt a presence. The cold air circulated around him, stinging his ears, his cheeks, and the back of his neck. His skin broke out in goose flesh, and he rolled his sleeves down to hide his apprehension from Brent.

            They made their way into the kitchen, which had been stripped off all but its cupboards. “You want to do the honors or should I?” Brent asked.

            “Be my guest,” Aaron told him.

            Brent, who was raised Catholic, whispered a short prayer to begin. He’d been told that prayer often worked as a seal of protection against angry or malevolent spirits. Then he spoke.

            “Is there anyone among us?”

            He waited for the answer. But the house was silent.

            “We come in peace,” Brent assured them.

            “They’re not aliens,” Aaron chuckled.

            “Quiet. You’ll disrupt the process. Please, if anyone else is here with us, give us some sign. Trust us, we mean you no harm.”

            Silence. But the cold air still lingered in every part of the house.

            “If there are any spirts among us, please give us some sign. We just want to help you find rest.”

            Silence. A flustered Brent gave it one more shot.

            “Thomas Thorne was an evil man. He committed many atrocities. If it offers you any comfort, his crimes did not go unpunished.”

            Just at the mention of Thomas Thorne, the house came to life. The ceiling pipes rattled and the floorboards rumbled beneath their feet.

            “They don’t seem at rest to me,” Aaron said, no longer able to mask his fright.

            There was a loud, thunderous BANG that shook the entire house from its foundation to its eaves.

            Aaron had done his research. When the police finally apprehended Thomas Thorne, they found twelve bodies in the crawlspace of the house. The final victim happened to be Thorne’s own partner in crime, Otis Williams. Aaron had briefly considered that they could potentially be disturbing the spirit of a bloodthirsty killer. But had it occurred to Luther Woods?

            The rumbling ceased and the entire house was silent again.

            “I think your smell scared the spirits away,” Aaron joked, if only to ease his tension.

            “I don’t think this is over,” Brent said. “Not by a long shot.”

            The hinges of the front door screeched. They heard the door slam shut, followed by footsteps. It sounded like a woman’s heels clicking across the floorboard.

            Myra Cobb saw the beam of their flashlights from the hall and shouted, “Who’s there? This is private property. I could have you arrested.”

            Brent was the first to step out from the kitchen. “We’re not looking to cause any trouble, ma’am.”

            “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”

            “I’m Brent and this is Aaron,” he said, grabbed Aaron by the arm and pulling him out of the kitchen for Myra to see. “We were hired by a man named Luther Woods. He wanted us to inspect the property before he invested in it. You can call Luther to confirm this. I have his number handy.”

            “Oh, boys,” Myra laughed and shook her head. She was furious, but she was strangely amused. “You’ve been duped. My name is Myra Cobb. I’m a real estate agent. Luther Woods is my competition. My agency recently acquired this property. Luther’s been trying to sabotage us for years. And now he’s sent you here in the hopes that you’ll disturb the spirts who are trying to find peace.”

            “How do you know about the spirits?”

            “I live in Fairview, just like you. I’ve heard the stories, just like you. I’ve felt a presence in this house, just as I’m sure you have.”

            “I don’t understand. If you know of its history, why are you trying to sell it? Are you that greedy?”

            “I’m afraid you’ve misjudged me. My intention was never to sell this house. The house was acquired through my agency, but it was acquired for me. I purchased it. I bought this house so no other real estate agency could try to sell it. I bought it so Luther wouldn’t get his hands on it. I never intended to live here. I just want the spirits that linger here to find their way towards the light.”

            “I don’t understand,” Aaron said.

            “My sister was one of Thomas Thorne’s victims. Is that enough motive to satisfy you?”

            “Fair enough,” Aaron nodded. Then he added, “Sorry for your loss.”

            “But how did Luther get a copy of the key?”

            “I work in real estate,” Myra sighed. “Not everyone in real estate is as honest as I am. He most likely paid one of my colleagues off to make him a copy. Don’t worry. I’ll find out who it was and deal with them accordingly. But that Luther is one sneaky bastard. He deserves to rot in hell along with Thomas Thorne.”

            The floorboards rumbled under their feet again and the front door snapped open and shut.

            “You probably shouldn’t say his name,” Aaron whispered.

            “Whatever Luther paid you, I’ll double it if you get him back for this.”

            “No, we’ll do this one on the house. We owe you and your sister that much. And Luther has it coming to him.”

            “I have an idea,” Brent said, and a malevolent grin spread across his face. “How many doors are there in this house?”

            “Just the front,” Myra said.

* * *

            Just before midnight, Brent phoned Luther Woods.

            “Sorry for calling so late,” Brent feigned an apology. “But Aaron and I discovered something we thought you should know about immediately.”

            “What did you find?” Luther asked, unable to contain his giddiness.

            “We’re not sure about the place being haunted. We haven’t detected any paranormal activity. What we did find is a cigar box full of gold coins in mint condition. I guess the police must have overlooked it. There was a hidden panel in the bottom kitchen cupboard. I don’t know much about coins, but these look pretty rare. We could be talking about thousands of dollars. Maybe millions. You should get down here soon.”

            Luther was already in his car before Brent could finish his last sentence. He arrived just after midnight. Aaron and Brent were waiting for him outside.

            Luther didn’t greet them. Didn’t thank them. The first thing he said was, “Where are these coins?”

            “In the kitchen,” Aaron said. “After you.”

            Luther stepped inside and Aaron slammed the door behind him. He locked the door from the outside, and Brent took a thin block of wood and wedged it underneath the door, so even if Luther had another copy of the key, the door would be jammed. The boys had also boarded up the windows, from the outside.

            And Luther didn’t have to speak the name of Thomas Thorne aloud to rattle the spirits. It was written all over the walls. A final fuck you from Brent and Aaron.

            “Can I come out now?” Myra called.

            “Come on out,” Brent told her. The doors of the red barn opened and Myra stepped out. She joined them and looked back at the house.

            “Think he’ll be alright in there?” Aaron asked.

            “It won’t kill him,” Brent said. “But he might lose his mind after one night in there.”

            “That wouldn’t be a bad thing,” Myra said. “I’ll make an anonymous call tomorrow to the police. Tell them where to find him. You boys did good. I can’t thank you enough.”

            “Don’t mention it. Sorry about the walls.”

            “I can always paint over them,” Myra said. “Hey, you guys are really into this paranormal stuff, aren’t you? I may have a job for you…”

SPECTER (Revised Version)

Genre: Horror

SPECTER

By Daniel Skye

            The restaurant is closed for the season and someone knocks on the doors anyway. Probably a tourist, a visitor just in town for the holidays. Probably some spoiled, rich socialite from the city who just rolled into town in their Mercedes or Corvette convertible.

            They probably even drove all the way here with the top down, because even when it’s ten degrees Fahrenheit, you just need to show off and draw attention to yourself like the douche-magnet that you are.

            They tap on the glass doors, disregarding the big CLOSED FOR THE SEASON sign that hangs on the inside of the door from a few strips of masking tape.

            And they say, “I see your car in the parking lot. I know you’re in there.”

            And you walk up to the doors and tell them to scram, to beat it, to politely fuck off. That the restaurant is closed for the season and won’t be open again until next spring.

            But they’re still pounding their fists against the glass as you walk away, shouting, “Wait, I need your help! Please!”

            Shit, you think. You’re not even supposed to be here today.

            You got roped into this because Mike Perez, the guy who was supposed to spruce the place up, was a no-show.

            Mike didn’t show up the first day and he didn’t show the second day. He called on the third day and made an excuse about sleeping for thirty-six hours straight (heroin is one hell of a drug) and asked if the job was still available. It was not.

            It wasn’t available because Mr. Coffey stuck you with the job instead. You just got off for the winter and you figure you could use the money. Unemployment doesn’t exactly pay the bills.

            So you’re here, scrubbing bathroom tiles with a toothbrush and getting high off the fumes of Scrubbing Bubbles. In between that, you’re sweeping, mopping, cleaning windows with a squeegee, and polishing wood surfaces to bring back the finish.

            Scrub. Sweep. Wipe. Rinse. Mop. Repeat.

            This is your chronicle. Your legacy. Your defining contribution to society.

            Scrubbing bathroom floors and piss stained toilets.

            And Bryan Coffey is probably sitting at home right now, curled up in front of his brick fireplace with a glass of brandy in one hand and a thick cigar in the other, feeling nice and toasty.

            Bryan Coffey, who always demands to be called Mr. Coffey. Bryan Coffey, the bastard who laid you off for the season and didn’t even give you a Christmas bonus. Four years you’ve worked for this man and he’s never given you a raise or a bonus.

            Bryan Coffey, with his penchant for gaudy yellow neckties. One day he’ll wake up and realize just how ridiculous he looks. Bryan Coffey, with his cleft chin and bushy eyebrows. You should buy the prick a pair of tweezers for Christmas.

            But let’s not forget about the tourist who is banging on the doors, pleading with you to let him in.

            “Hey, I know you can still hear me!” the tourist screams, his breath fogging up the glass. “I need help! Some lunatic ran our car off the road! My wife is injured! We need an ambulance!”

            You sigh and remind yourself again that you’re not even supposed to be here today. If it wasn’t for that junkie Mike Perez, you might actually be enjoying your winter break.

            You walk back to the front and tell the man to, “Go around the side, to the other door.” And you walk through the kitchen, to the side door where the young man waits impatiently on the other side.

            He’s got a fedora on his plump head and a beige scarf wrapped around his neck. His glasses–the crystal clear lenses, the shiny gold rims–look like they cost more money than you’ll ever make cleaning places like this. And knowing his type, the scarf is probably cashmere.

            You told him to go around to the side just in case the guy is full of shit, just in case he’s really a lunatic waiting to attack you the minute you open the door. You’ll be safer in the kitchen.

            Plenty of heavy pots and pans and sharp objects to defend yourself with. But that also means plenty of sharp objects for this potential maniac to use against you. Still, at this moment, you feel safer in the kitchen.

            This is your area of expertise. You’ve been working and slaving in this kitchen for four years. You know the layout. That gives you an advantage.

            But let’s not jump the gun. For all you know, this hipster is telling the truth and he doesn’t mean you any harm.

            You open the door slowly, cautiously. You let the young man in and he’s panting and wheezing and trying to catch his breath. Once he does, he explains that he ran all the way here. That he left his wife back at the car. That she banged up her knee and can’t really put any weight on it. That they need a tow truck and an ambulance.

            You sigh again. You’re not even supposed to be here today. Of all the days this shit had to happen, it had to happen today.

            You show the tourist to the phone. You let him dial 911 and explain the incident to the operator. You watch him hang up, dial another phone number, and make arrangements for a tow truck.

The walk-in, still packed with meat and fish and produce that will surely turn rancid before the next season, turns itself back on when it reaches the end of its defrost cycle. The fans whir and the motor grinds and groans as it kicks back on.

Mr. Coffey, the bastard that he is, he wouldn’t even let anyone take anything home to cook for their families. Even if they offered to pay for it. He’d rather let the food spoil and eat the loss of the money than see anyone enjoy it.

Under the fluorescent lights, you can see the panic registered in the tourist’s eyes. And you ask, “What happened exactly?”

You ask as though you weren’t listening to him talk over the phone, because you honestly weren’t listening.

You don’t need this aggravation. You’re tired, cranky. The holiday season is upon us and you haven’t even started buying Christmas presents yet. You still have to decorate, even though you’re not in the holiday spirit. Your neighbors all decorate their houses, so if you don’t decorate, you’re the odd man out.

And of course you still have to buy a tree. Still have to get wrapping paper. Still have to get cards and stamps and envelopes and cardboard boxes and packing tape to ship presents to distant relatives.

And this tourist stares at you with wide hazelnut eyes behind those exorbitant glasses. The fluorescent lights flicker and hum their insipid tune as the tourist sighs and his lips part as he prepares to tell his story.

“My wife and I are in town to see her family. We’re not going to able to see them on Christmas so we wanted to give them their gifts now. We were on our way over there when, just down the road on Fulton, this maniac came out of nowhere in an Escalade. He was swerving in and out of the lanes, forced us right off the road. I don’t know if he was drunk or just trying to play chicken with me.”

“How bad is the damage?”

“The car will be fine. It’s my wife I’m worried about.”

“Then shouldn’t you be getting back to her?” In other words, you’re asking him to beat it. You were nice enough to let him in, to let him make his phone calls. You’ve done your good deed for the year and now it’s time for this bozo to get back to his wife, his car, and his Armani sweater vests.

The restaurant world is riddled with phrases and terms the kitchen and wait staff use on a daily basis. The most common term being 86.

To 86 something basically means to cross it off the menu. You run out of tuna, you tell the staff to 86 tuna.

And right now you wish this tourist would 86 himself, go back to his wife, go back to the city where he belongs.

“I’m sorry to trouble you further, but do you have a bathroom I could use? It’s been such a long ride and we never had a chance to stop for anything other than gas.”

You walk the tourist from the kitchen, through the dining room past the chairs that are flipped upside down on the table tops, and to the lobby. You show him to the bathroom, ask him to please make it quick. That you have to get back to work.

But he stops just before he reaches the men’s room door.

The sudden change in room temperature tells the tourist that we are not alone.

“We hit a cold spot,” the tourist said.

“Cold spot?” you ask.

“You feel that? How cold it just got over here?”

“It’s just a draft. It’s very windy outside.”

“No, I’m afraid it’s not,” the tourist says. And then he introduces himself, as if you cared to know his life story. “Owen Stillson.”

“Walter Dandridge, but everyone calls me Walt. I guess you can too.”

“Well, Walt, I know it’s weird of me to ask something like this…but has anyone ever died here before?”

You remember hearing a story, back when you first started working there, back when you were bussing tables and scrubbing pots and pans. You heard mutterings about a man who was skinny enough to cram himself inside the dumbwaiter.

The same dumbwaiter that crushed his head when he accidently fell down the shaft one night. They thought he had walked out, that he quit without notice. They found his body three days later at the bottom of the shaft.

“Now that you mention it, I think so.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Dumbwaiter shaft. That means he would’ve fell down to the basement.”

“Where’s the basement?”

“Over there,” you point with one finger to the steel door opposite the men’s room that’s clearly marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

“Then that’s where we’re heading.”

86 patience.

“What about your wife?”

“It’ll only take a minute. Besides, she’s safer in the car than in here.”

“Just who are you?”

“Owen Stillson,” he repeats.

“Yeah, you already said that. I mean, are you like, a ghost hunter or a famous author who writes about haunted places? Why are you so keen on seeing the basement?”

“I’m not famous or special. I just have a great interest on the subject. I’ve read a lot about it.”

“So when you say ghosts, what do you mean exactly? Are we talking Casper or Samara? Can you see them or just hear them? Can you like touch them? Shake their hands or give them a fist bump?”

“Some spirits remain hidden, keep to themselves. Others crave the attention and love to make their presence known. Sometimes, spirits can project themselves in mirrors or other surfaces that reflect.”

“What’d you mean when you said your wife was safer in the car than in here?” you ask as begin your descent into the basement.

“I mean that some spirits can be vile, malevolent.”

“You mean ghosts can hurt you? Like beat you up and take your wallet?”

“No, but you’ve heard of poltergeists right? Ghosts that move things. Well, these poltergeists are not the friendly type. In fact, their goal is to pretty much make your life a living hell.”

And you feel like you’re talking to a poltergeist at this very moment. That’s all this tourist is. A pesky ghost who just won’t take the hint.

You reach the bottom of the stairs. More fluorescent ceiling fixtures illuminate the cold concrete floor. Pipes rattle overhead as Owen, the tourist, scans the room. There’s a locked room where they keep all the wine and liquor bottles. Extra chairs and boxes of excess table clothes and spare candleholders.

There’s a stack of plywood that Mr. Coffey purchased two years ago for some project that never came to fruition. And propped up against the plywood is a long, narrow, dusty mirror with a huge spider web crack in the center that Mr. Coffey had you take down from the men’s room when some pissed off customer decided to smash it with his fist after a fight with his girlfriend.

The lights hum and seem to flicker even more so than the kitchen lights. You excuse yourself to check the circuit breaker, make sure everything looks ok. But before you walk away, you notice that Owen, the tourist, isn’t wearing a wedding ring. And though he is pale, you can still see there’s no tan line.

“What’s your wife’s name?”

“Samantha.”

“Samantha Stillson…” you trail off, thinking about that name. Where have you heard it before? And why is this man lying? If he’s married, why isn’t he wearing his wedding ring?

You look up and see the letters GAR written in red on a concrete support beam. And you think of Gary Paulson, the bartender who sliced his hand open on a broken gin bottle. It was his last night and he wanted to leave his mark.

So, with the palm of his hand sliced opened, in need of stiches, blood droplets trickling down his fingers, Gary signed his name. Well, most of it. He fainted before he could scribble the Y.

Now all that remains is a blood stained signature of a clumsy alcoholic who cut up his own hand on his last night. A bumbling bartender who couldn’t even finish writing his own name before he passed out from the loss of blood and the alcohol in his system.

This is Gary Paulson’s chronicle. His legacy. His defining contribution to society.

And you start to recall that hot little number that Gary was dating the last season he worked here. She had a slim, hourglass figure and long, smooth legs that distracted from her ample chest and backside. With a body like that, you didn’t know where to focus your eyes.

What was her name?

You check on the circuit breaker. Everything looks fine. You walk back to Owen, the ghost-obsessed tourist. And he kind of reminds you of Gary Paulson in a way. Gary was also into all that spiritual, paranormal garbage.

He believed in ghosts, believed in the afterlife. He used to talk about a coworker that shared his interests. But you can’t for the life of you remember that person’s name. And you still can’t remember the name of the girl Gary was dating that summer.

“Can you feel that?” Owen asks. “Can you feel those negative vibes? That wave of negative energy?”

“I don’t feel a thing other than the cold,” you tell him, shivering slightly. “But what does it mean?”

“It means there’s definitely a spirit present. And this spirit is angry. Discontent. It can’t find rest. It wants to be heard. It wants you to know its story.”

“And what is its story?” you ask, playing along.

“The young man that died here. He’s telling me his death was not accidental.”

The lights dim and brighten. Dim and brighten. The cold envelops you and you can see your breath every time you exhale.

And you finally remember that girl’s name. Gary Paulson’s girlfriend. Samantha Stillson.

Not Owen Stillson’s wife. His sister.

And the name of that unfortunate soul who fell down the dumbwaiter shaft hits you like a kick in the teeth. The one that Gary Paulson used to talk about. The one that shared his interest in the macabre and the paranormal.

Owen Stillson.

You turn to confront him, but he’s gone. Missing. Vanished. 86’d.

The fluorescents flicker rapidly, blinking. The lights dim, then fade out, plunging you into darkness, obscurity. You feel the cold air circulating around your body. And you feel all those tiny little hairs standing up on the back of your neck, like the quills of a porcupine.

The lights pop back on and you jump, scream, stagger backwards. You’ve just seen a reflection in the mirror that was not your own.

The reflection of Owen Stillson. The reflection of what was left of his body after they pulled him out of that dumbwaiter shaft. His skull crushed, face all smashed in, eyes squeezed from the sockets. And you hear him whisper the name of the man who pushed him down that shaft.

The name of the man who killed him.

Bryan Coffey.

You can almost smell the shit in your pants from when your bowels evacuated. You just 86’d your underpants. And as quickly as the apparition appeared in the mirror, it vanishes.

And you remember that you weren’t even supposed to be here today… But no matter what happens next, you can't let this rest. If Bryan Coffey is guilty, he should be brought to justice. No, you won't let this rest. You'll question employees who were there the night Owen Stillson died. You'll contact Gary Paulson and see if you can reach his sister, Samantha. You won't let this rest until you find out the truth.

 This is your chronicle. Your legacy. Your defining contribution to society.