The plan was SUPER simple. How it all ended up going so wrong is still beyond me. I’m blaming the demons. Not my personal demons—which are often responsible for one’s own problems and failings—but the actual demons.

  I asked Dante for a hundred bucks.

  He asked what for.

  “Consider it a tip,” I said.

  He shrugged, shoved some chips in his mouth and gave me two.

  “I only need the one.”

  “Oh, I know,” he said, swallowing. “I was hoping you could stop by and get me the last season of Friends. I sold my soul before I got to see it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, I loved that show. It got me through some tough times. And by through, I mean helped me tune it out.”

  “I just never pegged you for a Friends guy.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I love that crap. I even wrote my own theme song. Wanna hear it?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  He sang it. Pretty good, honestly. A little pitchy in spots, but not bad.

  So, no one told you life was gonna be this way.

  You sold your soul and now you’re stuck here every day.

  It’s like you’re trapped in your own private Hell.

  And you can’t escape the tedium or get rid of that smell.

  I’m

  Stuck in my own Hell,

  Every day I just cry.

  Stuck in my own Hell,

  Until I finally die.

  Then I’ll go to Hell.

  And you’ll be there tooooooooooo.

  “Not bad,” I said. “I’ll pick it up for you.”

  Dante smiled, nodded, then went back to shoving chips in his mouth.

  Sorry for the aside, but I really did like his rendition of the Friends theme, or whatever it’s called[1]. Also, you need to know how I got the flyers and the phone. Otherwise, you’d think I’m lying. Everything here is above board. I swear.

  Anyway, we were talking about the plan.

  I got a prepaid phone, printed a bunch of flyers, and hit a neighborhood with Orson. I taped one to every door. It had a picture of Orson—drawn by me—and read:

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  HUANTED?

  FRIGHTENED?

  UNEXPLAINED THINGS?

  EXCORSIM? If you answered YES to any of these questions, I can help! Call the number below for a free spiritual assessment. If you’re being haunted, I’ll make it stop!

  That was phase one. I don’t think I need to spell out phase two but, just in case you’re as slow as Orson thought I was, went like this: Orson would pick a house and start breaking things, dropping the temperature, and cultivating an otherworldly vibe. I’d go in, pretend to battle him, eventually win, get paid a cool hundred, then dip.

  AND, if we did our math, we only had to do this a few times a week seeing as how I could even keep buying food with Dante’s money when I made runs for him.

  Simple.

  That’s not how the first job went.

  We canvassed a quiet neighborhood. My phone buzzed before I even finished the block.

  I told them I’d be there in twenty minutes. It was a one-minute walk, but I wanted them nervous.

  “Who was that?” Orson asked.

  That’s when I realized I was an idiot.

  He’d been with me the whole time. He hadn’t haunted anyone yet.

  This was a legit ghost.

  Luckily, I came prepared. I’d never really exercised anything prior to that day, so I went off what I remembered from comics and movies. I had a backpack with salt, the tiniest castiron skillet I’d ever seen, and a few cheap silver-plated necklaces.

  Fun fact: I bought all of it at the same store. They really oversell how hard it is to be prepared.

  “It was a call about a ghost,” I said. “A real one.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah. Think you could try talking it down first? Fighting sounds exhausting.”

  “And give that asshole a cut?” Orson scoffed. “No thanks. I believe in us.”

  “You do realize it could kill me, right?”

  “I do, but we all have to make sacrifices.”

  There was no point in arguing. This was my idea, and I needed the money. You know. Being alive and all.

  I rang the doorbell.

  It wasn’t really a ring. More like a wet, high-pitched gurgle. Like filling your mouth with water and trying to mimic a doorbell sound.

  It really should have tipped me off right away. When a sweet old lady answered the door though, all I was thinking was, Shit! Now I have to stay and finish the job, or else I’m a total dick!

  “Hi, I’m here about the ghost,” I said.

  “Oh good! Come on in,” the old woman said. “So glad you came.”

  She had the cutest old lady voice, not one of those mean, gravely ones. Big glasses, curly white hair, a warm smile, AND It smelled like cookies.

  Cash and cookies? I was not leaving.

  “Those cookies smell good,” I said as I stepped in.

  When I took my first step, I noticed the carpet was extra squishy. Gave my steps a little bounce. It was nice. Probably really nice on the old gal’s joints. Then I noticed how tidy the place was. That’s a good sign. That meant it wasn’t an angry—I’m gonna throw anything I can get my little ghost grippers on at you—sort of ghost.

  “You can have cookies before you go, dear.”

  “Those smell amazing,” I said.

  “Does this place feel weird to you?” Orson whispered.

  “Well, it’s haunted.”

  “Yeah, but I’m a ghost. I shouldn’t feel weird.”

  Good point.

  “What was that?” the old lady asked.

  “Oh—nothing,” I said. I felt bad gaslighting an old lady, but I couldn’t have her knowing I brought my own ghost.

  “You’re very handsome,” she said. “You remind me of my son.”

  “Thanks,” I said, genuinely pleased.

  “Her feet aren’t making any sound,” Orson said.

  “She’s light,” I whispered. “And shuffling.”

  “I guess.”

  Honestly, I was just happy someone was acknowledging my existence. I’d have justified almost anything.

  Almost.

  She stopped at the end of a dark hallway.

  “It’s my bedroom,” she said, resting her hand on the doorknob. In the low light, it almost looked like her hand melted into it. That didn’t make sense.

  I thought, probably shadows.

  “I think it’s my late husband,” she continued. “God rest his soul.”

  Of course. Sweet old husband haunting sweet old wife. Simple.

  There used to be this show with Jennifer Love Hewitt. It was called “Ghost Whisperer.” Judge me all you want—it was a good show. Anyway, lots of her ghost encounters were sad or lost souls that just needed to say something to a loved one. Also, her husband bathed her while she sat in the tub, drank wine and contemplated her supernatural predicament. I was looking forward to doing just that, collecting my money—and cookies—and heading home.

  Maybe have someone bathe me while I drink wine.

  Then she opened the door.

  [1] I’ll Be There for You -The Rembrandts