What the actual fuck.
The man is still there when she regains enough blood flow to turn around, confirming he wasn’t a figment of her imagination. His young face is clean-shaven and ultra pale, not at all like the bearded and tanned Charlie’s. He’s dressed like aPeaky Blindersextra—newsboy cap, breeches, knee-high boots. As if Gretchen’s attention on him is a physical thing, a tap on the shoulder or a smack on the back, his head bolts up. Bright blue eyes take her in from head to toe as a slow, crooked smile spreads across his face.
“Well,hellothere,” he says.
“What just— How did— Who are—” Gretchen’s lips clamp shut, confusion and the lingering chill leaving her unable to produce a full, coherent string of words.
“Speechless, huh? I always did have that effect on the ladies.” He winks cartoonishly and clicks twice with his tongue. “Been a while, though. Nice to know I’ve still got it.”
I just— Who is— What—Gretchen has to remind herself to breathe. This is some kind of illusion, a trick. A rather impressive one, admittedly. But once she figures out what is going on here, everything is sure to make sense.
“I wentthroughyou,” she says. It comes out like an accusation, which it sort of is. Just of what, she’s not quite sure.
“Yep, that’ll happen. Most people assume I’m a random cold spot and go on with their day. But you... you can see me, huh? Really, you can?” He waves a milky-white hand a few inches from her face and cackles at the way she flinches. “Isn’t that swell! Ha!Ha ha ha!” His laughter is strange, disbelieving. Almost as if he’s as shocked to have encountered her as she is to have encountered him. “Oh, how I’d love to pick you up and swing you around right now, but, well...” He pokes Gretchen’s shoulder and his finger disappears somewhereinsideher body. Another severe chill results, frozen darts piercing her skin.
“What the fuck kind of trick is this?” she demands. Because it’s becoming even more convincing by the second, and whatever is happening would be a complete game changer if she could figure out how to incorporate it into her séances. Except none of this makes any sense. Who would be trying to foolher? Here? And how? Why? Also,what??
This can’t be real. It can’t be.
“Ooh, salty language for such a cute little gal.” The man’s dark eyebrows shoot up. “But no tricks here! Just me, doin’ my thing. The name’s Everett. I’m Gilded Creek’s resident ghost, and oh so very pleased to meet you.” Everett holds out a hand to shake, then glances at it, lets out a chuckle and an “Oh, right.” He dips instead into a deep showbiz-style bow.
This is frankly unbelievable. Therefore, Gretchen decides, she is not going to believe it.
Everett’s smile inclines a bit farther as he waits for her own introduction. Instead, she stares at him with her lips pressed together, still trying to figure out how the hell this is being pulled off. She’s read every book out there on nineteenth- and early twentieth-century séance tricks, along with the more modern hoaxes. But whatever this is? It’s next level. Especially because the almost bluish tint of his skin looks like it’s moving, something swirling like wispy clouds just under the surface. It wouldtake CGI or holographic technology to make this so realistic, probably, and... well, Gretchen has to accept that the likelihood of someone flawlessly executing big-budget movie effects inches away from her face on a rural Maryland goat farm is approximately zero. The alternative is only ever so slightly more probable but...
Ghosts are real. Ghosts. Real. This is a ghost, standing in front of me. And he’s real. A real... ghost.
“No. No, no, no,” she protests, though to whom, she isn’t quite sure. “It was all fake. The séances, the communicating with dead people. I was pretending. It was a fucking con! I was never actuallydoingit, so I can’t be doing it now. You can’t be...” Gretchen reaches out a hand to tug on Everett’s sleeve, one final test, but her fingers find only air and come away numb as if she’s been holding an ice cube for several minutes.
“Dead? As a doornail. Yep, sure am. Going on almost a hundred years now, I think? Time works kinda weird here in the In-Between, so I’m never exactly sure from minute to minute. Anyway, it’s been a real lousy time without anyone to talk to. Doesn’t stop me from talking anyway, of course. Just no one ever responds. Until now—until you!” He waves his hands in excitement, then throws one up toward the sky and slowly turns, gyrating his hips as he chants, “Ooga-chaka, ooga-ooga...”
Gretchen’s knees wobble. All of her feels a little shaky, really.This is a dream,all a dream. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.She pinches her own arm to test that hypothesis and winces at the resulting pain—and at this weird, wild situation that is almost definitely actually playing out in her waking life.
“Were you alive whenAlly McBealwas on?” Everett asks, still dancing. “I wasn’t. Fun show, though.”
Okay, it might not be a dream, but there is one last possibility: Gretchen has officially lost her mind. Maybe punishment for using her brain to deceive others instead of figuring out how to solve world hunger or something. That or all of her wasted good-person potential has turned into a subconscious-constructed specter sent by karma to kill her with irony.
“Sorry, I’m not doing... whatever the hell this is. I’m out. Peace.” She resumes her walk down the driveway to the main road, walking with purpose even though what she really wants to do is run as fast as she can. Putting distance between her and the... ghost—oh god, it’s really a ghost?—seems to be the best course of action. There’s no way it’s been fifteen minutes yet, but she hopes that by some miracle Sulayman and his Toyota Corolla will be waiting—
The cold smashes through her body again before the sight of Everett in front of her even registers.
“Ahh! Dammit fuck!” Gretchen shoves her hands into her armpits, trying (and failing) to find any lingering warmth there to ease the sudden severe ache in her joints.
“So...” He flashes another handsome, crooked smile. Under other circumstances, she thinks she might’ve appreciated just how much charm he manages to exude with that puckish tilt. “What’s your name, doll?”
Gretchen doesn’t say anything; if she refuses to talk to Everett, maybe he’ll disappear. Then she can pretend this never happened and that she’s still completely sane, or that the universe doesn’t hate her, or whatever it is that’s caused this reality derailment.
He claps his hands soundlessly and rubs them together. “Oh, are we playing a guessing game? That’s fun. Though I suspect the names that were popular when I was alive and well aren’t quitethe thing anymore. Time marches on and all that. No problem! I’ve been keeping somewhat up-to-date. Let’s see. Lucy? Maude? Uh, Monica? Phoebe? Oh! What about Pam? Angela?The Officewas this century, right?” Gretchen maintains her silence. “Hm, maybe not a TV name, then.” He taps his chin. “Charlie brought a Kayla around a few times recently. I say recently, but that might’ve been years ago for all I know. But I suppose it’s unlikely you’re also a Kayla. And he knows a Jess—oh, have you seenNew Girl? Winston’s my favorite.”
Nope, she’s already reached her limit. “Gretchen! Okay? My name is Gretchen. And as fun as this has been, I am not going to stick around and talk sitcoms with... with aghost. So, my sympathies on you being dead and stuff, I guess, but I’ve gotta go now.”
Everett holds out a hand before she can put one foot in front of the other, effectively blocking her from moving forward if she doesn’t want to experience that bone-deep chill again (which she very much does not). “Wait, wait, wait. Gretchen. Doll. You cannot, you justcannot, leave.”
“Oh yes, I can. In fact, I have to, since I’m technically trespassing right now. Charlie made it abundantly clear that if I didn’t get off his property ASAP, he’d have me arrested. And I don’t think he or the cops are gonna believe that the farm’s residentspiritinvited me to stick around. I’m not even fully sureIbelieve it. So if you’ll please excuse me...” She makes a move to go around Everett, but—
Cold. So fucking cold.
“Stop doing that!” she yells when her vocal cords are thawed out enough to cooperate. “Jesus, you’re like a person-shaped freezer.”
