Pen Pal(74)

Claire picks up the letter by one corner and turns it over, setting it down carefully again. “‘I’ll wait forever if I have to,’” she reads aloud. “That must be in reference to the revenge he seeks. This ghost is waiting for you to help him get his vengeance.”

“But there’s all this other nonsense about his feelings,” says Fiona, gesturing to another letter. “What could that mean?”

“Maybe he has a crush on me. I am pretty cute.”

Fiona and Claire look at me with identical expressions of doubt.

“It was a joke, you guys. Sheesh.”

“This is serious,” says Claire disapprovingly. “If we can’t help this spirit transition to the Other Side, it will be our fault that he’s trapped in limbo forever. Let’s give this situation the respect it deserves.”

I can’t believe I’m getting reprimanded by a medium wearing orthopedic shoes about the proper attitude toward my own haunting, but here we are.

“You’re right. Sorry.” I study the letters spread on the table between us and the stack of envelopes off to one side. “Why are they all postmarked from prison? Do you think that’s a clue, too?”

“It’s more likely that the spirit believes he’s imprisoned. Metaphorically speaking, he is.”

“Okay, next question: how the hell can a ghost use a pen?”

“Spirits can manifest their energy in all sorts of ways,” says Claire. “Using objects like pens is one of them, but they can also control electrical devices such as telephones and computers.”

“Or doorbells,” Fiona reminds me.

“Exactly,” agrees Claire. “They’re remarkably adept at manipulating their environment. If potent enough, they can even affect the weather.”

I listen to the storm roaring outside and wonder if Dante has anything to do with that.

“But if he can control energy and objects, why doesn’t he go get his revenge himself? What does he need me for? Couldn’t he just drop a piano on his enemy’s head?”

“Well, for one thing, he might not recall who his enemy is.”

When I look at her in surprise, Claire says, “Being trapped in limbo is terribly confusing. In fact, this ghost of yours most likely doesn’t even know he’s dead.”

“I already told her that,” says Fiona.

“So he needs me to help him remember.” I look at the letters again. “Remind me why I can’t just tell him he’s dead?”

“It would only drive him further into denial,” answers Claire. “You risk alienating him altogether. If someone told you that you were dead, what would your reaction be?”

I snort. “I’d say sure, pal, and you’re an heirloom tomato.”

“Precisely. We must gently coax him toward the truth. He has to come to it on his own. It’s like the steps a child takes to learn to read. First comes the alphabet. Then they learn short, easy words. Cat. Dog. Tree. Then they put the words together in simple sentences, until eventually, they’re devouring Shakespeare. Comprehension is a multi-step process. It doesn’t happen all at once.”

“But how did he even get stuck in limbo in the first place? Why doesn’t a soul just automatically move on when the body dies?”

“Normally, they do. But sometimes, they lose sight of where to go. The dense reality of the third dimension combined with the gravity of our planet makes things quite complicated for a non-temporal being. Add to that the emotional distress of whatever unfinished business they’re suffering from, and you wind up with a very confused and cranky lost spirit.”

I exhale hard and mutter, “Ghosts are high maintenance.”

Fiona chuckles as if that was especially insightful. “Indeed.”

Sitting back in my chair, I cross my arms over my chest and examine the letters again while sifting through everything in my head. “So, to recap, what I need to do is coax this spirit into accepting that he’s no longer alive and that he needs to go to the Other Side.”

“Just so,” says Claire, beaming.

“How exactly am I supposed to do that if I can’t tell him he’s dead?”

She and Fiona share a loaded glance, then she says softly, “If you give people light, they’ll find their own way.”

Irritated by her ambiguity, I say sourly, “Sure. I’ll just start shouting, “Go into the light!” at the ceiling at random intervals, how about that?”

“Trust your instincts,” says Fiona soothingly. “You’ll think of something. You’ve got the battle halfway won already just by discovering his identity.”

“But I don’t know anything about him! I only have his name!”

I point at his signature on one of the letters, that familiar scrawl.

Dante.

Fiona and Claire look at each other again in their weird twin-telepathy silence.

I say flatly, “I swear to God, if you guys don’t stop doing that, I’ll break something.”

“Why don’t you start by researching his name?” suggests Fiona.

After a moment, I admit grudgingly, “That’s not a bad idea. I was thinking I’d call my detective friend to get some information about Dante.” My laugh is small and weak. “That was before I knew he was a ghost, though.”