Content warning:
In the driftwood and flotsam of his once carefully assembled life, Oliver decided to move in the city. Which was to say, leave his apartment.
His first venture was laughably bashful—rendezvousing with a friend at Dingy’s Best Pasta three blocks away. Its windows were tinted dark, an interior of unknowable mystery. Turn back, he thought again and again. Yet, he always stayed. It occurred to Oliver, as he waffled with indecision on the sidewalk, that for once he was on the outside. There were probably diners—maybe dozens!—behind those opaque windows of Dingy’s watching him stand there like a sleepwalking actor who’s missed every cue.
It was not a comfortable feeling, this sudden reversal of roles, he, the habitual watcher becoming someone others watched. So, he went in and ordered the carbonara.
He only regretted it when Nikki arrived, and his dish was already half devoured.
“Sorry,” he said. The roof of his mouth was burnt, and his white linen napkin was martyred with grease stains. “I should have waited.”
“Nah,” she said. “You should have gotten the linguine.”
Everyone this day and age has a friend like Nikki, that person who answers your calls, agrees to meet you anywhere at any time because they are already out and happen to be in the neighborhood anyway. They are like old Viking heroes who only return home to sleep and only when they have good stories to boast about.
Nikki was the first person Oliver texted when he decided to test the waters of life beyond his own windows. She responded almost instantly, as if she’d been waiting for it, and told him to meet her at Dingy’s in thirty minutes. She was twenty minutes late.
“Yeah, if I was honest about how long it'd take me to get here,” she said, in lieu of an apology, “you might have spooked.”
“Oh,” he said, fingers curling around his abused napkin. Nikki ordered the linguine and a pinot noir from a place he’d never heard of.
“Would I be able to find it on a map?” he asked when the waiter returned with a sparkling blue bottle with a swirling, silver script on the label.
“Depends on the map,” replied Nikki, confirming it was imported from somewhere only ghosts, who weren’t really ghosts, lived. She raised her glass. “New adventures with old friends.”
To Oliver, who was the lightest of lightweights, who usually appreciated the art on the bottle more than its contents, this strange, foreign wine smelled heady, like figs and sandalwood. Its rich, dark body had a dangerous sheen.
He touched his glass to hers.
“How’s your mom?” Oliver asked once he got a bit of wine in him.
“An anxious mess. Your sister?”
“Unreachable.”
They were both silent as they brooded over the specters of unmapped places that handed out terrible prophecies and stole siblings.
“At least they’re constant,” said Nikki, finally.
Oliver laughed, probably more than he should, but it felt good. Like a release.
He ordered the linguine, and over their feast of divine simple carbohydrates and the freshest red sauce, Oliver delivered the bare-bones rundown of how spectacularly his life collapsed since they last spoke, pirouetting carefully around its impetus. It’d been a while, longer than he cared to admit, since he’d been outside of his apartment building. Among unknown shiny surfaces, music, and decor he didn’t choose, body odors that weren’t his or Trina’s. It was unnerving, uncomfortable, and as exhilarating as the wine in his glass.
Nikki listened, but didn’t ask what otherworldly person he’d seen in a reflection and what it foretold that spooked him so badly. She was a good friend. When he finished, she said: “Damn, Oliver, you don’t do things in half measures.”
She ordered another bottle of that strange wine, and the conversation swam. They talked about their college days when they were both writers and had all the buoyancy of dreams to keep them going. Those terrible internships where they learned those dreams were balloons in a cacti garden. Nikki, though, was made of tougher stuff and was now a master of words at the swoon worthy magazine, The Field Guide. She was also, consequently, under a million deadlines.
Oliver, on the other hand, reinvented himself as a corporate analyst and his days became data, data, data. There he fell in love with the beautiful world order of numbers, pliably sorted and strung into pleasing narratives. Easier than words had ever been.
It was only in their second hour, his third glass, and their third shared appetizer that he worked up the nerve to ask: “I need a new gig. Something to hold me over until I figure this out. Any ideas?”
“Well,” replied Nikki and bit down on a roasted cherry tomato. “I’m working on this one project. But it’s not for the faint of heart.”
“Ominous,” Oliver said. “About what?”
“It’s a series of interviews. About people who cohabit with their ghosts.”
“How?” If he wasn’t so stuffed full of rich food and foreign vintages, Oliver would have fallen out of his seat in shock.
“That’s what I want to know,” Nikki replied, pointing the tines of her fork at him. “Interested or too much?”
He hesitated. Here again was the pull to turn back, to strangle this adventure in its infancy. But he feared what he’d become if he did.
“I haven’t interviewed anyone since college,” confessed Oliver. “God, I’m not even sure how to be a member of society.”
“It’s easy,” replied Nikki, grinning. “Just say yes to everything.”
So, he did.
That night, Nikki sent him the name, number, and an appointed time to meet Alice P. She had been living with her ghosts in her Canal Side home for fifteen years.
He was sweaty when he arrived. He’d forgotten that the world outside his apartment building was all stairs, stairs, stairs. Flabby quads were not abided in this city.
Alice’s home was thin as a needle, blue shuttered windows on a crisp white plaster facade. He noticed with mild horror that the shirt he wore, which he’d gotten dry cleaned and pressed for this occasion, was the same exact shade as the exterior and interior walls. But as he ascended the stairs to Apt 3, nine stories up, voices he heard in the lobby swelled to a joyous din. It seemed Alice P had thrown a party for their interview.
He wondered if camouflaging would help or hurt his ability to navigate this assignment.
Alice’s instructions via text said to just come on in. So, he did.
There’s always a feeling of surprise when opening the door to a new place, though Oliver couldn’t say what he was expecting of Alice P’s apartment. It certainly wasn’t so many sofas and coffee tables. Nor the amount of mismatching decors, the crumb spattered plates and half-drunk glasses, the empty picture frames that were actually windows, the tang of citrus candles and baking bread. It was, despite all this, a spacious home.
“Hi,” Oliver said to a couple canoodling on a velvet blue settee. “Sorry. Do you know where I can find Alice?” They stared at him for a moment, like he’d asked them for directions to Hades, before they pointed to the kitchen.
“Thanks.” Oliver felt a blush inch up his neckline as he weaved between partygoers. They all seemed to know each other, and he felt as conspicuous as a lobster among them despite his camouflaging white shirt.
He found Alice P in a narrow kitchen pulling martini glasses and dainty plates from the cabinets.
“You look like your profile picture,” she said when she saw him. “Nice job. It’s annoying when people use one that’s twenty years old or has a fifty-pound difference. Plus or minus. Don’t you think, Fae?” She asked the woman on the other side of a kitchen cutout, whom she was handing these objects to.
“No, I have other things to worry about,” replied the woman as she took the tittering tower of dishes and disappeared from view.
“I’m sorry. I’m running a little behind,” said Alice, opening the oven. A waft of heat and aroma rippled through the kitchen. “The bread … the bread needs another ten minutes. At least. Here, take this.” She handed him a cocktail glass. “Grab some food, something to drink. I’ll find you when I won’t be missed.”
“Ok,” said Oliver, holding the glass carefully by the stem, though he knew even less about making cocktails than he did about wine.
Alice paused her motions and studied him. “When was the last time you met new people, darling?”
“It’s been a while,” Oliver admitted.
Alice smirked. “Yeah, you have that look.” She leaned around to the kitchen’s threshold. “Hey! Jorge! Come be charming and talk to our new friend here.”
Jorge was indeed annoyingly endearing and coaxed Oliver back into the living room, into the unknown. Over a shared plate of spicy almonds and pickled vegetables, Oliver learned that Jorge was the tenant of Apt 1 and had been coming to Alice’s gatherings for years.
“It’s kinda a neighborhood thing,” he explained. “Still fun even if it’s not surprising anymore.”
Oliver nodded and told him about the monthly parties that his apartment building hosted. He and his neighbors had a playlist of inside jokes.
“But this is much more cozy!” Oliver shouted as an elegant group in the dining room, wearing beautiful shirts and dresses with a gentle, otherworldly sheen, erupted into laughter.
Considering the noise, there were not as many people as he expected in the apartment. No, that wasn’t quite right, Oliver realized as he began to adjust and observe. Through gaps in the backless bookshelves that partitioned the room, between the curtains and the empty picture frame windows, there were people talking animatedly.
An hour passed and Alice was still awhirl in the kitchen, but Oliver didn’t mind. Food and drink apparently transformed him into someone a little more easygoing, a tad less anxious. He drifted from group to group, conversion to conversation. Eventually he found himself in front of one of the bookshelves, talking to a woman on the other side who was both odd and beautiful. Her thick black bangs veiled her eyes and her accent was heavy, though Oliver couldn’t pinpoint its origin. (He was always terrible at these things.) Between that and the constant hum of background conversations, Oliver only grasped one of her every four words.
She asked him something. Out of politeness, he nodded, and she reached through the bookcase to grab his forearm. Her skin was cool and stunningly smooth. He marveled at the soft luster to her fingers.
Someone put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. It was Alice. “Can’t have you disappearing yet. Let’s talk on the roof,” she said.
Three more flights of stairs traversed, but the view, the breeze, and the sudden quiet was worth it. There were potted plants in need of watering and beanbags instead of chairs. Alice collapsed into one with a sigh and a laugh. She pulled her graying hair back. She wasn’t particularly spry or lovely, unlike so many of her guests, but you wouldn’t know it.
She’s a host onto herself, Oliver thought and tried to imprint that line on his memory so he could use it in his article later.
“I’ll admit, it’s more intense than usual down there,” she said.
“Do you have company often?” he asked. He suddenly felt unsure how to interview someone like Alice. Do you approach with a direct line of questioning, or do you inquire at a crabwalk?
“Most nights, yes,” she replied. “The cost is unbelievable, the cleanup is even worse. But I enjoy it. It’s certainly better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
Alice gave him a level look. “Dealing with the ghosts alone.”
Oliver pulled out his phone and began to record. The direct approach it would be.
This was the story she told:
Everyone knows how ghost stories work. You catch a glimpse at something, who the hell knows what because you can’t describe it. But you feel it in your every atom and suddenly, like a prophecy, you know something unknowable. Like that mole on your back is not benign and never will be. Or that you will miss meeting that great love of your life by ten minutes. Or that there are so many more worlds beyond this one.
Alice has lived in this Canal Side apartment for fifteen years and it is her dream home. Before this, she spent eight years saving for it and another two trying to find it. Yes, the stairs are a bitch, the layout is odd, but look at this view! This neighborhood! The natural light and the space! Totally worth it.
Though there was a time she doubted it.
Like, this one morning, in her first six months of living here, she opened her front door to find the ghost of a murder in her living room. The ruined body was splayed out, gray limbs and blank eyes, seeping phantom blood into her new area rugs. It was clearly a specter, but was it a ghost of the past, present, or of another world entirely? Who knew. The police weren’t helpful. The few photos she had the presence of mind to take were blurry (though clear enough to illustrate the violence that happened. Or would happen. Or might.) There just weren’t enough clues to open a case.
This might have been bearable to Alice if it was a onetime apparition. After all, who in this day and age doesn’t see a few ghosts? But of course, it wasn’t. Once a week or so, this ghost would reappear, in all its bloody splendor in her sundrenched living room. Its blank, brown eyes would watch her as she moved around her home and there wasn’t even judgment in the look. All Alice could glean from the ghost was the certainty that she would never be alone in her Canal Side home.
The second ghost was subtler. A few weeks after the appearance of the first, there was a shadow in the corner of her eye, stealing the dregs from her coffee mug and the seeds from her multigrain toast. But this one frightened her more than the corpse. Because she foresaw a life of serving others.
She hired experts, occultists, and seers, but they all said the same thing: This apartment was a passageway of sorts for the worlds beyond. There was no way around it. Something about her home's elevation and its angle to the sun, its closeness to the canal (but not too close) created ideal conditions for this sort of thing.
And to think, she paid above asking and had to negotiate with the previous owners to get the bedroom windows fixed.
It was the third ghost that broke her, though. She never saw it. It just wore all her shoes and her hair scrunchies. With the scent of another’s feet and strands of long red hair, came the certainty that she would never feel quite comfortable in her own house.
That’s how she knew there would be many more ghosts
She abandoned her apartment for six months for a sublet across the sea. Hoping to find some peace.
(“Did it work?” asked Oliver, knowing that he shouldn’t interrupt the narrative, but he hoped and was unable to help himself.
Alice laughed. “Of course not. They had their own brand of ghosts there.”)
In the seventh month, she came back. She had an idea, the brainchild of many desperate conversations, hours scouring the internet caused by and causing sleepless nights. If her home, her dream house, was a passageway, she would give the ghosts lanes.
If you live in a place long enough, you learn its tricks, the reflective places to glance at only at an angle, the wily doorways and windows. It’s going outside that’s dangerous, all those unknowns. Never the less, Alice redecorated. She bought mirrors and frame pictures, cabinets and curtains. Like a charm, the murdered ghost stopped appearing on the rug and took up residence in the spare bedroom’s vanity. The breakfast thief became mostly content as it oversaw her cooking from the spice rack on the kitchen wall.
The third ghost was still a menace, but it at least cleaned its hair out of her brush and put what it borrowed back where it belonged now.
Point is, where others would have shut down, spiraled, or given up, Alice did not exactly conquer her ghosts, but they don’t have a hold on her. A tight one, at least.
She lives in her dream house and it’s full of ghosts. But it’s full of many other things and people, too.
“That’s it?” Oliver asked, after a beat.
“More or less,” she replied, leaned back into her beanbag.
“And how many ghosts do you think live with you?” Oliver was already stressing about how he would turn this into something palatable for Nikki and her readers. The story was too straightforward. No good resolution.
“Thirty-seven,” said Alice.
“Thirty-seven?”
Alice smiled like a returning hero.
“And what about your ghost?” she asked. Oliver startled.
“What makes you say that?” he asked, offhanded-like, though he could feel the beginnings of a telltale blush at his neck.
“You have that look,” replied Alice, tapping her nose. “I know that look.”
Oliver hesitated. “It was something I saw through a reflection. A long way away.”
“Well. It’s better to face these things head on, darling,” she said. “Or someone else’s story will swallow you up.”
“I’m trying,” said Oliver. “Trying to figure it out at least.”
He leaned back in his own beanbag. The things that were haunting them—all of them—weren’t really ghosts, naturally. These visitors were easier to ignore if you didn’t think they had substance. Not that it stopped his sister from disappearing with one of them.
Before Norah vanished, they used to do this, drag sleeping bags up to their building’s roof and talk under the quiet night sky. Now, many years later, on this roof, he took comfort in the fact that above them, behind all those clouds and smog and light pollution at least the vastness of stars stayed affixed.
“Seems like you're on the right path.” Alice stood and stretched, loosening a sigh as her shoulder joints popped. “Hey, if nothing else works, you can try to throw your ghost a party.”
Something clicked into place for Oliver as he stood too and braced to rejoin the merry throng. He thought of the woman framed on the other side of the bookcase. “Alice,” he asked, slowly. “How many of your guests down there are human?”
“About half,” she said, as she descended the stairs. “Give or take.”
“That was kind of freaky,” he said to Nikki when he called. He had just finished zipping up Alice P’s story and sent it over.
“Good freaky or bad?”
“I don’t know, maybe both?” he said. “Made me feel a little better about my own mess.”
“Sometimes we only understand ourselves through bits and pieces in other's stories,” said Nikki.
“That’s a good line,” he said. “Wish I thought of it.”
“It’s why I’m writing for The Field Guide, and you’re doing my grunt work.”
“It’s not so bad,” said Oliver and surprised himself that he actually meant it. If nothing else, it got him out of his own head. Gave him other things to worry about.
“Good, because I have another for you. But I gotta warn you. This one’s weird,” she said.
Don’t turn back, Oliver told himself once more. “Well,” he said. “A friend told me to say yes to everything.”
Vincent asked that Oliver come to his Crosstown apartment at 7:45pm for dinner. Good timing, his email said. Sort of. In the way back of his closet, Oliver excavated the leather jacket he used to wear when he was convinced he was going to live the life that Nikki now embodied.
Dress for the job you want, he thought as he headed out, even though what he actually wanted was to figure a few things out.
But in his absence from the city, Oliver had forgotten what a jackass the train system was. Even with a thirty-minute buffer, he arrived at apartment 15L closer to 8pm and flustered.
He only rapped once on the door before Vincent yanked it open.
“You’re late,” he said.
“Trains,” said Oliver. A weak, but honest and evergreen excuse.
“You need to start the interview now,” said Vincent, stepping out the doorway and beckoning him in. “You need to look at this evening like a reporter.”
“Okay,” said Oliver, glad he was wearing the leather jacket. He pulled out his phone from his pocket and began to record. This is how the story unfolded:
Vincent Wong, 37, at first glance, seemed like your typical Crosstown software developer. Neatly trimmed facial hair, lightly gelled black hair. Wearing the classic but ageless apparel of a black tee shirt and dark jeans. His apartment was similarly minimalist and pleasing. White linen sofas and chairs, white pine tables, warm gray walls. The only surprising things were a few framed prints of vivid, surrealist paintings on the walls, eye catching and beautiful.
(There were no, Oliver observed with relief, empty frames, bookshelves, or unnecessary caddy corners.)
VINCENT WONG: Want something to drink? I have some session beers.
OLIVER EVERETT: Sure.
At closer glance however, you pick up on a few odd details. Vincent’s movements were tense and hurried, his shoulders were hunched. There were three place settings at the dining room table, with a pot in the center that was still steaming. It smelled like curry.
OE: Oh, are we expecting company?
VW: My wife. But she might not be back tonight. Hoping though.
Vincent took a long pull of his beer and didn’t elaborate. Outside, there were distant shouts of a group of people yelling drunkenly, though it was not much past 8pm.
(Direct or crabwalk? Oliver wondered, turning the can of muddled tasting beer around and around in his hands.)
OE: You told my colleague you live with a ghost.
VW: [Laughs] What a ridiculously shallow word for them.
(Crabwalk, Oliver thought.)
OE: What should I write instead?
VW: Neighbors.
OE: I’ve never heard anyone call them that before.
VW: Why not? We share borders. That’s what they call themselves anyway.
OE: I didn’t know that.
VW: Yes, at least that’s what Lumina says.
OE: Lumina?
VW: My wife. The Neighbor who lives with me.
OE: Oh.
On the street below the apartment, fifteen floors down, something was smashed and shattered, followed by raucous laughter. Vincent stiffened. There was something … off-key about those voices.
VW: We met on the train, you know. The Centerline, the one famous for all the otherworld faces that like to look through the windows at the passengers.
OE: Sure. And only tourists are stupid enough to make eye contact with them.
VW: Did you know sometimes they get bored and ride the trains for a few stops?
OE: No.
(Oliver was glad he didn’t know that. He took the Centerline here, in fact. So, so glad. He would have been hours later to this meeting on account of walking the seven miles to Vincent’s apartment instead.)
OE: What was that like? To meet Lumina on a commute?
VW: It was one of the most unexpected things to ever happen to me
OE: Did you get a foreshadowing about something when you saw her? People usually do when they encounter a ghost, um, Neighbor.
VW: [Laughs] I don’t know, man. It was love at first sight. Yeah, I know how cliche that sounds.
OE: Not at all. How long have you two been married?
VW: Two years. But we’ve been together for five.
OE: Wow.
There was another crash, louder and closer this time. The sounds from street level rose up. It seemed like a mob was growing out there, right below apartment 15L. Joyous or angry? It was impossible to tell.
VW: [Crinkling beer can as he speaks] It’s not as strange as you think, being with a Neighbor. She adapted to our world pretty fast. I mean, they’ve been watching us for a long time. She has a better pop culture knowledge than I do. Honestly, I think it's harder for me. She has a loose sense of time. She’s always late. Or way too early. There’s no middle ground with her. Can I get you another beer?
OE: I’m good, thanks.
The sounds from below—car alarms and howling dogs—became increasingly loud and distracting, but the voices of the crowd rose above it. They were shouting, singing maybe, though the words were blurry.
VW: [Comes back with a can in each hand] It’s going to be one of those nights, I think.
OE: Is it always this loud out there?
VW: No. Only sometimes.
The mob began calling something. Someone. It sounded like a name, but whose, it was impossible to tell.
(Are they saying “Oliver?” he wondered. It almost seemed like it. The syllables fit.)
OE: What the hell is going on out there?
The windows of the apartment all had white curtains, and they were drawn tight and tied closed, as if Lumina and Vincent were very private people.
OE: [Walks towards the window] What’s out there?
VW: No! Don’t look!
(Oliver was startled by how quickly Vincent moved to stop him from touching the curtains of the nearest window. Even more so by the real, uncut terror in this man’s eyes.)
VW: We call it the Revelry. The nights when the Neighbors in the area take to the streets. Lumina says it’s an ancient celebration where windows between the worlds become more like doors. It’s not for us, though.
OE: I think they’re calling my name.
VW: Yeah. I hear mine too.
OE: What happens if we go down there?
VW: Same thing that always happens to humans in all of these types of stories. You don’t come back. Come on, let’s go sit in the hallway. It’s safer there.
The hallway is indeed quieter than the apartment. No windows either. Few points of temptation. Vincent settled down on the carpeted floor, leaned his head against the wall. The elevator at the end of the hallway dinged as it traveled downward, ringing out as it paused at each floor.
VW: I hate Revelry nights.
OE: How ... how often does this happen?
VW: Once every three months or so. Lumina always joins them. She says it's her sacred obligation. Also, that she needs to blow off steam from living with humans all the time.
Though quieter, the hallway was not soundproof. The screaming laughter seeped through. The sound of breaking glass and thuds. The Revelers were still calling our names and somehow the temptation to peek outside hadn’t lessened. Perhaps when you spend so much time looking out your window at this strange, terrifying world (as we all do, this day and age), it's easy to forget that maybe there are times you shouldn’t.
OE: That’s a hell of a party. How long will it last?
VW: Hours.
The elevator at the end of the hall reached the bottom floor and began to ascend, once again going local, stopping at every floor.
OE: You know what, I will take that beer.
By the time Vincent returned with a six-pack, neighbors, human neighbors, began to fill the hallway. They dragged out blankets and pillows from their homes. They huddled in groups, clasping hands, holding onto arms.
(Oliver couldn’t help but notice more than one had that same desperate look Vincent wore. They too were waiting for someone.)
The elevator opened on the fifteenth floor. Empty.
VW: The trick for me getting through this is to pray that my wife steps out when that damn thing comes to this floor. And also, not to get in.
OE: Does she? Ever leave the Revelry early, I mean?
VW: She used to. When we first started dating.
The Revelers were singing now, sweetly, calling to their lovers and friends. The elevator at the end of the hall lingered as if waiting. More than one neighbor in the hallway wrapped a hand or arm around the person next to them, anchoring themselves to someone else.
VW: I’m so screwed tomorrow. I can never get any work done the day after a Revelry. Or the days leading up to one. It’s like living with a brewing thunderstorm.
OE: Is it worth it?
(Crabwalk be damned.)
VW: Lumina and I have a pretty good life here. It’s not fancy. I have a good job, and she has even started her own art dealing business. It’s not perfect. It’s not like we don’t have dumb fights. Like last week, we had one because she keeps putting the drinking glasses on the top shelf, and I always need to grab a step stool to reach them. She doesn’t get why it’s an issue, she’s tall. Sure, they don’t fit as well on the lower shelf, but who cares? She does. Anyway, my point is, I still love her.
OE: Okay.
VW: You must think I’m crazy.
OE: No. No, I don’t. I saw something recently. A ghost or a Neighbor actually. In a window a long way off. But I knew for certain what my future would be, and I didn’t like what I saw. But also, it makes sense? So, I kind of self-sabotage my life. It was a solid life, too. So, yeah, love seems like a better reason than mine.
VW: No offense, buddy, but that makes me feel better.
OE: Cheers.
The elevator reached the ground floor again. Lingered at the lobby. The Revelers’ singing swelled, and they called out to us, clearly now. Begging for us so lovingly. It was tempting.
The elevator began to come back up.
VW: I lied before. When I first saw Lumina, I knew that one day I would follow her down there. One of these days, I’ll crack.
(Oh God, how Oliver could relate. He didn’t want to know what was going on below. He desperately wanted to know. This wasn’t his story, but he could see himself getting lost in it. How did one ghost, one wrong glance in such a careful life lead him to this?
He didn’t normally seek out touch, especially from strangers, but there in that accursed hallway, sitting on the scratchy high traffic carpet, he reached for Vincent’s hand. Vincent did not pull away.)
OE: Not today.
VW: Yeah. Not today.
The evaluator chimed. Its doors opened.
It was empty.
Waiting.
Like an invitation.
“I can’t do another,” was his opening line to Nikki. Oliver was back in his own apartment, among his own stuff and around windows he trusted. Well, used to trust. He didn’t know what he could trust anymore. Certainly not normal seeming Crosstown software bros or the Centerline train. He splurged on a taxi home, because it was that or walk.
The Revelry had ended at 3am. He was home by four, and with a focus reminiscent of his college days, he wrote the interview up, his fingertips and mind tingling with too much adrenaline and the lingering, heady dregs of fear. The interview was in Nikki’s inbox at 6:03am.
At 6:16am he called her to tender his resignation from this non-official job. She was already up and at a diner.
“What? Why?” she asked. There was the sound of a coffee grinder in the background. Oliver was suddenly jealous of that coffee and simultaneously resentful that he wasn’t in bed, sleeping for a million years.
“I just sent you the interview, but once you read it—”
“I’ve read it.”
“So, you know why. That was completely insane, Nikki.” The Revelers’ serenade looped in his head, embedded like a burr, though the night was over and the unseen crowd had dispersed. Lumina had stepped out of the elevator (finally) and when Oliver left apartment 15L and hailed the taxi at the corner, the street looked no more trashed than any other street in Crosstown.
Still, their songs echoed. The curiosity lingered. The desire to peek at the Revelers the next time they came around pawed at him and Oliver wondered, in his dry-eyed exhaustion, how long this particular haunting would last.
“Sorry, Oliver,” Nikki said. “That was a lot weirder than I thought it would be.”
“You think?”
“I didn’t know. Really.”
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, refusing to look at anything new. “Did you know they called themselves Neighbors? Please tell me my trials and ordeals have taught you something new.”
“No,” she replied, with a soft laugh. “But I know there are as many types of ghosts and places they come from as there are people in this city. Which is why this project is so cool.”
“Is it?”
“If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t ask …”
Oliver’s fingers tensed around his phone. There was a long silence on the line.
“I have one more for you,” she said finally.
“Hell no!”
“Fair,” she replied. “But.”
“Seriously, Nikki?”
“This chick says she knows how to reverse or work around ghosts’ damn prophecies,” she said.
Perhaps if Oliver weren’t so tired, he would have fallen out of his seat. Or perhaps he had gotten used to all the shocks and revelations in his new life that ambushed him like bored children.
Turn back, he thought. Then: What the hell. I’ve come this far.
“Give me her info,” he said, and he could feel Nikki’s grin through the phone.
Whatever happened next, he would at least try not to become what he didn't want to be.
Esme met Nikki at Dingy’s Best Pasta two days later in Oliver’s stead. She was exactly on time.
Nikki was sitting at the bar, rigid in the hightop, held upright by worry fueled rage. The breadbasket before her was untouched.
“Where is he?” she said as Esme approached.
Nikki done her research, you see. As much as she could anyway. Esme was the type of person who had stopped updating their social media ten years ago. Her online self was stalled as a cheerful, standard issue twenty-something with dark, curly shoulder length hair. By contrast, the person that hopped up on the barstool next to her now was pierced and shorn, strong and battle-tested in a way the girl in those ancient selfies could never dream of. But Nikki looked closer. Yes, there was still a shadow of that other Esme in this one.
“You must be Nikki,” Esme said, taking the breadbasket.
“Oliver was just supposed to interview you,” Nikki insisted, “and he’s not returning my calls.”
Esme shrugged, chewing on a cheese twist. “Not surprised.”
“What happened to him?” asked Nikki
“He met someone, of course.”
“Please tell me they are a nice, human someone.” Nikki was surprised and a little frightened by the shrill note in her voice.
Esme laughed. “In this day and age? Of course not!”
“Oh my god,” said Nikki, putting her head in her hands. She was going to have to call his parents or something. They still sent her holiday cards.
Something slid across the bar top. Nikki was startled by the glass of red that appeared before her. It was the same wine she ordered on that fateful meeting with Oliver.
“Thanks, Walter,” said Esme, toasting the bartender with a wine glass of her own. He gave a two fingered salute and disappeared back into the kitchen. It was 3pm, restaurant witching hour, and they were the only ones there. Nikki stared at Esme.
“What?” Esme said. “Lasagna Tuesday at Dingy’s is the best.”
“Oliver was just supposed to interview you. What the hell happened?”
“Right,” she said, settling against the bar. “I’m supposed to give you that interview.”
Nikki waited. Esme selected a garlic knot from the basket. “Well?”
“Well, ask your questions. That’s how this is supposed to work, right?”
“Sure. Why didn’t you keep Oliver safe? You said you’d keep him safe.” She was almost shouting. Instinctively, Nikki knew that this was the wrong tack to use on this subject, but the right one eluded her at this moment. She’d barely slept in almost thirty-six hours. Thank God the place was empty.
Esme didn’t move.
“What I said was,” replied Esme, enunciating. “We wouldn’t do anything too dangerous, but to warn him anyway. Did you?”
Not well enough, Nikki thought, but said: “He was on contract to collect some stories for me. That’s it.”
There was a taut pause before the other woman leaned forward. “I know your type,” said Esme.
“Sure, you do. So, are you just going to antagonize me or are you going to tell me what happened to my friend?”
“Both,” replied Esme, taking a long pull from the wine. “You want a story, story lady? Well, buckle up.”
Nikki considered arguing, then remembered that in this line of work she was one part gravedigger, one part confidante. So, she put her phone on the bar top and began to record.
Began to listen.
Her interview with Oliver began on a bridge over the Seaglass Canal. It was not, despite its enchanting name, a beautiful bridge, not like the ones uptown featured in every tourist photo and city promo shot. The water here was, simply put, fucking foul. But this was where her work brought her today, so this was where Esme would conduct her goddamn business.
She was dangling a makeshift fishing rod over the bridge when Oliver arrived, five minutes early.
“I didn’t think anything could live in there,” Oliver said, leaning over the guardrail, wrinkling his nose at the dank smell, but carefully not looking at the water’s reflection.
“Live,” replied Esme. “Is a funny word.”
“Right,” said Oliver with a strained sort of chuckle. “We’re talking about ghosts. Neighbors. Sprites?”
He sounded so, so new. Esme would have had a good laugh if it was not for the underlying stress radiating off him. This man, who clearly only ever worked remotely, a never-leave-the-home-office type, was still wearing the rumpled, semi-professional clothes of his former life. Complete with fresh dark patches under his eyes. This, Esme thought, is a newly haunted dude.
“Others,” she said.
“What?”
“The Others,” repeated Esme. “That’s what we call them.”
“Oh,” he said. “And the ‘we’ here is …”
“We who haunt the ghosts.” Esme grinned. She couldn’t help it, even though poor Oliver swayed on his feet.
Here’s the thing: Fuck those Viking hero types, Esme was a true adventurer. She spent as many nights away as she did in her own studio. She had friends, comrades, and lovers in almost every neighborhood of the city. She tracked the wind and customer requests, making full eye contact with questionable puddles and the overgrown lots. She’d heard all the grave prophecies about her existence and has had so many near misses, she could be the protagonist of a long-running series. But what actually made her a true adventurer was that when she did return home, she wasn’t shocked to find life wasn’t like she left it. Because she understood it was always her who had changed.
There was a tug on her makeshift line.
“Don’t move,” Esme ordered Oliver as she began her contest with her prey. Her biceps and forearms tingled with the joy of the battle and anticipation as inch by well fought inch she wrestled with her prize. When finally she dragged that baited hook out of the disgusting water, a harried, frustrated man with twig thin limbs and tangled, mucked up tresses clung to the end of her line. In his right hand, he clutched a piece of notebook paper.
“Is that?” Oliver breathed.
“Shh,” said Esme.
The man almost looked tangible with his sun-weather skin and his scowl, but he swayed in the breeze as if he was lighter than a thought.
“I’ll trade you,” said Esme. “The bait and your freedom for some goods.”
“I have nothing, you greedy toad,” sneered the caught Other.
Esme hauled him up onto the bridge and waited.
“Your work,” the Other intoned. “All your work in this life will never add up to anything.”
“Yup, heard that one before,” replied Esme. “So, confinement or payment?” She inspected her fingernails as the man on the hook pouted and swore vibrantly, colorfully.
“Fine!” he shouted, at last. “It’s there!” He pointed a long, twiggy finger at the foot of the bridge.
Satisfied, Esme unhooked him and without pause, he drove back into the water, notebook page still clutched in his hand.
True to his foul-mouthed word, at the end of the bridge, there was a box, not quite cardboard, soggy at the corners and glistening with something a little more than dampness.
Esme crouched down beside it and opened the flaps. “Goddamn,” she breathed.
“Is that fabric?” Oliver asked, peering over her shoulder.
It moved through her hands like water, felt like a cool breeze, a slight sheen to its deep black color. Clothes made from Otherworld materials were the latest and hottest trend.
“Yeah! I’m going to make Rene’s day with this one.”
“Rene?”
“One of my customers,” said Esme, picking up the box. She was pleased by its heft. For all his bitching, that Other must have really liked her bait. “I’m an international importer of sorts.”
(“Oh,” said Nikki, looking down at the wine they were drinking, the strange silver script on the bottle.
“Yeah,” said Esme. “How did you think these things get here?”
“Truthfully, I’ve never thought about it,” Nikki conceded. “My fault.”)
Esme felt sort of bad for Oliver. This was a weak ass interview so far. It didn’t really explain her or what she did, not yet. So, she offered to take Oliver to her next job—to meet a fleeting and exacting merchant in a seedy corner of Northside. She was pleased and a little surprised when he agreed. He was clearly made out of something sturdier than appearances let on.
“What was on the hook?” Oliver asked as they walked to her car.
“A nude sketch of my lover,” replied Esme. “The water Others love that shit. Filthy sailors they are.”
Oliver laughed, maybe a little too much. “Naturally.” He rubbed his face. “God, my life has become so weird.”
What was weird, Esme thought, was having someone ride shotgun with her. It’s been a minute since anyone was brave enough to join her on one of her infamous fruit quests.
She parked in a “No Stopping” spot outside GlitterLand! The galleria’s once neon zealous exterior had lost some of its brightness and twinkle, a few windows, and all its appeal in its abandonment. But its tagline was still intact, proclaiming: A sparkling fun time for the whole family!
“God, I remember the endless ads for this,” said Oliver, getting out of the car. “What happened?”
“When the Others became more of a feature than a bug in our lives,” replied Esme, grabbing tote bags from the trunk of her car. “Weird ass places like this were hot real estate to them.” She began walking towards the entrance, Oliver trailing behind.
“Do you … do you come here often?” he asked. Esme didn’t look back, but she heard the waiver in his voice, the falter in his step.
“Often enough. Look, you don’t have to come,” she said, heart sinking a little. She really had been excited to show someone a day in her life. “This isn’t dangerous, but it isn’t exactly safe. There’s no shame in tapping out.” She held out her car keys. Though disappointed, she meant every word.
For a moment, Oliver seemed to consider it, almost turning. Then, he straightened. “No, I want to know how you do it. How you work around—or undo?—Others’ prophecies.”
Esme nodded. She understood that desire. It was why she started doing what she was doing now. Together, they walked to the main entrance of GlitterLand!
It was unlocked.
“Okay, so the trick here is follow my lead,” she said to Oliver. “And don’t look at any one spot directly.”
“Right,” Oliver said, taking a deep, steadying breath. “I can do that.”
The abandoned galleria was eerie as fuck. The wide walkway was lined with deserted arcades, toy shops, candy stores, and naturally, glittery salons. Once these businesses tried to outshine each other, but now all those darkened exteriors and their strange, big-eyed mascots looked like they belonged to another world. And yet, in GitterLand!, every surface, though dusty, still had a slight shine.
“Don’t get too close to the stores,” she said. “And definitely don’t follow anyone else, no matter how sexy they are.”
“My sister did that once,” Oliver said. “A while ago now.”
Esme believed it. These days, everyone knew someone or knew of someone’s someone who followed an Other home. Esme herself had been staggeringly tempted once or twice.
They were not alone in the vast, empty hallways of GlitterLand!, of course. As they trekked inwards, the edges of her vision swam with Others. Some wanted to ensnare her attention, and some were content just to people watch. The danger, of course, was in looking back.
Behind her, Oliver’s breath hitched in uneven intervals. “And we’re doing this because …”
“Because this guy, Echo, who is usually here on Sundays after a new moon, during high tide. He has the best fucking stone fruit and raspberries.”
“We’re wading through the equivalent of the river Styx for raspberries?”
“Raspberries and apricots. Six pints will cover my rent for the next two months.”
“Oh,” Oliver said, his shoes squeaking on the floors. “They’re really that good?”
“They haunt my dreams,” replied Esme. “I shit you not.” From the edge of her vision, a set of fabulously dressed Others she knew waved from a face painting station, whose sign still boasted of making you “rainbow beautiful!” If she were alone, she would have stopped by to see what they had to trade.
Instead, they proceeded carefully to the end of the galleria to a store where once people designed and filled their own stuffed animals. There were examples in the store front windows. Polar bears, rabbits, and horses all with top hats and wide unnatural smiles. The ones waiting to be purchased were stacked on the shelfs like deflated balloons.
“God, I forgot how creepy the place was,” said Oliver. “Even before all the ghosts.”
“Yeah, this store was ahead of its fucking time,” replied Esme.
Of course, this was where Echo set up shop, the sick bastard. She could smell the sweet, sun-ripened fruit from deep within the store. Her stomach clenched with memory and longing and she almost ran into the store.
There was a cacophony of squeaking sneakers behind her. Esme turned to see Oliver stiff, still, and very pale. There were dozens of knobby hands reaching out of the smooth, reflective tiled floor, holding his ankles.
“Help,” he said, voice strangled.
The thing about Others is that each one is a little different, like people. But also, like people, they all fucking want something. The trick to surviving your ghosts is to take something back from them in return.
“Oliver, don’t freak out,” said Esme, keeping her voice steady. “Just tell them a story.” She recognized the types clinging to her interviewer’s heels. They wouldn’t be satisfied with a look or a few personal details. These glutenous fucks wanted a meal.
“I’m a data analyst,” replied Oliver, voice cracking. “I’m basically an anti-story by design.”
“No, you’re an ex-data analyst,” said Esme. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. Would you?”
Oliver’s pale expression lost another shade before his posture sagged into the enviable. “Well, I have gotten pretty good at interviews,” he said.
This was how he told the story:
“It’s not much of a story,” Oliver Everett begins. The way he tells it, up until a few weeks ago, Oliver had carefully assembled his life so that he wouldn’t be like all those people who see a ghost and imminently fall apart. “Not that it did me much good in the end,” he said with a strained laugh. But it was a good life. He lived in a building of like-minded people—almost everyone there has lost someone they loved to ghosts. Or was in the process of losing someone. Prophecies, even small ones, were a hell of a thing. Over the years he’d amassed an enviable collection of vinyl records and cookware and put both to good use. He stayed current on the news and on the latest sports games. His girlfriend, Trina, lived two floors up and they were so aligned in what they wanted in life, they were like a pair of railroad tracks. “It was easy, being with her,” he explained as he pushes at the ghostly hands on his ankles. “It was a smooth existence."
The windows of his apartment were tinted specially so no one, spectral or otherwise, could look in. But the view to the street was clear and watching the people who dared to venture out was entertainment in itself. “You’d see the craziest thing. But also the saddest. Lots of people wandering around looking like they lost everything.” Once a month the entire building would get together to exchange stories about what they read or watched on TV or witnessed by looking out their windows.
But then, one morning, while shaving, something in the mirror’s reflection caught his eye. Which, he normally ignored, you see. Over the years, he’d become an expert at looking in the mirror, but also not. Perfected his gaze in soft focus.
Except, for some reason, this time he didn’t. And in a blink, a flash of recognition, Oliver Everett found out his stable life was just a fortified house of cards.
“And that’s it,” said Oliver, concluding the interview. “Happy?”
The ghosts at his heels were not.
“What did you see?” the Others asked, tightening their grip.
(Here, Nikki leaned forward.)
“My sister. Norah,” said Oliver, relenting, his whole body sagging. “See, ten years ago she followed a ghost … somewhere. And we never heard from her again. Would have thought she died except she occasionally posts a picture on her socials. They’re always a little unsettling.
“But then, there she was. Far away in my mirror, like she was in another building across the road, but she looked so happy, like I’ve never seen her before.
“There’s this absolute certainty that comes when you look straight at a ghost and see its prophecy. And I knew at that moment, I would never feel that sort of happiness Norah had. Not with Trina, or in my apartment or with anything I did.”
Oliver crossed his arms, tried to scuffle his feet. Failed. “So yeah, after that the question I kept asking myself was why not?”
“Finish the story,” whispered the ghosts on the floor.
It was his job that went first, ironically. “Guess it shouldn’t have surprised me,” said Oliver, giving a short, bitter laugh. “But after that revelation, my head wasn’t in the numbers anymore.” Then it was Trina who said he had changed, and maybe they should take a break for a while, reassess in a few months. His neighbors began to avoid him, when he tried to explain how the apartment and, even worse, their building felt like a satin lined trap.
“Eventually, one of them told me that maybe I should try to find answers outside,” admitted Oliver. “So, I did a scary thing, and I ventured out into the world. Looking for answers while trying not to get lost.”
“And now I’m being held captivated by ghosts,” said Oliver.
“Others,” said Esme.
“Others,” he amended
“This doesn't end how you think,” hissed the Others holding him. But then they let go and disappeared.
For a long breath, Esme and Oliver stared at each other in the haunted toy shop with divine smells of fresh fruit wafting from the aisle with all the panda bears
“I can’t stay here,” he gasped.
Back by her car, Oliver crouched and hugged his knees, then hid his face in his hands. His shoulders shook. Esme retrieved a bottle of water from her car.
“Here,” she said, touching his knee.
Oliver sat back with a soft thud against the car and accepted the bottle. “How the fuck do you do it?” he said, after he took a sip. “Keep facing them like that?”
Esme sat down next to him. There was litter everywhere, but no one else in sight. “Well,” she said. “It was either face them or be followed by them and told constantly that you will never be good enough.”
“Well,” said Oliver, staring at the backs of his hands. “Good choice, I guess.”
“Fuck yeah it is.”
They sat there for a few minutes, just breathing, with the sunlight and the breeze, the filthy cement under them. Across the street there was an apartment building, and they could just make out the lights of several rooms turning on and the silhouette of faces pressed against the tinted glass.
Who the hell would want an apartment with a view of GlitterLand!? Esme thought. People in this city baffled her sometimes.
“I wonder what stories they will make up about us at their next building party,” Oliver said, nodding up towards the windows.
“Nothing as good as what actually happened,” replied Esme.
Oliver laughed, his breath hitching once.
A window in the topmost apartment illuminated. It was not tinted like the others and there were two figures in the frame.
Oliver squinted, shaded his eyes. “That looks like my sister,” he said. “But it can’t be.”
“Actually, the Others are the worst gossips,” said Esme. Then, after a pause: “If you’re curious, these apartment buildings usually forget to lock the front doors.”
Oliver stared at her, horrified.
“What?” said Esme, pulling the bottle of water out of his hands and taking a swig. “Paths into other worlds aren’t one-way roads, you know. Besides, it’s not like you don’t have cell service over there, dude.”
“Wait.” Oliver was clearly reeling. “Have you been?”
Esme shrugged. “Once or twice. It’s weird. Just so you know and not for the faint of heart. There’s a reason why everyone thinks humans get stuck there. Wouldn’t do it for just anyone.”
Oliver bit his lip as he stared up to that topmost apartment. “If she has cell service, why doesn’t she call?” The figures in the window were leaning forward, almost like they were shouting down to them. But the distance was too great for words.
“Don’t know,” said Esme. “Maybe you should ask her.”
She watched as indecision danced across Oliver’s face. Smiled when it settled into resolution.
“If I don’t come back,” he said, "will you tell Nikki I’m sorry?”
“No. Don’t be your sister. Come back and tell her yourself. Or just send a fucking text.”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” Oliver rose to his feet, trembling slightly. But then he straightened, first his shirt and then his shoulders.
He crossed the street.
Like she said, the front door was unlocked. To her surprise though, Oliver turned back and gave her a small wave. Then he disappeared inside.
Esme waited, watched. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. She’s embarrassed to admit this now, but at the thirty-minute mark, she wondered if she had been mistaken and sent this brave and hapless ex-data analyst to face more than he could bear.
But then, a third figure appeared in the window. She didn’t have a clear view—he was a long way off.
Somehow, though, Esme knew that he was happy.
“Are you bullshitting me?” Nikki asked.
Esme crossed her arms. “Do I seem like the type that has time to sit down and make stories up for others' amusement?”
Nikki was gripping the edge of the bar, willing herself not to do something stupid. “His ghost warned him that he’d never be happy. And you let him go anyway.”
Esme gave Nikki a long and leveled look. “Others lie. All the time, in fact. To get what they want. Sort of like people. Right?”
“What the hell are you saying?”
“You could have just done the interview yourself,” said Esme. “Instead of sending your emotionally vulnerable and unprepared friend.”
That caught her. Nikki’s hand wobbled slightly as she reached for her phone, stopped recording. “If I could, I would,” she replied, so, so quietly. “I’ve tried. But ghosts never give me the time or the answers.” She took an exceptionally long swallow of wine. “Except for the ones in my mom’s house. Those tell me every chance they can that problems that haunt her will find me too. So, I guess like Oliver, I’m searching for why.”
“You and a thousand other people,” said Esme and refilled their glasses from the dwindling bottle. “Sometimes I miss the days when Others didn’t live among us so completely.”
It was early evening now, diners were just beginning to trickle in. It happened to be Tuesday, so they both ordered the lasagna. As much as Nikki hated to admit it, Esme was right. It was the best pasta at Dingy’s.
They ate in silence that was not quite companionable, but not quite lonely either.
“So,” said Esme, when their bake dishes were empty and so too were the glasses and bottles. “Did you get the answers you were looking for?”
On the bar top between them, Nikki’s phone lit up. It was Oliver.
His text said: Sorry, got swept up. But I’ll have a hell of a story for you when I get back.
Oh, how Nikki could relate.
“Bits and pieces of them,” she said.
Editor: Aigner Loren Wilson
First Reader: Hebe Stanton
Copy Editors: Copy Editing Department
Accessibility: Accessibility Editors