The flight back from Seattle to San Francisco doesn’t take long, but sometimes it can be just long enough to be truly intriguing. Such was the flight I took a few months ago. Making small talk with my seat mate we turned to talking about our occupations, as it often does. And as it frequently happens when I mentioned I write about the paranormal his eyebrows raised considerably. I added my usual disclaimer that I just write about the paranormal, which tends to placate non-believers and keeps people from asking if I could contact their lost Aunt Ellen (“No,” I say, “I leave that to the psychics”). But this gentleman didn’t subscribe to either extreme, but he did tell me about a place that piqued my interest.

He asked if I’d heard of Harbin Hot Springs out by Middletown near Napa Valley. I indicated I had, of course, and then asked if I’d heard of Ravens Springs. My puzzlement clearly showed and he went on to say it’s separated from Harbin by a ridge and a lot of history, but the folks who had purchased Raven Springs only a few years ago were trying to pitch it as a hot springs destination on par but less crowded than Harbin. Oh, and it’s very, very haunted. When I asked for specifics, he shook his head and scribbled a name and number onto a business card. “Call Judy and check it out. You won’t be disappointed.”

So I did just that. Before Judy Dearing and her wife Autumn purchased the property, it had fallen into a state of utter disrepair. Over the phone she painted a picture of the dilapidated grounds as a collection of half burned-out buildings and barns with only the bones of their house and the pools mostly intact when they took ownership. When I drove up there on a stunning day in October the work these two women had put into the property became immediately evident. All traces of the derelict buildings were razed and in their place stood a rustic collection of low-slung buildings that housed meeting facilities, changing rooms, and maintenance equipment surrounding four natural hot springs of varying temperatures.

The grounds felt serene as I wandered in the midday warmth. As the sunlight filtered through majestic coast live oaks, I found it difficult to imagine this place ever feeling foreboding. I found Judy at their residence/office just aside from the pools complex. Where the buildings of the pools complex managed to straddle the line between rustic and organic, Judy and Autumn’s house embodied the word “quirky”. Not much of the original structure remained visible, and Autumn explained they had used salvageable elements from the other buildings to build out what had originally been a fairly small two story house. Built onto a sloping hill, the couple used the floor level with the pool complex as their business offices and their rooms, kitchen, dining room, and family room lay down a flight of salvaged oak stairs. Descending from the airy office floor to their living room felt much like walking down the stairs leading into a hot spring – the energy of their home felt welcoming and cozy; I didn’t realize how neutral the first floor felt until I immersed myself in their living space as I walked down the ancient wooden steps that were as firm as iron.

Given how comfortable their house is, it’s understandable my reticence to move from the deep leather couch. But when Judy offered to show me the old cemetery… come on. That’s what I live for. We walked through the pool complex, Judy greeting the bathing and reclining guests in varying states of nudity by name. Then we emerged from the back and made our way up a set of steps cut into the rising hillside until we reached a plateau set above and back from the pool complex. A derelict low stone wall bordered a collection of grave stones set into the somewhat overgrown ground. The chill, heavy energy within the stone wall of the cemetery couldn’t have contrasted more with the laid back, peaceful energy of the pool complex, and at once blotted out the welcoming memory of Judy and Autumn’s house. The sun had started setting behind the steep hill behind the cemetery to the north and the encroaching fall chill didn’t help. Judy led me through the blackened stone grave markers, explaining that a wildfire swept through this area some fifty years ago. We walked to a rounded knoll just east and above the stone cemetery border. Only the sunken foundation-lines remained of the three-story farmhouse that originally stood on the spot. Looking south from that vantage, the land dropped away precipitously, the Napa Valley spread out in the gathering evening. I asked why Judy and Autumn had decided to live down below, pointing to their house peeking out from the edge of the pool complex. Judy hugged herself in the gathering chill and said, “It just doesn’t feel right up here.” I knew exactly what she meant, and was grateful as we made our way back down and around the cemetery and back down the earthen steps and back into the pool complex.

Our timing was perfect, as we got back to the parking lot just as my friends Jeff, Larry, and Venus pulled in. Jeff and Venus are both experienced psychics and Larry specializes in recording haunted locations through photography and recording Electronic Voice Phenomenon (EVP). We all gathered on the back deck of Judy and Autumn’s home for a delicious vegan dinner Autumn had prepared as we watched the night spread out over the valley in the distance. Justin, the manager of the pools complex, came out onto the deck to let Judy know he’d locked up and was leaving for the night. He asked if we wanted the lights left on to enjoy the pools after dinner. Judy thanked him and explained that, no, we weren’t here for the pools. He eyed us nervously and said he’d close the gate at the bottom of the road leading to the parking lot on his way down.

Shortly after he left we adjourned to the upper office, the great oak conference table serving as our base camp. Jeff strapped on three DSLR cameras and resembled a well-prepared wedding photographer. He grabbed his bag of portable recording equipment and a flashlight and headed out with Jeff, who took a camera of his own around his neck like an eager tourist. Aside from the wildfire and tour of the physical structure of the property, I deliberately didn’t want Autumn or Judy to give me any details about the history of the place. Arriving after me, Jeff, Larry, and Venus knew even less than I did.

Venus’ smile faded quickly after Jeff and Larry left. I asked if she was alright and she said with a laugh that she wanted to go back down to Judy and Autumn’s living area. She closed her eyes and said she felt as if the property had just awakened. She likened it the opposite of the dawn: “when the sun peaks above the horizon and offers warmth and light and people and animals feel it’s safe to come out of their homes. This,” she shuddered, “is the opposite. The property is awake and on the prowl, but we shouldn’t be.”  As she talked I could see streaks of light dancing around the other-wise black windows.

Meanwhile, Jeff had led Larry out past the pools complex, making a beeline for the earthen stairs and up to the cemetery wall. Jeff started coughing when he crossed the open rusted gate set into the wall. He explained it was like getting hit by an overpowering psychic stench and he couldn’t catch his literal breath. He took a step outside the cemetery boundary and steadied himself as Larry’s flashlight moved among the black tombstones as he sought a place to set up a recorder. Jeff recovered enough to shoot some low-speed, high-aperture shots of Larry in the cemetery.  Larry, too, started snapping pictures with his cameras as soon as he stood up from placing a device at the base of a stone marker. Jeff, unsure about crossing back into the cemetery, waited for Larry to come back out. To the east of the cemetery a second story window on the knoll above cemetery winked on. While Larry was immediately eager to check it out, Jeff expressed a grave foreboding. Larry convinced him, saying he’d take the lead.

Back in the office, Venus had entered a trance state, eyes closed, her hands flat on the oak table top, her head lolled forward with her chin on her chest. “The fire,” she started, “was a cleanse.” I traded a look across the table with Judy.

“Venus? Can you expand on that?”

She remained still for a moment, then started to sob quietly. “So much pain…” she squeaked between sobs.

“Pain?”

“The Turners are… terrible,” she shuddered.

“Turner is the name of the family that settled this property originally,” Judy said quietly across the table to me. “They started this place as a rehabilitation facility for young offenders…”

“Slave labor!” Venus exclaimed. “Worked those boys… to death. What? I hear you,” she said to an unseen entity. The video camera Larry had started rolling before he left would later show an unexplained glowing orb floating behind, above, and over Venus as she spoke. Visually we saw nothing as she said, “Where are you buried?” a moment passed. “How many?” Her body wracked with a sob. “How many are still here? That many?” She reached out her hand suddenly, “Wait! You don’t have to go! Hide? From who?” Venus opened her eyes and looked directly at me, “He’s coming.”

Larry outpaced Jeff, who had by this time started to feel completely out of breath and had to hold onto the stone wall to steady himself. Jeff watched as Larry climbed the slope to the knoll. The upstairs light they had both seen faded out to nothing as Larry approached. Jeff raised his camera and took pictures as Larry kneeled on the knoll to place a recording device. One image Jeff took still chills my blood. In the grainy picture, the figure of Larry kneels over a bright box. Looming over him in the picture is an enormous black shadow with what look like filmy claw-like appendages reaching down to Larry. Immediately after he snapped the picture Larry stood and started down from the knoll at a dead sprint. Larry is a big guy not prone to either running or fear, but Jeff said when Larry reached him his face was bone white. “I was adjusting the stereo mics and it felt like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over me,” Larry recalled. “I hit record and bolted.”

In the office, we asked Venus who was coming? She explained she had been in contact with many boys ranging from about five to seventeen years old. They all wanted to talk about the hell the Turners put them through, explaining they were stacked in drafty bunkhouses, two and three to a bed and forced to work from sun up to sun down clearing the land for the Turner’s orchards, gardens, and mine. They were, as Judy had suggested, juvenile offenders and the county had sent them up to the Turner’s as punishment, but only later the county inquired about the exceptionally high death rate. Tears running down her face, Venus recounted how the boys were beaten, whipped, and sexually assaulted for the slightest infraction – real or imagined. As to who the “He” was that snapped Venus out of her trance? Apparently, the ghost of Joseph Turner was coming, and he was pissed.

When the three thunderous impacts rattled the office, it didn’t take Venus to tell us Joseph had made his appearance. Autumn raced up the stairs from the living area, dish towel in her hand, looking for the source of the noise. “Sit down and don’t move!” Venus hissed in a whisper. Autumn looked at me and then at Judy. We both nodded vigorously, and Autumn hurriedly took a seat next to Judy who pulled her close. “Don’t. Move.” Venus said quietly, enunciating each word. The lights overhead dimmed, though they didn’t look to lose their intensity as much as the light was being blotted out. Through the far window I could see small glowing orbs and pricks of light dancing like fireflies. As the light further dimmed, I felt a physical pressure pushing down on me, cold and oppressive. Venus stared up at the darkness passing slowly, menacingly through the room. Judy held Autumn. I sat as still as I possibly could, not so much as moving my head but instead just swiveling my eyes to take in the room. In the video the thuds are clearly heard, as is Autumn pounding up the stairs and the ambient light dimming, but the video inexplicably blacked out at that point and remained so for the next five minutes when, equally inexplicably, started recording the room again, Venus panting to catch her held-breath, me rubbing my face in my hands, Judy and Autumn in a life-affirming embrace.

Jeff and Larry had descended to the pool complex, and made their way along the western perimeter when Jeff froze and grabbed Larry’s shoulder and pulled him against the trunk of a high broadleaf maple. He held his finger to his lips and pointed to the mirrorless camera slung on Larry’s right side. Larry nodded in understanding – lacking a mirror and with an electronic shutter, that camera could shoot completely silently. Lifting the camera, Larry looked at Jeff for guidance. Jeff pointed ahead towards the front of the pool complex and then moved his fingers to indicate something walking. Larry saw nothing, but started snapping pictures of the darkness ahead of him.

In the pictures, the dark outline of the buildings frame the left side of the shot. Emerging from around the building a glowing outline surrounding a completely black void moves from left to right in the sequential shots, moving across the frame until it disappears again off the right edge of the picture.

After a few moments, Jeff anxiously tapped Larry’s shoulder and the two fled east, entering the pool complex from the back, moving along the steaming pools and finally exited the front and ran for the office.

While we were all relieved that Larry and Jeff were okay, their abrupt entrance caused us all to jump in startled surprise. They crowded in around the table and we all began filling each other in. After a few minutes of harried conversation, Autumn stood up from the table and held stock still. “Who smells smoke?”

As soon as she spoke the word everyone noticed and nodded. Then we heard the crackling and roaring. The windows of the office glowed with the oncoming wildfire. We all bolted for the door and froze just outside. Racing down the hill behind the pool complex and above the cemetery, a raging fire advanced unnaturally smoothly, like a wave along a shoreline. But instead of the fiery reds and oranges this fire shone blue and silver and emitted no heat. We all six stood spellbound as the silvery-blue fire seemingly-flowed down the hillside, its light illuminating a black house on the knoll we all knew no longer stood on that hill. The fire crested over it, consuming it and the cemetery, and the silhouetted outbuildings to the west that had also long-ago ceased to be there. The fire split as it coursed around the pool complex and it dimmed and finally died completely as it reached just in front of us. The spectral flames faded out and we all stared out on the dark grounds of the pool complex and beyond. No cricket chirped. No owl hooted. We stood rooted for long minutes before we slowly, and carefully retreated inside, bypassing the table, and started down the stairs to the sanctuary of Judy and Autumn’s home.

The full harvest moon bathed the deserted valley in wan silvery light. The man in the waxed canvas jacket and worn black jeans adjusted the backpack straps as he walked along the shoulder of the deserted highway. He took a moment to appreciate the moonlight, his only light this late at night. His last ride – an older balding white man who had been chain-smoking Pall Malls in his meticulously maintained International Harvester Scout – dropped him off on the outskirts of Hopland as the driver turned east heading to Clearlake. He’d said Jason was welcome to ride all the way to Clearlake if he was interested. Jason thanked the man, but said he wanted to stick to 101 – his ultimate destination lay due south. An hour passed as Jason walked the road. Two tractor trailers passed without so much as acknowledging him and now Jason stood on the green, utilitarian truss bridge spanning the Russian River. Watching the light play across the still-narrow river below felt like his personal little secret that the tractor trailers didn’t even notice except maybe to make sure they would clear the bridge’s low iron trusses.

He walked on and found himself in as an ideal stretch as he could hope for – a straight bit of two-lane lay open to the sky, the trees on the east side hunkered down from the road in a copse that traced the riverbed, while only a single live oak stood close to the road on the west, like a curious cow coming to visit the perimeter of the fence. Jason knew once he made it to the middle of this straight-away, even in this low light a driver would have plenty of time to spot him and decide to slow or not. This late at night with sleep tugging at the edges of even the most eager night owl’s consciousness, even better judgement often laxed at the opportunity to trade talk with another human being and stave off sleep for a few more towns.

So when Jason heard the burbling exhaust of the diesel F-250 pickup bearing down the road, he knew this guy would be his next ride. The driver made a lazy effort to stop, passing Jason’s outstretched thumb and finally coming to a stop a hundred yards ahead. Jason jogged to the truck idling on the shoulder. He opened the passenger door of the cab and the driver barked, “How far you goin?”

“I’m aiming for Petaluma,” Jason said, adding, “Anywhere between here and there would be much appreciated.”

“Your lucky night – I’m going all the way to San Rafael. Hop in.”

Jason climbed in, dropped his pack on his feet and buckled himself in as the clattering motor spooled up and the driver pulled back onto 101 south. Jason stared out at the cool silvery landscape beyond the window of the pickup, silence hanging in the cab. He thought they might make it past Cloverdale before either man said a word and he didn’t mind. Jason appreciated long silences.

Alas, as the truck traced the highway’s graceful arc across the cement bridge covering the dry Pieta creek bed on its way to its confluence with the Russian river just off the west side of the road, the driver spoke. “Name’s Freddy,” he said curtly.

“Jason.”

“You always out on empty highways in the middle of the night?”

Jason chuckled, “Sure seems like that.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Freddy said.

“Yeah,” Jason replied and let the silence hang in the air for a long moment. “Guy I know died on a stretch of road like this a few years ago.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. It’s funny – it was a full moon like this, and on 101 out here, too.”

“Shame.”

“Drunk driver. Careened onto the shoulder, my friend slammed onto his hood, his head hitting the windshield so hard it lodged there.”

“Jesus Christ!”

Jason continued, staring straight ahead into the middle distance. “Coroner said he was alive for at least the first ten miles…”

“Then?”

“Driver kept going. Made it all the way home to Healdsburg. Left his Mercedes with the lifeless body on the hood in the garage.” He scoffed, “Can you imagine the scream when his wife went to take it to Pilates the next morning?”

“Heh,” the driver gave a nervous laugh.

“I’ve heard his ghost walks this highway looking for a ride south on 101 on lonely nights…”

Freddy let out a genuine short chuckle. “Reminds me…” he started.

Jason broke out of his reverie and looked over at the driver. “Yeah?”

“Friend of mine died out here, too.”

Jason looked on expectantly.

“Driving south outta Ukiah. Diesel duallie Ford like this. Worked a 12-hour shift at the mill, driving to get home to his wife and kid in Asti…” Freddie trailed off. A mile passed as the lights of a northbound empty logging truck lit up the cab of the truck as it whizzed by. “He…” Freddy started, “He got tired. Always got tired on that drive. Knew he’d be fine…” Several miles droned on as the truck barreled through the dark morning. “Woke up as the truck hit the center divider and flipped into the other lane,” he gestured with his hand making twisting motion. “Crashed upside down into a Toyota with this family. Mom, Dad, kids… boom….”

“Did anyone…” Jason pressed.

Freddy shook his head. “Not a soul.”

Jason sighed and looked out the passenger window again.

“They say he still drives this road early mornings, southbound, trying to get home…”

Miles passed in silence.

“Freddy…”

“Jason…”

Both roared at the same time:

“I’m the hitchhiker!” Jason yelled as Freddy yelled “I’m the truckdriver!”

Stunned silence.

“No way!” Jason laughed. “What are the odds?!”

“Sure as shit, man,” said, slapping the wheel. “You know how many times I’ve never made it home along this road?”

“It gets goddamned lonely as a ghost hitchhiker!”

“But you get picked up?”

“Sure. And I tell that story and, poof, I’m gone.”

“Same thing here! Let the hitchhiker off at a stop, he tells the people and they go all white and shit and tell ‘em about how I died years ago.”

They both laughed together for a while longer.

“So… what happens when a ghost truckdriver picks up a ghost hitchhiker?” Jason asked.

“Guess we’ll find out,” and the pickup barreled south through the darkness along 101 south.

If you haven’t read Part 1 this will make a lot more sense if you read that first.

Mitch climbed into the backseat of the black, driver-less, Tesla Model X, the falcon wing door closing after him. Andrew walked around to the other side and pulled his robe in before lowering his falcon-wing door.  Mitch stared at the angel with a petulant look on his face as the car started moving by itself.

Andrew didn’t notice Mitch staring daggers at him for a good two minutes as he looked admiringly out the window at the buildings along the street. When he finally did notice Mitch, he started, “Signore? Is there a problem?”

“So what is this? Some kind of Uber for the dead?”

Andrew gestured past the unoccupied front seats to the windshield which held a swoopy logo similar to that of lyft, but instead it read “fall”.

“That’s cute,” Mitch shook his head. “Can you tell me where we’re going at least?”

“It is not far, Signore,” Andrew said, going back to staring out the window.

Mitch reflexively reached for his phone. When he pulled it out he let out a tiny shriek.

“Signore?”

“The screen of my phone is shattered,” he held up the handset for Andrew to inspect.

“Ah, yes. That is a feature of your new existence.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That is indeed your telefonino. You will find it is…” he searched for a euphemism, “…adequate. You have no data. You have no contacts. And no matter how you try you cannot replace the screen.” The phone binged a warning – through the cracked screen he could read “Alert: 10% battery left.” “Oh, and you cannot charge it beyond 12%.”

For the first time since he left the WeWork office, true open fear played across Mitch’s face. “That’s… that’s… that’s… insane,” he said.

“Ah, Signore Mitch, you are about to learn new levels of insanity. Oh, look, we are here!” The black Tesla turned from Harrison onto 13^th street and pulled into a surprisingly large parking lot.

Mitch looked out the window at the big box retail store the car approached and the color drained from his face. “No, no, no… Andrew, why are you taking me here?”

The car slowed to a stop and Andrew opened his falcon wing door with one hand as he regarded Mitch with a beatific smile. Through the open door Mitch could make out the garish blue and yellow paint scheme and the unmistakable logo of the consumer electronics store, “Buy More”.

They both got out of the car. Andrew tapped on the glass of the passenger window and said, “per un momento, per favore” and the car silently glided away.

“Why are we here?” Mitch again asked as he hurried to catch up with Andrew already moving towards the sliding entry doors. Noticing the darkness inside the store, Mitch added, “Look, it’s not even open. Why are you walking towards the doors that are locked—”

The doors opened with a whoosh and the interior lights snapped to full illumination faster than is literally possible with florescent tubes. “Being an angel has its perks,” he smiled and walked in.

Mitch followed him as he made an immediate left and walked with purpose towards a red and black counter with a sign over it bearing a running stick figure with a briefcase flanked by the words “Nerd Herd.”

“Oh my God,” Mitch stared at the counter. “I’m in hell.”

Andrew let out a genuine laugh as he reached the counter, “Oh no, Signore Mitch, I assure you, you cannot begin to fathom the torment of hell. This,” he picked up a folded white button down shirt and a skinny black tie, “this is merely an irritant at best.” He thought about it a moment, then added, “Albeit a constant, nagging, incessant irritant. Your uniform, Signore.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Andrew?”

“No. Not in the slightest. You have a new job. This is your uniform, Signore.”

“Oh no, Andrew. I’ve got a job – I run a company. I’m not some sort of… technician,” the last word sour in his mouth. He pulled out his phone with the broken screen and tried to bring up the phone app. “One call and I’m out of here.”

Andrew instantly folded the shirt perfectly (because he’s an angel), placing it back on the counter and closed the distance to Mitch with two determined paces. The tall angel stood a half head over Mitch and leaned down to be perfectly eye level just inches from his face. “Signore,” he started with a stern tone barely above a whisper, “let me make something clear: you are dead. When you lived, you lived a terrible, immoral life. The only reason why you did not immediately join your brother in the fiery bowels of hell facing eternal torture and pain you cannot imagine is because your various companies did provide some good in the world – the charity donations, outreach, young student training. Make no mistake, it is abundantly clear none of these things came from a spirit of goodwill but as gestures intended to improve your standing. But these deeds have given you an opportunity that practically no mortal ever gets – you get to try to redeem yourself. But you get no choice in this matter. This, “he gestured behind him to the counter, “is your new job. You will work eight to twelve-hour days six days a week, and you will be the best Nerd Herder here. If you are not, you burn. If you are late, you burn. If you get so much as written up, you burn. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

For the first time in his life (and, for that matter, death), Mitch had no quip, no argument, no addendum or suggestion. His terrified eyes met Andrews and he said just one simple word: “Yes.”

“Good.” Andrew straightened and started back towards the entrance. “Don’t forget your uniform, Signore Mitch,” he said over his shoulder. “Your orientation is tomorrow at 9am sharp. Do not be late. Come!” he said as he walked through the doors.

Mitch didn’t move until he heard the whoosh of the automatic doors closing after Andrew. He hurried to the counter, gathered the clothes, then hurried towards the entrance himself. As he exited the building his breath caught in his throat. There, looming above him were the collective towers of San Francisco’s SoMa and Financial districts, so distinct and familiar they felt like family… only Andrew’s words echoed in his mind – “You are dead.” These buildings, the industries they stand for, the boardrooms he engaged in corporate battle, they were as much a corpse to him as his old body. Mitch finally recognized it: he was dead.

The black Tesla pulled silently up, and Mitch and Andrew wordlessly climbed into the backseat. The car moved out of the parking lot onto a deserted on-ramp for Interstate 80 east. As the ribbons of road began to close in around them for the beginning of the Bay Bridge, Mitch looked up at the sentry-like One Rincon Hill skyscraper and tried to catch sight of his now-dark window near the top but before he could the roads closed in above and they were in the tunnel approach for the bridge. When the black car emerged onto the eastern span of the bay bridge, Mitch gasped as the white suspension tower had been replaced by a giant pale white femur. He looked more closely and noticed that the cables were instead read sinews leading down to the deck of the bridge, glistening obscenely in the harsh LED lighting. “What is this, Andrew? What am I seeing?”

“Oh,” Andrew said nonchalantly, “Signore Mitch, this is the way you will see a lot of things from now on. Think of them as grisly reminders of where you are not.” Mitch looked at him quizzically, “In hell, they build this same bridge just this way every day using live souls. Then they enact a Loma Prieta-grade earthquake and rend it all apart to start another day.” He let the horror play across Mitch’s face for a moment longer then repeated his words from earlier, “Eternal torture and pain you cannot imagine.”

The rest of the drive passed wordlessly until they exited the freeway in Oakland. Mitch stared out at an unfamiliar, run down street with tents and lean-tos along the sidewalk. They finally stopped at what Mitch took to be a burned out three-story building. The falcon doors opened and they both got out. “Where are we?” Mitch asked.

“Your home,” Andrew gestured to the building that Mitch could now tell wasn’t actually burned out, but that he genuinely didn’t think a fire would make it look any worse. Andrew reached in his pocket and produced two objects: “Your key,” he handed the small brass colored key to Mitch adding, “Third story, rent is covered and you have bedbugs you cannot get rid of.” He smiled. “And your Clipper card,” he passed the plastic card over. “The Clipper card never runs out – remember, never be late. You cannot blame it on the card. Or, for that matter, the BART. Plan ahead, Signore! One last thing,” he took a step back and regarded Mitch for a moment. “You are realizing you are dead. You are realizing you have a job you never expected and that you cannot miss under penalty of your soul. This might be a bit…” he shrugged each shoulder back and forth, “overwhelming. It is. And it is an opportunity. Please, succeed, Signore Mitch! I have a bet riding on you,” and he disappeared.

Mitch stared dumbstruck at the sudden absence of the person who had been his guide. Disoriented, he turned towards the front door of the building. The glass in the top half had long been replaced by graffitied plywood. Mitch sighed and took two steps before he heard, “Hey, man…” Turning he saw a twitchy skinny white man with a stained green jacket on, mottled faux-fur hood pulled over his matted dreadlocks. “Hey, man…” he repeated then started, “do you have a light.” Before Mitch had a chance to answer he blurted, “Do you have any money?” louder. Before Mitch could react the man yelled, “Too late!” and pulled out a black snub-nosed revolver and fired three times at point blank range before turning and running off.

The shots caught Mitch in the chest and he collapsed with searing pain. He lay there confused about the pain and how he, who was already dead, was now going to die again. He touched his shirt expecting to feel blood. But he felt nothing but unmarred shirt… and now three very angry, painful bruises. He sat up and saw the man in the green jacket disappear around the corner at the end of the block. “So this is my afterlife,” he said and got to his feet.

I admit this ends in a fairly bleak place. That’s deliberate. Next month I hope to expand this story with a coterie of other characters and places into something approaching a novel. The storylines unfolded before me after I finished the first part, but instead of jumping into that right away I wanted to get Mitch settled here for now. Stay tuned next month for more on this story. But we’ve still got a week left in October and that is SEVEN MORE GHOSTS!!!! – Jordy 🙂