Charlie coughed again.
Tate shot me a look that said, “Go ahead, one more.”
“Yes,” she cooed, petting the cat. “She’s such a joy. Now, tell me again why you’re here.”
Charlie glanced at me and then at Tate. “Well,um,my death was… sudden. I remember bits and pieces, but not all of it. Not the end. I’m the lookout who?—”
“I know your story,” she cut in, not unkindly. “Is that it? You want to remember the moments before your death?”
“I want to help stop more people from dying. I don’t know if what I remember can do that, but I’m willing to try,” he answered, looking over at Tate again.
She hummed. “Most who come to me with questions aren’t looking to relive that, especially if it was traumatic. It could affect you in ways you’re not prepared for.”
“Will it…” Charlie began, before clearing his throat. “Will it make me disappear for good? Will it force me into, I don’t know,passing on?”
I took Charlie’s hand and squeezed, my heart in my throat.
Glancing down at our interlocked fingers, she raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that very much, considering how strongly you’re clinging to your anchor’s life force. But it will be taxing for you both—you might not be able to sustain this form again for a while.”
Charlie blanched. “What? What do you mean,life force?”
She eyed him warily, assessing. “Intentional or not, I can’t tell, but you’re feeding off his energy to sustain yourself in this form.”
The three of us gaped at her.
“I still don’t understand,” I said, feeling Charlie’s hand begin to tremble in mine. “He’s been stuck in the lookout for almost forty years; he couldn’t have been doing that this whole time, it’s not possible.”
“Spirits that haven’t let go of this world are usually drawn to a place or thing that has significance to them. Sometimes, where they died; other times, where they felt the safest. But what’s happening between you two now is more than that. He’s attached himself to you, like an anchor, to mimic being alive in a way I’ve never seen before.”
“Mimic being alive, what does that mean?” Tate asked, with apparent disgust in his voice.
She turned to me. “Possession, Mr. West. He’s possessing you. And any attempt to sever that connection won’t just harm him, it could hurt you, too.”
I stared in disbelief. “Possession?”
“What do you—ean hurt—im? I—not—p—essinghim!” Charlie cried, his words cutting in and out like they hadn’t in weeks.
I tugged on his hand until he faced me. “Hey, it’s alright. You’re here. Deep breaths.”
He inhaled, following my breathing, and exhaled, already looking steadier. “What do you mean, hurt him?” he repeated quietly.
She peered at Charlie, and then at me. With a little more softness in her voice than before, she said, “I think I understand, now. It’s clear that you two… care for each other. It’s not something I’ve ever seen, but you may have accidentally tied your presence to him through that connection.”
“Is it harmful?” he asked again, panic returning in his voice. “Am I hurt—im?”
Her face turned grim. “Right this moment? Probably not. But any extreme emotion or use of energy will be taxing on you both. I’m not sure what the long-term effects of possession are, even if it’s voluntary. It could hurt him—especially if he gets sick or overly tired.”
Charlie looked ready to throw up.
“Can you help us, then?” I asked, desperate and pleading. I’d beg on my knees if I had to. “I love him. He deserves a life. A real life. Can you help us get it back?”
An eternity of silence stretched before us.
“Is that possible? For me to be alive again? To be real, without hurting Reece?” Charlie asked into the quiet, voice so small I wanted to wrap him up and hide him from everything that’d ever hurt him, forever.
Briefly, I saw a flash of possibility in her eyes, a thought almost spoken aloud, before it flitted away. “The dead don’t come back to life, Mr. West. I’m sorry.”
I gritted my teeth. “Don’t, or can’t?”
