Vic and I looked at one another, then sat uneasily.
“I asked you a question,” Richard Tremblay said.
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
“And you—you—ah, yes, you were—are—one of those. I see.” Richard regarded Vic with some suspicion, then after a moment or two sighed. “I suppose I can’t be too judgmental. We are, in some small way, rather more alike than different, I suppose. Both of us hanging on long past our expiration date.”
Vic stared at him.
“What are you?” Vic asked.
“What do you think?” Tremblay asked.
“I don’t think you’re a ghost,” Vic said. “Ghosts are more…”
“Fragile? Ethereal? Transparent?” Richard asked this like a series of rapid-fire questions.
“Ghosts are less officious,” Vic finally said. He looked over at me. “Double points because I used it twice in two separate contexts.”
I cracked a grin at him despite myself.
“Ah, fair, fair. I never was one to stick to the rules in life; dare I say it, I fear I’m not much of one for rules in my death, either. No. I think life is more a series of decisions to keep going, no matter what little inconveniences stand in one’s way.”
“You’ve been dead for about a hundred and seventy years,” I said.
“Yes, well, there is an awful lot to do and see, especially lately,” Richard said. “About ten years ago the caretakers installed this newfangled thing called internet here. Let me tell you, I wish we had that when I was alive! I would have ruled the whole thing!”
“Why did you call us here?” Vic asked.
“Boredom, curiosity, you know. Who doesn’t like company?”
“I feel like you’re trying hard to avoid something,” I said.
Richard stared at me, hard, and then turned to Vic.
“Do you always let your woman talk out of turn?”
Vic’s mouth opened, and then Richard laughed.
“Come on! I’m dead, not stupid. You think I didn’t know about women’s rights back in the day? You think I died and stopped growing? Puh-lease. I’m a ghost, perhaps, but I’m not a simpleton, and nor am I a bore. I’ve heard word of you, Miss Adams. You’re a writer, are you not?”
I nodded.
“I have voraciously read your work for Feedworthy. In fact, I even purchased your foray into fiction. You certainly have… strange appetites.”
I blushed.
“Nobody else knows about the erotica,” I said. “I wrote it under a pen name.”
“Still! You have a deft understanding of human motivations and a keen mind. I sent an email to your department—in disguise, of course, to get you here. I need your assistance.”
“Doing what? Moving on?” I asked.
Richard barked out a laugh and shot cigar smoke from his nose.
“No, no. I quite like my little existence here. Of course, I say existence. You know. It really is remarkable. Our bodies are so much prisons that it’s not until we’re liberated from them that we truly know peace. When I was shot—murdered—whatever it was, I found myself an amnesiac, floating somewhere in the depths of this house. And how much room there was, suddenly! My consciousness could reach and explore so much more than the confines of my skull. Soon I found myself stretching out my proverbial shoulders, kicking back and lounging. The whole of me soon fitted snug enough into the framework of this house, and I find that it has helped improve my sense of grandiosity, helped me think in a different way. This house is no longer just a house, just a shelter—I am it, and it is me, and together we are something similar and yet different. I am but a spider, one could say, and my web has stretched itself and sewn itself into every eave and rafter and whorl of wood in the whole building. A mouse cannot drop a morsel of cheese or patter through the dust without my knowing it.”
Vic made a noise, then, and shot me a quick glance.
