I wonder if they were afraid when they died. I wonder if death hurt, if it surprised them, or if they slid gently into the reaper’s arms.
Clutching the railing, I begin a new song, Blue Öyster Cult’s “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper.” It’s a wandering dirge, a mourning plea, a sacrifice to the echoing darkness.
And from the depths of the shadowed staircase, a voice materializes—a faint, elusive harmony threading with my song.
I stop singing, a ragged gasp in my throat.
Someone is here. Someone’s listening.
My first instinct is to run. Not because I’m afraid of physical harm but because this was supposed to be my secret place, my haven, and the idea of someone else being here is abhorrent. Will I lose this, too, along with everything else? Am I to have nothing for myself?
My jaw clenches, and I hold my ground. Waiting.
But I can’t hear anyone. Not a footstep, not a breath. Not a sound except the sizzle of an ancient, dust-covered light bulb.
I must have imagined that harmony.
Tentatively, I continue the chorus, listening with all my might, sliding through the phrases, crooning, “Come on, baby…” like I’m tempting the singer to reveal himself, if he exists.
The voice joins me again, clear and masculine, blending seamlessly with the melody, matching my pitch and tone to perfection. I almost stop singing again, but the voice is so lovely that I can’t help myself. I want to hear what he’ll do next, how he’ll complement the notes. It’s genius, really, the way he harmonizes—findingunexpected depths and heights to enrich our strange duet. At one point, he hits a note that seems fucking impossible for any human male, even the best countertenors.
The second I end the last phrase, I run down the stairs, all the way to the bottom, to that double-locked door. No one is there. I run back up, breathless, my skin stippled with chills despite the effort of climbing the stairs. Floor by floor I search, yanking open any door that isn’t locked, peering down gloomy hallways.
Finally I return to the second-floor landing, sweaty, panting, and frustrated. No sign of anyone anywhere. If there was someone in this stairway playing a joke on me, he must have run off while I was hunting for him. Which disappoints me a little, because even if he was a weirdo prankster, he had an incredible voice.
As I step to the railing again, a faint male chuckle echoes through the air. I gasp a little, fingers tight around the railing.
So he’s not gone.
The voice that accompanied me was ethereal, disembodied. Ghostly, or…angelic. I can’t help thinking of my last conversation with my father—how he promised to send someone to me from the Afterworld.
But it’s been well over a year. Surely if such a place exists, and if communication was possible, Dad would have sent me a message sooner than this.
Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts or angels. Or at least I don’t believe in them when I’m spinning on an office chair behind the front desk, poking at the useless paper clips in the little dish beside the pen holder. Disbelief is easy then. Not so easy when I’m standing on a darkened concrete landing with cool air wafting past my cheeks and the echoes of an ethereal voice stirring my mind.
And then there’s the tiny fact that I’ve lived among supernaturalbeings all my life. I know things that most people don’t.
“Who are you?” I say aloud.
The question shivers in the air, taut and invisible.
No answer.
“Are you…a ghost?” I venture. “Some kind of phantom? Or…an angel?” God, I sound ridiculous.
“Angel?” The voice laughs again, a deep, hollow sound this time. Impossible to pinpoint its source. It seems to emanate from everywhere and nowhere.
“Did my father send you to help me?”
“Your father,” the voice murmurs. “He is dead. You were singing for him.”
“No,” I say quickly, bitterly. “Not for him or for my mother. They made choices, and they suffered the consequences. They sacrificed everything for an eternal future, and they lost it all.”
“And you…” The voice swirls around me, distant and soothing. “What future do you desire? You sing well. Not without flaws, but I hear so much potential. If you would only let yourself trulysing.”
I’m on the verge of afuck you, but he’s right. I was holding back just now. And I could probably use some pointers on technique—breath support, phrasing, lyricism, all that crap.
“I do need a teacher. I want to improve, but I don’t have the confidence to sing in front of anyone.”
