“All the more reason to nip out of town fast.” I bend and pat the head’s dusty crown. He’s wearing a big-eyed pout, endearing enough to make someone forget he’s an undead abomination. For a split second, I can see why Grandma Rose let him live in her closet. “Good luck with everything, Bulan. By which I mean finding somewhere else to live rent-free.”
5AN OCTOBER BREEZE OF VILLAINOUS INTENT
HAVING SAID GOODBYE TO GRANDMA’Sfreaky yet slightly charming head, I depart for Salem’s central train station. The night air’s growing chillier—that’s fall for you—and within a few minutes, I’m surrounded by a swarm of goths, which is Salem for you. Usually I like scrolling on my phone while I walk, but it’s nighttime. Also, since it’s the first weekend of October, the shops have littered the sidewalks with Herculean pumpkin displays and treacherous cobwebs. It would be safer to jaywalk into oncoming traffic.
I duck beneath a shop awning to send Jane a voice message, letting her know I’m heading home. Prior to signing for our walk-up apartment in Midtown East, we really only spent one weekend together at EFG’s epic orientation retreat to Busch Gardens. From the little I’ve seen, Jane’s personality is flatter than a paper doll’s. Ergo, she is flawless. She hails from the New Jersey suburbs. She fondly remembers visiting the Olive Garden with her family for birthdays. She doesn’t like spicy food, has a knack for B-list celebrity sightings, and visits Target for fun. She listens to K-pop, like me, but not too much. She doesn’t doanythingtoo much. When we first met, she was drinking coffee from the hotel canister and couldn’t tell me if it was good or not. Most incredibly of all, she exchanged phone numbers with a bland, wall-faced guy at our first orientation breakfast.
I have so much to learn from her.
The rest of my walk graces me with an absence of eventfulness. Thatis, until I’m buying my ticket for the next southbound commuter train and the music in my earbud speakers cuts out for an incoming call.
“Hey, Bhauldeen.” I say the lawyer’s full name with emphatic correctness. That should put him in a favorable mood. “Great timing. I finished packing up the good stuff in Grandma’s estate and set aside what she designated to Mom. I left the keys under a yard flamingo—the one wearing an Egyptian mummy headdress, not the nun. Everything should be good to go.”
“Not quite,” he says.
So much for getting on his good side.
“I know you think I have to stay here to guard Grandma,” I edge in before the floodgates of recriminations creak open, “but I think her spirit will feel light and frothy about what I’ve set up. I’ve hired a junk removal team to come next week to—”
“It pains me that I have to do this,” Baldy says over me. “I’m sorry, Samantha.”
A shot of dread punctures the bland, agreeable balloon I’ve had floating inside me all afternoon, and the feeling drops straight to my toes. It’s a cold, frosty terror, like I’m about to be subjected to the ice bucket challenge.
“Sorry about what?” I ask, suspicion leaking into my voice. “Baldy?”
“Iggo Spiggo Diggo Biggo. Tiggo, Liggo bee dud Driggo. Doop.”
“Are you having a stroke?”
“By attempting to leave prematurely, you neglect your responsibilities to your grandmother.”
I climb the platform staircase, lugging my suitcase behind me. “I just told you, I’m getting very ascendant vibes from her right now. And very subpar scatting vibes from you. I really don’t know what genre you’re going for, Baldy, but I suggest you workshop it with someone else.”
“Doop Doop,” repeats Baldy, his tone ominous now. A little… otherworldly, if I’m honest. “It is done. When your grandmother’s soul ascends, the magic will remove its hold on you, allowing you to travel where you please. Until then, Samantha, you shall remain.”
I look around, hoping against hope I’m being live-stream-prankedfor TikTok content. No luck. I fight to keep my breathing normal. The air is villainously cold. The other passengers, ignorant of my dilemma. According to the digital sign above the platform, my train arrives in five minutes. And I have to board that train. Ihaveto.
Grandma didn’t have any real magic. I’ve got no reason to believe Baldy is truly activating some binding on a magical will. Clinging to my cringey hope, I pull my bag close to my chest and say, “Nice try. You nearly had me, Baldy. Better luck next time.”
“Excuse me?” he asks.
No. I’m done with this.
I bang at my earbud until I’ve hung up on him. BTS’s “No More Dream” floods back into my ears. Fighting a raw, shaky feeling, I turn to the tracks. Passengers cluster like drunken vultures near the platform edge, which means my train must be about to arrive.
Good. That’s good.
I’m not going to fall victim to your bizarre ploy to keep me here, Grandma Rose: I’m getting on this train. I can make out its headlights in the distance: they’re like concert lights sweeping through an audience before the main act comes onstage, and I can’t think of a more glorious sight. I feel my breath catch, my knees going weak.
Oh no. I… don’t feel like I can stand.
The train pulls up to the platform. My heartbeat syncs with the chorus of the song. I tug my suitcase forward.
At once, my knees buckle. And I fall like a heap of laundry with my suitcase toppling over me, the handle smacking the back of my head and knocking out an earbud, to add insult to injury.
I stay that way, a human puddle, three feet from the platform, as the train screeches to a stop. The doors hiss open.
Why can’t I get up? Why must my legs fail me now, of all moments?
