As Bulan mulls this over, I refocus on my procurement task and aim for the rosebushes. After all, rosesareClassic Romance. To my annoyance, most of the branches have already been cut back ahead of first frost. Hmm. Would it be terrible if I uprooted the scraggliest of the scraggly bushes? Probably not. I’d be doing the gardeners a favor.
As I get on my knees and prepare for some dramatic deadheading, a squirrel twitters in a tree above us, rustling acorns to the ground.
At this, my mind turns to the mysterious Hanry Burleson.
It’s unexpected, yet I can’t help it. It’s all this foraging. The fact that I’m breaking and entering again. And the fact that Hanry, in spite of being rugged and the size of a tree, had eyes that caught in the moonlight with an endearingly boyish glint, and I thought I’d never see him again, but now, if I’m stuck in Salem—for a few more days, anyway—who knows?
“So, Head,” I say in an intentionally offhanded way. “What did you think of that guy we met in the cemetery Friday night?”
“I didn’t officially meet him,” says Bulan. “You know, with my being in a bag, escaping your murder attempt and all.”
I scrape aside dirt. “I’ll rephrase. Should I be worried he’s sicced vampires on me?”
“I wouldn’t be! From the sound of it, he was desperate to help his friends. And as far as I know, there isn’t anyone else with your alleged talents on the North Shore.”
I allow that thought to simmer for a moment. “So… you’re saying he’s a gentle, sociable giant?”
“I’m saying that I should warn you: news travels fast in Salem’s circles. I’m sure you’ll have a good number of visitors this week, hoping for similar services.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” I say.
It’s EOD when my phone finally blows up with calls from a New York City area code.
Steve chews me out in a twenty-minute-long, unsubtly misogynistic tirade. Yes, of course I understand my ratings will take a hit before I’ve started my first day. I do realize my colleagues will be forced to take on a heavier workload for our tech client, MicroOrange, in my absence. As punishment for getting sick, it’s only fair I miss out on the pizza partylater this month. These are the burdens we must bear when horribly, yet ambiguously, ill.
I promise to send a doctor’s note to HR. Then I squeeze my eyes shut, repeating affirmations to myself in a desperate attempt to drop my heart rate.A year from now, no one will remember this, Sabby! You’ll be seen as a predictable employee! Actually, you won’t be seen as anything at all, and when it’s time for ratings, Steve will have mistaken you for Jane and forgotten to fill out your assessment.
Unfortunately, I’m catching notice amid the paranormal community too. Over the next two days, I’m forced to talk to no less than two more vampires, a werewolf, a druidess, a scuba instructor named Joe, and a polyamorous trio of banshees. They track me down at Grandma’s shop, ignoring the closed shutters. The sign that readsOPEN:NEVER. It’s possible I could have avoided them by staying at Grandma’s house, juggling studying for my CPA exam, making floral arrangements, and dialing increasingly frantic calls to Dave and Amanda under the lustful gaze of cardboard Colin Firth. Their wedding night, Saturday, is closing in fast.
But Grandma’s house isn’t a better option. Every morning, her friends reappear in the yard to dress the flamingos in new outfits. Once, Matilda has the audacity to knock on the door and caw something about “checking on me.” Provocations from the witch cabal aside, Grandma never installed Wi-Fi—whereas her shop neighbors a kitschy café with free Wi-Fi under the moniker HEEBYJEEBIES. Hopefully that’s not how you’re supposed to feel when you eat their sandwiches.
I tough it out all the way into Wednesday. By this point, Bulan no longer registers as a part of my day-to-day weirdness. I find myself forgetting he’s bodiless more often than not. He seems to have warmed up to me too, and he supports and advises me through the visitations from paranormal characters. He chirrups helpful prompts to keep me from saying or doing anything too egregiously offensive. Once, he proves utterly invaluable: I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but The Unmentionable Thing that slides up to the storefront has the general build of an overstuffed garbage bag. Its stench reminds me of a fire ring at a summer beach party: a noxious tornado of dancing adolescentbeach sweat, stale beer, and burnt marshmallows. Even though we’re separated by windows and a door, the affliction to my sinus cavity is extreme. I crouch closer toward my laptop, determined to stay focused on my MCQs.
Bulan acts like he’s dying.
“Closed,” he gasps at the door, “for—business!”
I glance up.
“Don’t make eye contact!” Bulan croaks. Then, furiously, he whispers: “As a general rule, if a being smells like fire or destruction, it’s best to keep away. Even Rosie did that.”
Grouchily, I say, “I’d think the appearance of that Thing would be telling enough.”
“I’m teaching you principles.”
“You’re interrupting my studying,” I say. Then I shove my bump-bridged nose deeper into my McGraw-Hill review book.
Bulan rolls his eyes, then his whole head-body for good measure. I pretend not to be amused, much less grateful for his help with The Unmentionable Thing. Same as I pretend I’m not existentially jarred by encountering a heaving bag of doom.
By Thursday, my anxiety is becoming unbearable. It wouldn’t be so bad cobbling together the décor for Dave and Amanda’s dream wedding if they would just accept my phone calls. Instead the most I get are sporadic and random disorganized texts, with them attempting to describe their wedding vision and complaining about their previous wedding planner either dropping out or dropping dead—I’m not sure which, but either way, it’s too dramatic. They refuse to come back to the shop in person, becausethe sun is too draining, and they won’t Zoom because video calls aretoo novel. The only clear desire they successfully share for their wedding comes from Dave, who wants everything to bedark, so very dark.
When I finally manage to reach Dave and Amanda on Thursday night, the call feels like an exercise in futility.
“Do you want a rehearsal tomorrow?” I ask. “After dark, right?”
“No, no, it’ll be hard enough to get everyone there for thewedding,” says Dave. I nod, understanding. I’m familiar with this kind of friend group.
“No problem. Can we rehearse on Saturday? In the early evening?”
