haunt actually - zoeyclarke - Ghosts (US TV 2021) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: when jay met sam

Chapter Text

It starts out super simple, actually. Which is why it’s also super funny that, given a few years and wedding vows and a decrepit upstate mansion with a treacherous staircase to Spookytown, it all becomes kinda-sorta complicated.

The first time Jay sees her, he gets caught on the fact— okay, the casual observation— that she’s all alone. Her hair is aflame from the rust-colored lights above the bar, and the sugar-bomb daiquiri she’s sipping on is being stirred in a lonesome, lazy twirl, and her eyes are fixed on a memory or maybe a passing thought. In other words, her eyes are not fixed on him, but Jay would very much like to change that.

Therefore it’s only natural that he walks up to her, as suave as his lanky stature and overall personality allow him to be, and goes, “Is this seat taken?”

Okay, fine, it doesn’t come out quite as smoothly as that. The question is more of a plea, a mumble-cough hybrid that limps through the words “So, uh, please tell me no one’s sitting here.”

Well, she sure is looking at him now. “Okay,” she says. “No one is sitting there.”

Hell yes, Jay thinks. This is a win. For five seconds, he is the mother-freaking king of this corner of Tribeca.

Sliding onto the stool, he flashes a grin that would totally be a charming wink if teeth had eyes. Or something. “You know, it’s funny running into you here,” he says. “I mean, what are the odds, right?”

She blinks at him for a few seconds, and his heart stutters, and oh no, he’s messed it up. He hasn’t even spoken enough words to meet the Twitter character limit, and Jay has lost her. Only then something weird happens.

She steals the tiniest sip of her drink. She carefully rests the palm tree-shaped swizzle stick on a co*cktail napkin that has half a ring of condensation pressed into it. Then she meets his eyes again and plays along. “Right?” she echoes. “So funny. I can’t— I can’t even believe it, honestly.”

He laughs, and she joins in his laughter, and Jay’s blood has this odd little glitch where it feels like it’s being flambéd in a frying pan. He almost stoops to the level of his buddy Mike and asks her “Is it hot in here, or is it just you?” But considering that the last time Jay took advice from that guy, he ended the night nauseous in the backseat of an Uber with his shirt and pants shoved on backwards, Jay chooses to refrain from making such a statement. It’s 2018, men. Do better.

And besides, Mike is notorious for growing a nasty god complex whenever he’s the Dungeon Master, so. Forget Mike.

Jay resists the urge to offer her his hand like a dork. “I’m Jay,” he says. “And sorry, I hope I’m not actually bothering you. Because if I am, you can, uh”— here, he adopts a regrettably atrocious British accent— “gimme the ol’ boot, dear guvnah.”

He doesn’t have the time to bury his head in his hands, because somehow she’s laughing. Again. Jay has made this beautiful woman laugh twice before even getting her name. Is this Narnia?

“Oh, that’s a great accent,” she replies. She is a liar. “Do you... are you an actor?”

Jay scrubs his hand over his face, head swaying in shame. “No. I absolutely am not. Never have been. And I’m not sure what sort of ungodly pit that emerged from, but I sincerely apologize to you for having ears. Ugh.”

She smiles anyway. Another sip, another covert glance sent his way, and then he finally gets to learn his new favorite name. “I’m Samantha,” she says. “Sam.”

He grins back. “Hi, Sam.”

“Nice to meet you.” Then she mutters something else that he doesn’t quite catch under a heavy layer of piped-in alt rock.

Jay tries not to lean too close to puncture her personal space bubble. “What’s that?”

“Sorry. I am... a bit of a mess right now, because I recently lost my boyfriend since college, and it’s like, without him, New York feels strange again, as if I haven’t been living here for years. But he’s haunting me everywhere I go, because all my favorite spots were also his favorite spots, and I can’t stand going everywhere and seeing his ghost—”

“Hold up. I’m sorry— is he dead?”

Sam frowns. “What? No. I— oh.” A wince and a nod brings her back to the same page. “That was... a weird choice of words on my part. Sorry, I’m a writer. No, he’s, um, he’s still very much alive. And I am reminded of it every day because I still haven’t unfriended him on Facebook.”

Jay leans an elbow on the bar and tries on a coat of confidence. It doesn’t fit him that well. “You should block him.”

Sam peers back. “Should I?” She sucks on her teeth. “I mean, I’d kind of feel bad, because what if he—”

“Nah. I apologize for interrupting, and obviously I say this with absolutely zero background knowledge of what went down between you two, but you owe him no apologies and none of that I-feel-bad stuff. It’s his loss. You lost him, but he lost you, like, way more. If you catch my drift.”

“Mm. I think I’m catching what you’re... drifting.” She grits her teeth, pulls out her phone. “Don’t know why I said those words.” She taps on her screen for a moment, then looks back at him. “Okay. Done. I’m... taking your advice. Taking advice from a man I just met. This is great.”

Jay just looks at her. He really likes looking at her. Her eyes put every other blue thing to shame. What good is the sky, anyway? “I kind of get the vibe you’re not originally from here.”

“Which part of me screamed ‘Ohio,’ the general aura of naïveté or the very Applebee’s choice of drink?”

“There are better ways to go here than a strawberry daiquiri. But hey, I’m not judging.”

“I sort of feel like you are.” She leans in closer. He matches her head tilt.

“My opinion is so irrelevant right now,” he says, “it might as well be in New Jersey with my family.” This earns him another snort. Jay has never seen anything so remarkable as the tiny scrunch of Sam’s nose.

“Okay, Jay. If you’re such an expert on the drinks here, what can you recommend?”

He lightly taps his knuckles on the bartop. “You have no idea how badly I want to buy you a drink right now.”

“I might have a small idea,” she teases.

He clumsily steers them into a diversion. “Um, you said you’re a writer. What sort of ideas are you writing about?”

Sam lifts her shoulders. “Well, I graduated a couple of years ago with a degree in journalism that has been quite lucrative, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Jay points a cautious finger at her. “Please don’t say you’re at BuzzFeed?”

“BuzzFeed? God, no. Oh, right, you said not to say it. Oops.” She digs around in her purse, then presses something lightweight into his hand. “But look, at least I made myself these sad little business cards that I carry with me everywhere. Sometimes I swear I was born in the wrong time.”

“Hey, you never know who might be lurking around the ol’ bar and grille, scouting out new talent. We did actually have one of the editors from the Times as a regular here a few months back.” Jay peeks down at her card. This ultra-romantic Garfield-orange bar lighting doesn’t do him many favors as far as actually reading it, but his eyes skim for the most important scraps: Samantha Ahearne. A phone number.

Sam’s gaze settles gently over him as his eyes flit back upward. Jay hasn’t touched a sip of alcohol, and yet a woozy, euphoric filter unfurls across his vision. These same clouds drift through his head, demanding that the entire rest of the world stands frozen around the two of them while they begin to fall.

“You haven’t mentioned yet,” she says, “what it is you do.”

“Well.” He sighs, clicks his tongue. “There’s a reason I’m the de facto expert on drinks at this place. It’s because I—”

A bellow comes from the kitchen. “Arondekar! Your break was up five minutes ago.”

“— yeah, I work here.” With a measured grimace, Jay hops down from the stool, though his eyes never leave her. “Look, Sam, I—”

“C’mon, man! Dinner rush!”

“Be right there!” Jay yells back. He grabs onto her gaze and prays she won’t let go just yet. “If you would do me the honor of having your phone number, I’ll—”

“I believe you already have it.” Sam lifts her eyebrows, grins all sly. “See, business cards still have their merits.”

“Oh my god, I could kiss you right now,” Jay says. “Did I say that out loud?”

Sam laughs again, and then she’s shooing him away. “Go, go. I don’t wanna get you in trouble!”

Before disappearing into the back of the house, Jay comes to an urgent stop at the far end of the bar, where his coworker boredly taps through the POS system to carve a dent in some rich dude’s Amex card. “Hey, Alison. Can you pretty please do me a solid and put anything that woman orders on my tab?” He tips his head subtly in Sam’s direction. “I don’t care how much it is. And I don’t care if I’m an idiot.”

The bartender offers him a dubious glance. “You two know each other?”

Jay only grins in reply before rushing onward.

In the heat of the kitchen, where pots and pans clang between his ears and his heart repeatedly stabs itself on his ribs, Jay grips his phone in sweaty hands and types out a message. Mike, his fellow line cook, tosses Jay’s apron at him. “Didn’t even eat your plate of nachos, bro. What’s up with you?”

“Shut up. I’m having a life-changing moment,” Jay answers, laser-focused on the screen.

He doesn’t have to wait long to see Sam again. When his shift ends two hours later, she’s there waiting for him, all wringing hands and windswept hair against the damp brick wall. He takes her on a tour of much better, non ex-boyfriend-affiliated places, though when she asks him to skip his favorite Mexican restaurant, he doesn’t argue.

Neither one knows this yet, but two years to the day, on their Glad-I-met-you-versary, Jay will fumble through a proposal in the very same spot where they met. (Okay, fine, maybe like two seats down. The original ones are occupied.) He will ask her to marry him all out of order, sniffling before he even gets the words out, and then forgetting to show her the ring before he asks the question, but they’re both crying when she whispers yes, and he’s such a good fiancé that he waits until they’re back home to properly get down on one knee because he knows she’d be embarrassed if he did that part in public, even though he adores the way a blush spreads like splotchy fireworks through her cheeks.

They will kiss each other on courthouse steps in October, and the informal gathering afterward will consist of more friends than family, which is par for their course. It will very well be a contender for the best day ever in all of recorded human history. On that day, Sam will take her old business card from where Jay has kept it stashed in his wallet all this time. She will cross out her surname and scribble Arondekar in its place, and then replace it for him to find days later. And yes, he will cry about that too. They both will. Then he’ll kiss her on the couch and the wall and the bed and she’ll take all of his breaths away like they’re a hot commodity.

One more year, three hundred and eighty-nine more kisses (give or take), sixty-four more date nights, three argyle sweater Halloweens and holiday cards, and his wife will inherit some creepy old mansion. Okay, cool, new house. Okay, cool, new business venture. Okay, cool, Sam can talk to ghosts now.

Life as they know it will never be the same again. But Jay signed up for this for life when he sobbed a passionate vow of devotion while sliding a ring onto Sam’s finger, so hey, who is he to get in the way of what life offers them? There is just one tiny footnote that he hadn’t noticed: the condition of near-death and what that entails.

What a bizarre tumble of dominoes that has led them here.

Good thing he’s a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. Surely that won’t be tested too much. Right?

The expression currently on Sam’s face is not unlike the one she wore when Jay asked her “Do you believe in ghosts?” on their second date.

He remembers it well— he made a kick-ass shrimp-free paella, if he does say so himself, though the bouquet of roses and lilies he bought caused Sam to sneeze just about every other minute the entire night, even after he banished said flowers to the pint-sized balcony of his apartment. Then they finished off the night with risqué cuddling and the Ghostbusters remake and a bottle of mediocre red blend, which led to the ghost-believing question. The movie led to it, not the wine. Well, maybe the wine led a little.

But damn, that paella! Jay would remember the taste of it better, he thinks, if he hadn’t spent a decent portion of the night with Sam’s mouth all over his. Not that he’s complaining or anything.

“Hold on, Jay, some ghosts just came in.”

“Who is it?” he asks. He watches his wife’s face carefully as she listens to their invisible freeloaders-turned-friends. She wears a look of mild concern, an unspoken “Are you good?” It is one and the same as her expression all those years ago when she answered his ghost-believing question with “No, I don’t think so.”

Sam holds up a finger, her eyes pinned pointedly on stale barn air. It’s almost like the first time Jay saw her, lost in her own world that he couldn’t experience with her. Never have human senses felt so useless!

Jay waits and waits, admiring the slight twitches of Sam’s eyebrows, the wrinkle above her nose, the way her eyes push at their seams. Seems like tough work, listening outside their plane of existence. Jay doubts he could handle it. He can understand the nearby Walmart being the devil’s playground, but missing out on the chill vibes in their local Starbucks hellscape is brutal.

Just when he’s accepted that this spirited conversation will take a while, and he returns to cleaning up the mess around them— where the hell is Mark, by the way?— Sam clears her throat and returns her attention to him.

Before she can speak, Jay says, “Let me guess. Is it Pete?” A few finger guns go flying. “Pete, my pal?”

“Nope,” Sam says lightly. “Close, though. Well, not really. They’re all pretty different. But I appreciate you trying.” There’s a pause, and her frown returns. She nods. “Right. Uh-huh.” Another pause, and Jay’s anxiety grows its own anxiety. This is like the world’s longest phone call, even worse than when his middle school principal would call up his mom and all Jay could hear of their conversation were her terse “Mm-hmms.”

“Babe, please don’t tell me another portal to hell has opened up in here or something. We need good energy in this barn if we want this place to work out. What we don’t need is a dude walking around making people horny with his bad touch. And while we’re on the subject, we really should get his corpse removed from the safe. I’m sort of worried he’s gonna figure out a way to reanimate himself and make us horny until we die, and I don’t know about you, but that is not in my top five ways to die. Might be in my top ten, though.”

Sam shushes someone, but Jay can tell it isn’t intended for him. Probably.

Two years living here, and he’s still learning. Half the time Jay wonders if he should have Sam knock him on the head with a two-by-four, and die a little, just so he can get the full experience. Then he remembers his wife lying so still on that hospital bed, and he thinks twice about it. She was so still, though also not— because she was fighting to come back. He sat there and held her hand for hours. Her fingers were so cold. All the blankets in the building weren’t enough.

Finally, Sam turns to him. “Everything’s fine. The ghosts are just saying we should be careful in here, because with how long everything has sat untouched, there’s a chance we could stir up another spirit.”

Jay sighs. “Right. And I take it that this spirit wouldn’t be too pleased we’re disturbing their resting place. Kind of like ‘80s prom girl.”

“Yeah. That reminds me, Stephanie’s still not doing too well after her new boyfriend got sucked off.” It has taken some time, but now Jay and Sam can both use that phrase almost without having to stifle a snort. “She keeps waking in the night wailing like a baby. I feel like a new parent.” Sam’s shoulders droop. “I even put an Alexa up there in the attic and asked Alberta to make it play, like, soothing rain noises, or Madonna, whatever makes Stephanie feel better, but, well, you know how that’s backfired.”

“Never thought I’d retrospectively regret playing the Dirty Dancing soundtrack at our wedding reception, but after hearing it on repeat at three A.M., here we are.”

“Even Alberta’s tired of it. And she can belt out ‘Hungry Eyes’ like nobody’s business.”

Jay crosses his arms, grins fondly at her. “I really do wish I could hear that.”

Sam grins back. “She says thanks, but that it pales in comparison to your rendition of SexyBack in the shower.”

Jay’s smile falls.

“— don’t worry, she’s kidding.”

“Ha. Right,” he says. “Good one, Alberta! So... so creative, where’d she get that idea from?”

It has been a process getting to know the ghosts secondhand. Jay used to worry they were distancing him from Sam, but now he realizes he’s gotten to know her better than ever before— reading her face, playing along with the ghosts’ whims, guessing what will happen next. It’s all an adventure.

Some ghosts are easier to get along with than others. No Pants took some getting used to, considering the whole hitting-on-Jay’s-wife-nonstop thing. Now, he and Trevor have a heck of a time playing Hangman and other not-safe-for-work party games with nothing but some breath fog and a mirror. It mostly helps that Trevor is now apparently hooking up with Sam’s great-great-great-great-great-aunt, which is a whole other can of worms.

With a new air of cautiousness, Jay and Sam pick their way through the not-so-finely-aged clutter, clearing out a space that he tries to reimagine as a kitchen or dining area. It’s tough to believe this is happening. Jay, who cut his teeth in the culinary world by working at a Subway in a strip mall, is now opening a restaurant with his super-supportive, couldn’t-have-done-this-without-her wife! Wild.

Suddenly there’s a yelp from Sam. “Ah! Did you see that?”

“See what?” Jay peers around, but all he sees is dust glittering in the air and old stuff. “What am I missing?”

“Are you serious? There was just— oh.” Sam brushes hair out of her face, puts her hands on her hips. “Um, Jay?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“I think we might have a ghost cat.”

Chapter 2: trevor's body

Chapter Text

“Are you sure we’re really ready for this?”

Halfway down the hall, Trevor slows to a stop outside Sam and Jay’s top-secret off-limits bedroom. He’s an expert at eavesdropping; being invisible to anyone who is interesting has its perks, as it lends itself particularly well to moments such as now, when listening in on a private conversation is an absolute must. This one sounds juicy.

Jay’s muffled voice leaks through the wall as Trevor leans dangerously close to it. One little slip, and his ear will quite literally barge through into the forbidden zone and alert Sam. He has to be careful.

“What makes you think we’re not ready? Talk to me, babe.”

Trevor rolls his eyes. And to think he once thought babe was a sexy term of endearment. Now it’s just a term of endearment that Jay has sprinkled way too much corn and cheese on. And cheesy will never be equivalent to sexy, on account of Trevor’s crippling lactose intolerance.

Don’t get it twisted, though— he will still gladly smell Jay’s mac-and-cheese supreme alllll day long.

There’s a frustrated sigh from Sam. “I mean, we could barely keep a plant alive. Remember that windowsill succulent we had in our apartment? I never knew a living thing could disintegrate like that just from poking it.”

“Yeah, sure, but that was in the city. Probably the pollution alone killed it. And, like, absorbing too much cumin in the air on taco night. Is that how plants work?”

Okay, this one’s a dud. Trevor doesn’t even know why he gives these two a chance. It’s like they have already skipped to the stage where they’ve been married fifty years and are reminiscing with each other on rocking chairs. So much for silken whispers and sweet nothings.

Just when he’s about to go, however, another snippet snags Trevor’s attention.

“What if... what if we’re too used to taking care of dead people?” Sam asks, and Trevor can hear the wince in her tone. She’s futzing around now. Get to the point, he thinks.

“Uh, yeah, we have the ghosts, but we also take care of several alive guests every week,” Jay points out.

“That’s the thing, though. How can we balance taking care of one with taking care of the ghosts, and taking care of guests on top of that? A- and, like, there’s always a chance we could end up with more than one. We could have two. We could have three. Or four.”

Oh, great, she’s in ramble mode. Trevor frowns. What the hell are they talking about? One or three or four of what?

“Okay, I think the odds of four at once are very low.” Jay pauses. “God, I hope so. Let me google that— and I see the look on your face. I will google it later.”

“There are so many things to consider, Jay. I know we talked about it before we got married, but there’s a lot more at stake now. Our entire business, really. There’s the potential noise level, there’s the extra costs...”

Trevor can practically paint a portrait of them in his mind. Jay resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder, Sam’s wide puppy-dog eyes while she counts her concerns on several fingers. Hmm... wait. Puppy-dog? An idea hatches. Trevor perks up. He might be on to something here.

“If you’re worried about affording it, babe, seriously, don’t be. You knocked it out of the park with your official-unofficial biography on Isaac. And we didn’t just get named in the top ten best new eateries in the Valley for no reason. My sous chef is a magician. We are turning a mad profit. Have I mentioned that already?”

“You have. Many times.” Sam’s voice climbs a gentle upward slope. “But I do love hearing that. Wow.”

“It’s crazy remembering that it was you who had to convince me to live here,” Jay says. “Now I never wanna leave!”

“I’m so glad you chose to take a leap for the Canary Yellow,” Sam replies.

They’re quiet for some time, and it’s all Trevor can do not to precariously poke an eyeball through to check on them. He’s been burned by this before, so it is indeed a risk. Some things cannot be unseen. Don’t ask.

When Sam speaks again, it’s in a near-whisper. Her voice is more muffled now, too. She’s probably pressing her face against Jay’s chest. Blegh.

“You’re right. I don’t know why I’m finding excuses against it. You know I’ve always wanted the chance to rebuild my family, and I guess... I guess for the past few years, it’s felt like we do have our own family now. But this— this would be something totally different.”

“If you’re not ready, then I’m not ready, either,” Jay murmurs back. Come on, do they really have to murmur now? “Just say the word, and we’ll wait.”

This segues into the mother of all pauses. Trevor feels an impatient itch— like phantom limb syndrome, but for pants. He scratches at his thigh. If he had a working watch, he’d be checking it.

“We can’t keep putting it on the back burner forever,” says Sam finally.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“I think I am. No, I definitely am.” She laughs, and he laughs, and then there are mouth-sucking noises that Trevor both envies and cringes away from. What follows is a long silence, hopefully just hugging. Then there’s an overlapping collage of sniffles and smooches and I can’t waits.

“I love you so much it terrifies me. And I mean that in the best possible way.” Jay chuckles again, voice wobbling. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, Jay! I’m sure.”

“Because there’s no going back.”

“I know. I want to do this, because I know how important it is to you, too.”

Jay must be beaming really hard, because his smile is basically projecting through the wall at a similar wattage to the lights at Yankee Stadium on one fine autumn night in 1999. Ah, how Trevor despises his lust for past life.

“We can— we’ll take it slow,” says Jay. “And— okay, I know this doesn’t sound slow, but I had this idea where we could take a little weekend away soon? Give us a break, give the ghosts a break. I feel like we owe ourselves that. Like— like a do-over honeymoon.”

“Yeah, having the flu at the Jersey shore for our first honeymoon really wasn’t great,” Sam admits. “I still have this vivid memory of laying in bed on the second night, sick as a dog, and you trying to whisper-rap me to sleep.”

“Hey. It worked, didn’t it?”

“It did not. But I love you for trying.”

Trevor leans away from the wall with a triumphant jut in his chin. Sam and Jay think they are so sneaky and clever, but he knows better than to fall for their schemes. He knows all the code words that come with talking business, and Sam’s hint-dropping has not exactly been subtle. “Sick as a dog”? Come on. Clearly this honeymoon getaway is just a cover for them going to get a brand-new puppy. It is weird since they just got a ghost cat, but whatever doesn’t rock their yacht, Trevor supposes.

Suddenly, he hears Sam’s voice again. She’s much louder this time.

“Trevor! I can see your elbow.”

sh*t. He sucks the rest of his arm back on this side of the wall. When he was a kid, he used to pretend to slice through walls with his lightsaber like the hopeless nerd he was. He just never imagined he’d be slicing through walls quite like this.

Oh well. How rad of him to die, though, and get these cool-ass powers.

“They’re getting a dog!”

As soon as the Livings have gone off on their weekly farmers market visit— so domestic, so barf, Trevor totally hates to miss out on it— he strides into the living room where about half of the ghosts are gathered watching Love It or List It.

“What on earth are you blathering on about now?” Hetty demands without looking away from the screen. Their new resident ghost cat, Macaroni, is draped around her shoulders like a boa, languidly swiping his tongue over a pale ginger paw.

It’s no wonder Macaroni has taken a liking to Hetty. His temper is shorter than Thorfinn’s when Jay unwittingly turns off Naked and Afraid in the middle of an episode. One of Macaroni’s favorite hobbies is hissing and swatting at their Living companions, only to end up very frustrated when his claws pass clear through them.

Trevor stands next to the TV. “Sam and Jay are finally getting a dog. And they’re being so obvious about it, it’s hilarious, really.” He crosses his arms. “They may even be getting as many as three or four. Jury’s still out.”

Hetty tuts. “For what purpose would they bring a slavering canine into the house, when we already have a perfectly suitable cat?”

“Look, good for you that you’re the only one here who that mangy barn cat doesn’t want to scrape to tatters,” says Trevor, “but the rest of us want a little piece of the pet pie, too.” He attempts a gentle pat on Macaroni’s head, only to receive a gash on his hand that heals instantaneously. “Ugh. Should’ve called him Elias.”

Hetty’s brows lift. “Oh. That would have been good.”

From there, contented quiet falls, punctuated by the people on TV debating over marble or quartz countertops. Trevor’s frustration simmers.

“Come on! Don’t you guys care at all? This is a big change. Life is never the same once you get a dog. They call them man’s best friend for a reason. And odds are in our favor because,” Trevor says, drawing out the word, “it’s been proven that a lot of dogs can see ghosts.”

Sasappis blinks at him. “Really?”

“Really, really.” Trevor scoffs, finding the group’s lack of interest unacceptable. “It must be true. I googled it on the iPad.”

“And what evidence do you have that Sam and Jay are getting one?” Sas goes on. “It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never once heard them talk about it.”

“You don’t hear everything that goes on in this house—”

“Nah, I think I do—”

“Says the guy who spent two weeks straight hair-twirling in a beat-up RAV4—”

“Anyway, you’re positive this whole thing isn’t just about you always wanting a dog as a kid, and never getting one because you were deathly allergic, and now that you’re past the death part, you can finally have one because you won’t be affected by the allergies anymore?”

Sas, of course, spits out this entire brick of harsh truths without missing a beat or taking a breath, or whatever it is their ghostly lungs do these days. Trevor glowers.

“Maybe,” he mumbles.

“Also, I met a few wild dogs in my time,” says Sas. “They were not my favorite.”

“I think those were called wolves.”

Sas tilts his head. “Mm. Agree to disagree. Wolves are actually badasses.”

Still reeling from being read for filth, Trevor reaches for a lifeline. “Isaac. Nigel. You guys are with me, right?”

Isaac gives a great dramatic sigh. “Frankly, I do not care about what Sam and Jay do. I am still cross with them for immediately assuming it was Nigel who got sucked off. Like what, just because he finally finds the love of his life, now the time is nigh for him to move on? I take offense to that.”

Next to him, Alberta’s forehead scrunches. “Isaac, honey, that was several months ago. And were you not just chumming up with Sam the other night so she’d show you another ‘Why Hamilton Is Problematic’ video essay?”

Nigel pipes up, “In all fairness, it was exceptionally perturbing to witness Samantha running inside and shouting my name as if she was possessed by the devil, or perhaps the spirit of my own dear mother— it would be difficult to discern between the two. Anyhow, it does beg the question, why did she think it was me? Did she wish it was me?”

“I’ve known you for a century, I love you both, but y’all are taking it way too personally,” Alberta replies. “Sam was just worried. And when is that girl not worried about something or someone?”

To her left, another fellow couch potato speaks. “Thor understand your frustration. When Dane scream ‘Thorfinn’ over and over, he knew he was in for bad time.”

“Precisely,” agrees Isaac. “It was disturbing, and—”

“Usually meant, was time for disembowelment,” Thor continues unhelpfully. He gestures at the TV. “Is what Hilary should do to small man who try to put people in new house. Old house is fine. Did not need marble countertops.”

“My point exactly. Well, not exactly, but. Thank you,” says Isaac with a haughty toss of his head. “So fine, whatever, Sam and Jay can get themselves a dog. But I will play no role in caring for it.”

Everyone returns their eyes to the TV, and all the while Trevor mopes. He knows he’s right; there is just one missing chunk of the story that he can’t quite get a grip on.

Bored, he tries reaching again to pet Macaroni, who is still acting as an evil shawl to warm Hetty’s shoulders. True to form, Macaroni nips at his fingers.

“Ah!” Trevor snaps. “I will lock that cat in the vault, so help me god!”

Later, he finds Pete and Flower relaxing in the rebuilt gazebo. Just as Trevor expected, it doesn’t take much convincing to get these two lovable bespectacled schmucks to see what he sees.

“Oh, they are absolutely getting a puppy,” Pete agrees, eyes bright. “Maybe a nice yellow Labrador. Such a beautiful coat on that dog. And don’t even get me started about the gait.”

“Alright, Mr. White Picket Fence,” Trevor says appreciatively. He looks at Flower with a touch more apprehension. “What do you think, Flower?”

“I hope they get the kind that has those little grabby hands!” Flower’s standard faraway stare sharpens with excitement. “We already have a few. They’re always by the trash cans.”

Trevor glances at Pete. “You wanna tell her, or should I?”

“What breed do you think they’ll get?” Pete asks him. “Did you hear what Sam and Jay were considering?”

“Well, no—”

“What about where they’re getting the dog from? A reputable breeder, or a shelter mutt? Ah, so many options. Dry or wet food? To collar or not to collar? You know, come to think of it, it’s odd they haven’t mentioned anything to us. It’s a big deal, but it’s not really that big of a deal.”

Trevor shifts his weight. “I haven’t actually...” He sighs. “They haven’t mentioned any of that stuff.”

Pete frowns. “Then how do you even know they were talking about a dog?”

Trevor is silent for a minute. “They... they talked about taking care of someone. And the noise, and extra costs... and something about a weekend away.”

“Oh,” says Pete.

Trevor squints at him. “‘Oh’ what? Good oh or bad oh?”

Flower fixes a studious gaze on Pete. “It’s an in-between oh. I can tell. There’s a vibe.”

“This is a very specific conversation that couples have,” Pete explains feverishly. “It’s like— it’s like an unspoken sacrament of most marriages. I remember very well when Carol and I exchanged those words.” Trevor’s stomach falls through the floor as Pete faces him directly. “Trevor. Buddy. I— I don’t think Sam and Jay are getting a dog.”

“Oh,” Trevor mutters. He sits with the realization for a moment, rolling it around in his head like a ball of matzah dough. Then comes another, more disgusted “Oh.”

“Hm,” says Flower. “I think that one’s a bad oh.”

Jay’s gaze just barely misses sweeping over Trevor. So close, yet so far. Story of Trevor’s life.

“Are they all in here yet?” Jay asks Sam.

“Yes,” Hetty answers for everyone. She, too, flicks an appraising eye around the dining table. “Well, everyone who matters is, at least. You may proceed, Samantha.”

“Does he not see all the chairs pulled out around the table? The evidence is overwhelmingly in favor of us all being here.” Isaac’s comment is as cutting and bitter as the first coffee on a hangover-glazed morning. Nothing like a sharp cup of joe to bring one back to reality post-Y2K New Year’s Eve. Not that Trevor would have any idea what that’s like.

Anyway.

Sam shoots a warning glance at both Hetty and Isaac, though she ends up looking about as threatening as a loving embrace. All she says is “Yep, all present and accounted for. And cranky.”

“Ah, cranky, huh?” Jay crosses his arms over his chest. His patterned shirt is a bloodbath of arcade carpet polygons; it looks like something Trevor might have worn in high school in the ‘80s. What’s old is new again, he supposes. If Trevor could ever change his own outfit, he can’t decide if he would call the fashion police on Jay or ask for his advice.

Curling in her lips, folding her hands behind her back, Sam gives an expressive nod. “Very.”

Jay’s nod is slower. He’s like a disappointed dad already— great. “Remind me, Sam, what was it we were just talking about? Something like, us leaving, giving the ghosts a break... need I go on?”

“Leaving?” Flower echoes. “But you can’t leave. None of us can leave. We’re all dead.”

“Except them, Flower,” Alberta tells her. “Sam and Jay are not dead.”

“Oh. Right.”

Trevor leans over the table to glare at Flower. He should know better than to expect better from her, yet he’s also too freaked out at the moment to know any better. “I told you not even half an hour ago that they’re going on a—” Before he can slap his own mouth shut, Pete’s hand slaps over it. But the cat’s out of the bag now.

As if on cue, Macaroni prances into the room, swats a set of gaseous claws through Jay’s ankle, and hops up onto Hetty’s lap, purring.

“I knew it!” Sam says. “No, you need not go on, Jay, because someone has already listened in on us. Trevor.”

Jay pairs a head shake with a tsk-tsk. “Walls thick enough to store bootleg booze, but not thick enough to keep private words our own.” To complete the show, he double-taps a somber fist over his chest.

Sam lifts her eyebrows at her husband, eyeing him up and down and all around town. “Hey, that was pretty good.”

Trevor throws his head over the back of his chair. “Get a room.”

To her credit, Sam transmits his message. “Trevor says we should get a room.”

“That is exactly what we’re trying to do, man!” Jay tosses up his hands. “Look, guys, you know we love you all, but Sam and I need to get away for a little bit. Just, like, an extended weekend vacay—”

“In my experience, a vacation entailed spending time away from my husband, not with him,” Hetty interrupts— or rather, overlaps— Jay’s spiel. “Any number of minutes I whittled away existing exclusively with Elias in the confines of an endless carriage ride are minutes that brought me closer to this purgatorial state.”

“Packing up the station wagon and road-tripping down to Disney World that is not,” mutters Pete.

“— so, in conclusion, we are taking some much-needed hubby-and-wife time, because these past six months have been a lot. It’s up to you, my ghostly friends, to hold down the fort.”

“That was great, honey, but I’m worried at least half of them weren’t listening,” Sam says.

Jay accepts this in stride. Putting his arm around her waist, he continues, “Please, we are begging you, do not scare off our new assistant while we are gone. Her name is Kelly. Be kind to Kelly, and she will be kind to you. We want her to stay.”

“I was listening,” says Sas. “I heard ‘new assistant.’ Follow-up question: does this assistant have a car? Follow-follow-up question: does that car have a ghost?”

Sam casts a pointed glance in his direction. “I know it’s been hard finding someone to fill Freddie’s shoes, but we can’t keep building this reputation for a high turnover rate. Even if that turnover is the same person being fired and rehired and— well, you get the point.”

Jay tries and fails to follow where her eyes are aimed. “And Macaroni— do you hear me, sir?— you have already terrorized the construction workers and restaurant employees enough. Stay away from the barn.”

Thorfinn chuckles. “See, is funny because Jay does not know he’s talking to cat.”

“Oh, he’s aware,” Sam says. “That cat can knock over people’s wine glasses like he’s made of solid matter. The restaurant’s soft opening was more of a crash opening.”

“Just have to be glad there’s no litter box to clean,” Jay mutters.

“Fret not, I will keep him out of the barn,” Hetty assures them. She bends down to coo in Macaroni’s ears, “My good little demon boy.” Trevor stares at her, unsure whether to be horrified or aroused by hearing that sentence.

After a display of grandiose goodbyes, Sam and Jay fold themselves and a couple of suitcases into their MINI and trundle down the driveway and out of sight, thus paving the way for what evolves into a lackluster weekend.

Trevor kills a grand total of one hour admiring the pretty new front desk assistant. But he can only take so much of watching her scroll through cute selfies of herself and another hottie who, if the kissing selfies are any indication, appears to be her girlfriend. Jeez Louise, does everyone who hangs around this house have to be this good-looking? And to think it used to be Trevor doing all the heavy lifting himself in the looks department!

— okay, fine, that’s not exactly fair. He’s still learning to be a better person dead than he was when alive, so sue him.

He toys with the idea of reaching over Kelly’s shoulder and messing with the computer keyboard just for sh*ts and giggles, but he eventually shrugs it off. Trevor would feel more broken-up about Kelly being taken, he thinks, if he wasn’t currently burrowing his face in Hetty’s neck in the laundry room.

“Hurry up and ravish me!” Hetty calls out with abandon. As Trevor lifts her up onto the boring new washing machine, her heel collides with the metal, eliciting a piercing clang that reverberates through the house. It startles a guest who happens to be walking by, and Trevor grinds his molars, wishing the door to this room was at least closed before they’d walked through it.

“Shhh,” he hisses in her ear. “You wanted this to be a secret again, yeah?”

She groans, pushes her hands into his chest. “Get off me.”

“What?”

“The moment has passed. I cannot stand you being right.”

Trevor wisely swallows his smirk. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, he hoists himself onto the dryer next to her, bare legs dangling. “So. Dull day, huh?”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Is it weird if I admit I feel sort of bad? Seems like everyone’s been so on edge lately. It’s exhausting. And now with Sam and Jay’s whole thing—”

Hetty’s head jerks back toward him with a whoosh. “What is this about Sam and Jay? You could not have been serious that they were bringing home a dog.”

Trevor smacks his knee. “Oh, right! I knew I forgot to tell you something.”

The eye roll he receives is all for show, but charming nonetheless. As his inexplicably-beating heart takes a stumble, Trevor briefly longs for the days when Sam was the center of his ill-placed desires. It’s just so much easier to chase after a happily married woman. He even misses his Bela era, too. It also makes matters simpler if the woman he lusts after is alive.

“Yeah, so... Pete figured it out. They’re not getting a dog.”

“And? Even Flower could have surmised that.”

Trevor sighs. He shuts his mouth for a moment and just looks at her. “You really don’t have any idea what they’re doing?”

Hetty blinks at him, then blinks at her lap. “I may have an inkling.”

Another hefty pause. “You miss them too, right?”

“Don’t ask a lady such presumptuous questions, Trevor. You would have been a peasant in my day.”

“Uh-huh,” he antagonizes. “A stable boy.”

Silence. Then— “Kiss me, damn you.”

“Landship!” roars Thor from his post at the window.

All at once, the cacophony of bickering ghost voices eases into a subdued rumble. Macaroni stretches languidly on the rug, hind legs splayed in opposite directions as he licks his nether regions into near-oblivion.

“Is it theirs?” Isaac asks.

Alberta scurries over to the window to peek around Thor’s massive arm. “Small jalopy with the swanky wheels— ooh, yes, that’s them!”

“Okay, everyone, remember what we talked about,” Trevor says, joining Thor and Alberta. He watches the car roll to a stop, pebbles skittering around the tires. He can almost imagine his own eager breaths fogging up the glass.

“Yeah, but did we all agree on it?” Sasappis frowns. “I’m not sure everybody got the memo.” He clicks his tongue and jerks his head toward where Flower is lying inside a wall, halfway in this room and halfway in another.

Thor turns around. “Flower, darling,” he says. The pet name sounds so stiff and strange on his tongue, and he has a tough time chewing through it. Trevor stifles a snort at the attempt. “Why not join us on this side of wall?”

Since only the lower half of her body is visible, Flower wiggles her toes in acknowledgement. “I’m meditating!” she calls back— her way of saying Leave me alone. “Also, the air duct in this wall feels nice.”

Oh, does it now? Trevor makes a mental note to check that out later.

“Now not best time for this,” Thor replies, but he returns his attention to the window without much fuss.

“What’s taking them so long?” Trevor demands. “They’re still talking in there.” He nearly presses his face through the window to get a better view, but briefly catching Sam’s eye is enough to make him step back. “Whoa. She looks serious.”

Pete’s arrow quivers. “Maybe they’re leaving us, leaving us.”

“Or Jay did something to piss her off. Your time to shine, Trev,” jokes Sas.

“Hardy-har. No. That crush has been crushed. Mostly.”

Hetty strokes a lightweight hand along Macaroni’s arched spine. “I have no doubt they are relishing their final few moments of freedom before re-submitting themselves to our beck and call.”

Trevor glances at her, tries to picture himself calling her darling, and then tries not to laugh himself out of the room. Darling, girlfriend, lover? Ha, as if! Still, his ribcage irrationally tightens. “Hetty, that is what we were just discussing,” he says. His face swings back to the window right on time to spot the Livings walking up to the house. “A-ha! Here we go.”

The grand front doors swing open. Sam and Jay proceed inside cautiously, as if the giant hole in the floor they once fell through might reopen its splintered maw. Kelly greets them and wastes no time departing, clearly eager to go sleep in her own bed after staying here all weekend. Despite this obvious reason for her to rush home, Sam and Jay still exchange a Now why did that happen? look, all too ready to blame the ghosts.

Trevor inserts himself neatly, sliding into the foyer with a semi-natural smile in place. “Hello there.” He bows forward slightly. Keep smiling. Keep smiling. “How was your trip?”

Sam subjects him to a short stare of scrutiny. “It was really great,” she says after a loaded moment. “And we really needed it, but—”

“We missed you guys!” Jay shouts, standing with all four limbs spread and his head thrown back to the ceiling. A curious— and mildly irritated— face of a guest appears at the top of the staircase. Jay shoots them a thumbs-up. “Good afternoon, sir! We’re just so glad to be home. Can I interest you in a voucher for our farm-to-table restaurant that is only”— he twirls a finger in some arbitrary direction— “five hundred-ish yards that-a-ways on these very grounds? I should stop yelling.”

Once the guest retreats back to their room, the rest of the ghosts assemble by the front desk. And though Sam can be talented at spinning fiction on the ghosts’ behalf, she also has a real talent for reading all of their truths in between the lines.

“Aw, they missed us, too,” she reports to Jay. “They don’t even have to say anything. I can tell.”

“Alright, alright,” Isaac mumbles. “Perhaps we did.”

“Aw,” Jay piles on. “It’s okay, ghosts. You can admit you love us.”

“Now that we have said,” Isaac remarks, “on many occasions. Too many, if I had to wager.”

“We were in this adorable little cottage near the shore,” Sam describes as she leads her informal entourage into the sitting room. “But it was so... quiet. Calm. Normal. It was unsettling, in a way.”

Jay lets out a leaden sigh as he settles in next to Sam on the sofa, his arm around her shoulders. “Now you know how I feel... disregarding the normal part. You are soooo normal, babe.”

“Nice save,” she replies.

The ghosts all fight for the spot on Sam’s other side; Alberta wins the five-second war. She declares victory with a triumphant hum and a theatrical crossing of one leg over the other. Glad she can make herself comfortable, Trevor thinks with envy. He wonders how uncomfortable it might be to sit through Jay.

Nope. Not that desperate. He can wait his turn.

Strained silence descends over the room. Unaware of how surrounded he is, Jay flips on the TV and scrolls idly through Netflix. Before long, though, he picks up on Sam’s hunched shoulders and boomeranging glances with the ghosts.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“What? No. Nothing’s wrong,” she responds too quickly. “They’re just”— cue a gritted-teeth smile— “all staring intently at us.”

Standing over her shoulder behind the couch, Pete drums his thighs, his anxiety practically solid in the air. Trevor could slice it with the sharp edge of his own awkward stare. “So... who’s gonna bring it up? Anyone? Please don’t make me do it.”

Sam scoots to the edge of her seat, raking wide eyes around the group. “Okay, now you’re all scaring me.”

Jay tips his head. “I do think that’s sorta in their job description...”

“Gah! Okay.” Trevor presses his face into his hands, then blurts, “We know you went on that trip to, like, make a baby or whatever!”

Sam is quiet for so long, Jay fastens a hand on her shoulder and searches her far-off gaze. “Oh my god, what are they saying? Are they reading off the dictionary? The Bee Movie script? Come on, this FOMO is shortening my lifespan.”

Just when he’s about to shake her back to life, Sam tentatively returns her attention to the ghosts and lies while looking at her lap. “Whaaat?” she mumbles. “Psh. Nooo, we didn’t.”

“Samantha, your attempts at lying are pitiful at best and downright offensive at worst,” chides Hetty. “Really, it’s a wonder you are a Woodstone at all.”

“Seriously?” Sam pouts. “I actually thought I was getting better at lying. Even though it should be against my nature.”

Jay’s eyes are crazed with desperation. “Better at lying?”

“I’m so sorry, Jay. Let me clue you in. They... they know.” She blinks over at him, hands clasped tight. “I mean, they know. They’ve figured it out.”

“We’ve only been around the block a few hundred-thousand times,” says Sas. “Also, the walls are kinda thin.”

Jay winces. “Right. You know, this is so weird, but I think I hear that guest calling out for his voucher right this second. Very pushy guy. I better go—”

As he rises from the sofa, Sam promptly pulls him back down. “No. You should be part of this conversation too.”

“But do I want to be?” he counters.

“Look, we just want you to be open with us,” Pete says, swooping in with certified Dad Tact. “I mean, if there are going to be some more big changes around here, we’d like to know about them so that we can help.”

“And share in your joy!” Alberta adds. “This is a joyful occasion, isn’t it? We could always use another party around here.”

“And besides, it isn’t as if I’ve been begging you two to procreate for months now— oh wait, I have,” says Hetty. “The family line must go on, Samantha! Tick, tock. What else is the point of a marriage?”

Sam’s wringing hands curl into fists. “Well, people these days tend to get married because they love each other, first and foremost—”

“Oh, not that nonsense again.”

“Another query, if I may,” Nigel butts in. “How often will it be carrying on making noise? And will it smell any worse than, say, smallpox pustules? I only want to be prepared to make myself scarce if...”

His laundry list of premature complaints disappears under a deluge of further demands and concerns. Trevor wouldn’t wish this Q&A session on his worst enemy, and his worst enemy-slash-best-bro dumped his body in a lake.

Suddenly Sam shouts, “Stop!”

The noise in the room snaps into silence like a twig bending underfoot. Sam never shouts. This is all kinds of wrong.

“I’ve told you all repeatedly that it helps no one when everyone talks at the same time. Also, I’m not sure it’s any of your business what choices Jay and I make. I’m sorry, but something like this is sensitive, and— well, it might not turn into anything, anyway. So...” As Sam trails off, Jay wraps his fingers over one of her fists, relaxing it from its taut position. She looks at him. “They’re having some very diverse reactions to news that isn’t even news yet.”

Jay pecks her temple, then drags his gaze aimlessly across the empty space he sees. “You guys have got to chill, okay? There’s more than one reason we took some time away from here. Everyone deserves a little privacy. I mean, I just recently stopped wearing a bathing suit in the shower. Only my wife is allowed to worship this body—”

Sam glances at him. “‘Worship’?”

“— but you gotta realize that most of the time, Sam doesn’t get privacy from her own mind! She deserves some peace and quiet, even if that peace and quiet was—”

“— disturbingly out of the ordinary,” Sam completes his sentence. Another sigh puffs through her nose. “I understand you all get bored here. Of course I do. And I also get that this... development... is new and fresh and exciting and scary. It is all of those things. Just— give us some breathing room, okay?”

“‘Breathing room,’ huh?” Isaac quotes dryly. “Now that is below the belt.”

“This is what we were all talking about before you got home, I swear,” Trevor steps in. “How we want to be more respectful of your space, and your time, yada yada—”

“So are you?” Hetty interrupts.

Sam narrows her eyes, yet entertains her nonetheless. “Am I what?”

“Are you with child or not? We’ve all got bated breath here.”

Isaac clicks his teeth, mutters, “I wouldn’t say bated breath...”

Sam opens her mouth. Closes it. Her eyes flash to Jay. “Hetty’s asking if I’m...” She waves a hand erratically. Turns back to Hetty. “No. We... are... trying.”

“Trying,” Hetty groans. “Not all that dedicated, are we?”

Now Sam finds an opportunity to echo Isaac. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

“Trying is the first step,” Flower supplies brightly. The glaze in her eyes suggests she is a few pages behind the rest of them.

“Yes. Trying can be best part,” says Thor with a knowing leer.

Ever aggrieved, Hetty pinches up her skirts and begins to storm out of the room. “Oh, damn it all! Am I to wait for eternity to become a great-great-great-great-great auntie?”

Sas rolls his eyes from where he’s lounging on the floor. “Yes, please, make it all about you.”

“You know how this stuff works, right?” Trevor says to her. “It’s not instantaneous.”

Hetty’s rebuttal to that sends them all into another bickering brawl. Only after ten minutes does Trevor notice that Sam and Jay have wisely extracted themselves from the chaos. He shakes his head. So much for the ghosts’ mid-year's resolution to be less annoying.

“Are you?”

Sam doesn’t look up from where she’s chipping away at a freelance article on her laptop. “No.”

The next day, Hetty pokes her head in the kitchen. “Are you now?”

“Nope.” Sam shoves a bite of toast in her mouth.

The following evening, Sam and Jay are brushing their teeth side-by-side in front of the bathroom mirror. Hetty pops up in between them. “And now?”

“Hetty!” Sam snaps, spittle flying.

Weeks pass. The weather warms.

“How about now?” asks Hetty, appearing out of thin air while Sam helps a guest at the front desk.

“No,” growls Sam. When the guest gives her a confused look, she extends the word into a contrived “— noooo way! Are you really from Wichita?”

Trevor grabs Hetty’s arm and yanks her into another room, earning him an indignant huff. “You need to lay off her,” he whispers. “All the rest of us are leaving it alone. Why can’t you?”

“Because,” says Hetty, “it is important for the future of this house. You do realize, Trevor, that if Sam and Jay die without an heir, their business will be left to rot? And I will have to watch my home decay all over again, and—”

He softens his hold on her— which she surprisingly hasn’t swatted away— and slides his hand down to enclose gently over her raised forearm, lowering it. “Hey. That’s not true. It isn’t 1890 anymore. Even if they died tomorrow, someone would be around to take over the business. Think of all the people at the restaurant. Think of their new assistant here.”

Her face twitches. “You mean that pretty little thing you’ve been drooling over from minute one?”

Trevor barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “I don’t have a crush on Kelly.”

“Ah! You even know her name. Knowing the names of the help is never a good sign.”

He rests his hands on her shoulders now, venturing farther into unexplored territory. Muscles tense under his touch, but Hetty doesn’t shrug him off. “I am not Elias,” he tells her.

Nancy, as usual, chooses an inopportune time to slink by, probably after huffing vinegar in the kitchen. She leans into the room with a glint in her eye. “Hey, if you need someone to role-play as your dead husband, I know a guy.”

Hetty stares at her. “Is he from the basem*nt?”

“Uh, yeah, he’s from the basem*nt! That’s where I source all my best actors,” Nancy replies, as if she’s an agent for someone affluent and, oh yeah, alive.

“Off you go,” Hetty says, flicking her fingers in a shooing motion. “Be gone now.”

Nancy grunts out a laugh and moves on, part of her shoulder melding with the wall as she goes.

“It is getting too bold, that one,” Hetty mutters. “Just watch, soon it will have the women voting.”

“Women can vote, Hetty,” says Trevor. “Sam has literally described to you what a modern poll booth looks like.”

Hetty dismisses him, turning her cheek. “She is a writer, Trevor. Writers describe things.”

“So women can be creative, but they can’t participate in politics?”

Hetty harrumphs.

“Anyway, back to the Sam thing,” he redirects. “Do you promise you’ll let her be? Just for a little while. Believe me, when something happens, they will let us know. Or we’ll just listen through their bedroom wall. You get it.”

Hetty is quiet for a moment. Then she finally says, “In my time, when it took this long for a couple to reproduce, it was because something was wrong with the woman.”

Trevor waits for her to return his gaze. “Or is that just what society would tell you?”

She sits with this, then admits, “I suppose that is probable.”

“Why did they always blame the women? Women are freakin’ awesome,” Trevor says. “No offense, but I am so glad I didn’t live in your time, Hetty. Even with all the easy access to drugs, just— so not worth it.”

Unimpressed, Hetty peels herself away from him and glides primly out of the room, calling over her shoulder, “Join the club, why don’t you.”

A few days later, Sam and Jay are working in relative peace opposite each other at the kitchen table. Trevor is boredly poking around on the iPad— man, it is impossible to win at Candy Crush if it takes five entire minutes for his finger to tap the screen!— when he notices Hetty walk in.

She opens her mouth, and he gives her a warning look. So she shuts her trap, shuffles further into the room, and goes, “... good morning, Samantha. And Jay, though he cannot hear me.”

Sam peers away from her email, guard up. “Hi,” she says stiffly. Then to Jay, “Hetty just came in.”

Stilted as ever, Hetty rolls to a stop over Jay’s shoulder. “And are you...” She trails off, snagging on Trevor’s bulged eyes and frantic finger-across-the-throat gesture from where he stands behind Sam. Hetty clears her throat and obediently switches tracks. “Are you... doing well today?” she asks.

“I am, thanks.” Sam rises from her chair to refill her coffee mug. Halfway to the counter, she spins on her heels to find both Trevor and Hetty close on her heels. “Remember that little thing I said about personal space?”

Hetty and Trevor stagger backwards amid a flurry of apologies. Still perched on the figurative edge, they crowd themselves into a corner and watch Sam’s every move, as if she’s about to drop dead and join them in walking through walls.

Jay also stands, stretching until his back pops, which elicits a cringe from both spectating ghosts. He wanders over to where Sam is pouring coffee and hugs her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. “I hope that rule doesn’t apply to me,” he murmurs.

Sam giggles like a teenager— “Ba-a-abe!”— and playfully nudges him, turning in his arms so she can flick his chest. “Or should I say... Lord Grantham?” she asks, tongue curling seductively around the syllables.

“At your service, Lady Crawley.”

Oh, hell. They’ve graduated from Chip and Jo to aristocratic role play. Trevor recognizes all of the ultra-loud, crystal-clear, screaming warning signs that he needs to remove himself from this scene— and that’s before Jay starts kissing her neck.

“Okay, we need to get out of here pronto,” Trevor announces, framing a grimace around his words. “Otherwise, we’re gonna see something we really don’t wanna see.”

“Yes, yes, right behind you,” Hetty agrees. As they scurry out of dodge, Trevor hears a brief trade of words behind them.

“Are they still in here?” Jay whispers to Sam conspiratorially, so badly wanting to be in on the ghosting. Or is it called ghostery? Ghostology?

“No, they’re—”

“Nuh-uh, not today. Be gone, ghosts!” Jay hisses. “Whoosh! Boo!”

Sam leans away from him. “Are you really trying to get rid of ghosts by saying ‘boo’?”

“Yeah, I mean, I thought— there’s this one ghost-hunting blog that said you can...” But Sam buries the rest of Jay’s embarrassing sentence in another kiss, locking her lips onto his with no end in sight. Jeez Louise, you guys, it’s not even eight A.M., Trevor thinks.

He quits spying around the corner and leans back into the hallway to meet Hetty’s eyes. “Jay can be a fool,” she says, the tip of her nose practically parallel to the ceiling, “but, I suppose they are made for each other.”

“No arguing with that,” Trevor says. They fall into step beside each other, giving the kitchen and the adjacent room a wide berth. “We could never have one without the other. Didn’t you smell Jay’s egg bhurji this morning? I can’t believe we ever tried to chase them out!”

“The only thing that confounds me is the lack of any results thus far,” Hetty complains. Trevor catches on right away, though he wishes he could plead ignorance on this subject. “With the way they are all over each other every minute of every day—”

“You do realize birth control has come a long way since your time, yeah?”

“Well. I still fail to understand. Sam and Jay are behaving as if my wretched husband has not only walked through them, but possessed them.” Abruptly Hetty shows her palms and glances around for the mysterious powers that be. “But don’t get me wrong, I still forgive him! Hell can keep him.”

Trevor hangs his head. He so, so desperately wishes she would talk about anything else. He’d even take a chat about her murderous son over this garbage.

“Oh, forget it. I cannot stand all this talk of heavy petting as it is. Must everyone around here be so in love?” Hetty asks. Her stabby eyes follow yet another affectionate pair of guests as they head out the front doors in their hiking gear. Trevor hopes for their sake that they don’t take a gander towards the kitchen. Sam and Jay could’ve posted Thorfinn as their privacy guard again, if he wasn’t currently busy shouting an elk hunting anecdote for Björn and everybody else to hear.

Feeling mischievous— and really, when doesn’t he?— Trevor decides to take a little inspiration from what they’ve been subjected to this morning. Without warning, he pins Hetty against the wall, loosens his tie, and applies a fresh smirk to his face. “You’re one to talk,” he mumbles against her jaw.

“Don’t you dare,” she threatens.

“What? Can’t you appreciate a little spontaneity?”

“I can,” Hetty says after a moment. “Actually, I can appreciate it very much.” And after another moment, they are no longer talking.

Trevor can’t sleep. He isn’t the only one, evidently.

He stands in the doorway for a while, watching Sam take tiny sips from her midnight tea, ribbons of steam unfurling around her face. She tries to put it down, only for the ceramic to crack harshly against the countertop as she nearly loses her grip on the cup.

“Jesus, Trevor! You can’t sneak up on me like that.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ve been standing here a solid minute. Maybe a minute and a half.”

“Doesn’t make it any less creepy.”

“Touché.” He strides into the kitchen, hands tucked in his pockets. “Penny for your thoughts?” he asks. “Or, what is it they say now, a dollar for your thoughts?” She looks at him, and he lifts his shoulders. “I dunno. I feel like pennies probably aren’t worth as much as they were in 2000. God, I’d hate to see the state of Wall Street now.”

Sam grins softly. “I see you checking up on stocks. You always leave those open on the iPad.”

“Ah. You caught me.” His ensuing chuckle is only half-hearted. He is well aware he’s wading into a somber mood in here. “Y’know, at the rate we’re going, soon they’ll be charging you just to look at the sky.”

He pulls out a chair across from her, enjoying the feel of something real and solid under his hand, so rare these days aside from when he touches Hetty’s skin—

Anyway.

Trevor sits down with a thud. Sam seems almost drunk on her own thoughts as she wraps her bathrobe more tightly around herself. “I don’t...” She blows out a breath. “I don’t even know what’s wrong. Nothing is wrong, honestly. I just... I feel like something should be. There’s almost always been something wrong ever since we moved here, and...” She raises her eyes to his. “Everything’s too perfect. I don’t trust it. Life doesn’t work that way.”

“And I can tell you firsthand, the afterlife doesn’t work that way, either,” Trevor says. “That’s why you enjoy every moment where everything feels right. ‘Cause you don’t know how long it’ll last.”

“Expect the unexpected,” Sam concurs. She stares into her tea for a long time, long enough for Trevor’s leg to adopt a restless bounce. He watches shadows drift across the kitchen; he swears one on the outskirts looks like the silhouette of a cholera ghost. He has to remind himself not to be scared of something that is only the same as he is.

“If I tell you a secret,” Sam says suddenly, “do I have your word you’ll keep it?” Trevor sits up slow, intrigued. “And I mean it. You can’t tell anyone. Not even Hetty.”

He waves her off, making himself the picture of cool and casual and noncommittal. “Psh. Why would you even mention Hetty, it’s not like she’s still my—”

“Trevor, I’m serious. I haven’t even told Jay yet, but I need to tell somebody.”

Trevor quickly sobers. “Hey, you can trust me. T-Money is at your service. As someone who briefly thought he’d be a father—”

“I don’t think that situation really counts—”

“Uh-uh-uh, hold on. I’m talking about a different thing. I’m talking about... about the time I had a pregnancy scare with this girl. And trust me when I say it was a scare. Full Halloween. We were still kids. We would’ve been horrible parents. We were so clueless about how that stuff worked, we failed to realize that all the, um... over-the-pants stuff we’d been doing did not hold risk for pregnancy in the slightest.” He raises his eyebrows at her, slaps his woefully bare thighs. “Yeah, I know. I said over-the-pants. You can laugh now.”

But Sam only cradles her tea mug. “So what ended up happening? Was your girlfriend okay?”

Trevor falters. “... well, I wouldn’t call her my girlfriend, exactly? Look, the point is, she called me and she was scared. The least I could do was be there for her. Her parents were strict, and I knew my friends would’ve mocked me about it, so we never told anyone else it happened. And it was only that— a scare. She wasn’t actually...” He trails into a sigh, tries to collect his scattered thoughts.

“I guess what I mean to say is... whatever this is, you can tell me. Because I know, even with how amazing us ghosts are, and how great Jay is, you might feel sort of... alone in your head sometimes. And I don’t blame you. Even someone with a normal, fully alive family can feel that way.” He digs a tooth into his lower lip. “Ah, I didn’t mean— I wasn’t thinking—”

“It’s okay.”

“— about your mom—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sam reaches over as if to give his hand a squeeze, as if she could do such a thing. “I get what you were trying to say.”

Trevor shakes his head ruefully. “Man. Families, huh? It’s tough being a child of divorce.”

A slant forms in Sam’s brow. “Okay, that definitely doesn’t count. Your parents divorced after you died.”

“And yours did before you died. So? Who cares, we’re having a moment.”

Sam fidgets with her hands some more, still hesitant. If Trevor doesn’t say something soon, she’ll spin her wedding ring all the way into next year.

“Okay, I... I really don’t love saying this, but you’re making me bring out the big guns. I know we’re kinda-sorta technically the same age, but if we consider the bigger picture, well— I’m probably closer to your dad’s age, yeah?”

Sam says nothing, only nods. Clearly she’s curious where he plans to go with this.

“So would it help if you see me as a sort of... oh, I shudder to say it... a father figure, maybe? Like, your cool young hip stepdad who you can confide in.”

Sam stifles a snort behind her hand. “My cool, young, hip stepdad who has openly admitted he was attracted to me?”

“Well. I mean. I specifically implied that nothing about our family is normal,” Trevor says.

They both look at each other. Then they erupt into laughter.

“Okay,” Sam says. “Okay, fine. Screw it. Trevor, I...” Her mouth sags open, then, and she murmurs, “You already know, don’t you?”

“I may have guessed.” Trevor grins, stands from his chair. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Sam tilts her head. “For how long?”

He expels a large sigh, like he’s breaking bad news to a client. “Well, this is a limited-time offer. I’d say it expires in roughly...” He see-saws his hand. “... two to three days, maybe, before the other ghosts catch on that I know something they don’t.” He leans closer, cups one hand around his mouth. “But I also really, really, like knowing something they don’t, so... I can cut a special deal for you.”

“No need,” Sam replies. “I think I’ll let the secret out before then.” She spreads her arms in a move they’ve dubbed the “air-hug,” a gesture of sincerity that means just as much as it would if he could be physically hugged. “Thanks, Trevor.”

To tell the truth, Trevor feels kind of guilty for accepting Sam’s gratitude, because at the same time she says this, he happens to notice the toe of a polished Revolutionary-era boot poking through the nearby wall. Turns out he and Sam are not as alone as they thought— and he supposes one can never be truly alone in this house.

Oy vey.

Chapter 3: petergeist

Chapter Text

This is not Pete’s finest moment.

There really are so many better ways to pass eternity aside from tip-toeing around the corner, eavesdropping on Sam and Trevor’s conversation. But, well, it was Isaac’s idea. And if they are all confronted, Pete refuses to take the blame this time. He will plead the fifth, gosh darn it.

Or... at least that’s what he tells himself. He can practically hear Nancy’s cholera-crusted drawl in his head— “Have I taught you nuthin’?”

Isaac is the first to react. “Well, I suppose it is safe to assume that Jay’s seed has finally found—”

“If you use that turn of phrase again, Isaac, Lord help me,” Alberta interjects.

“Guys,” Pete whispers to the others— and yes, nearly all of the other aboveground ghosts are crowded behind him, including a headless Crash who surely can’t be gaining much from this experience. “This isn’t right. We need to get away from here before Sam or Trevor...” Pete’s tongue stalls on the last word as he catches sight of everyone’s faces. “... someone’s right behind me, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Alberta mutters, sheepish. “Best turn around, Pete.”

He does, and sure as a packed Kmart parking lot on Black Friday, there looms Trevor.

“Well, well, well,” he crows. “If it isn’t a whole gaggle of Nosy Rosies.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, you’re— you’re just a— a big gloaty ghost!” Pete attempts throwing back a barb of his own, but that insult wouldn’t even impale a pillow. Shoulders slumped, he waves the white flag. “Alright, alright. We know we shouldn’t have been listening— at least, I know it— but we were curious!”

Thorfinn shrugs. “Not much else to do around here.”

“You all should be sleeping. This was my moment with Sam,” Trevor whisper-shouts, jabbing a defiant finger toward the floor. “Mine! But you all just had to be here too.”

“Oh, cry me a river,” says Isaac. “It isn’t as if we blatantly intruded.”

“Try moving your foot a little,” Trevor tells him, voice razor-edged. “You’re lucky Sam didn’t see it.”

With a dignified grimace, Isaac discreetly scoots his boot back onto this side of the wall. “Well, that was a... small oversight on my part.”

“You should be ashamed of yourselves!” Trevor continues. “Now go to bed, all of you. You make me sick.”

He storms off, leaving the others to fret amongst themselves.

“A bit dramatic, was he not?” Isaac asks after several seconds of uneasy silence.

“Yeah,” says Sasappis. “I feel like he enjoyed doing that.”

“Personally, I have seen much better theatrics at the tavern on the eve of the Tea Party.” Isaac’s voice fades as he vanishes around the corner and the other ghosts also disperse. Pete remains standing there for a moment, still gnawing on his guilt. But he’s got to admit that his excitement for what’s ahead outweighs it.

“Sam, we have an emergency!” Jay’s voice rings through the house, genuinely imitating a true alarm owing to the fact that there are currently no guests in.

It’s easy enough to trace the Livings’ voices to the living room. Ha, what a funny name for a room; Pete had never thought about that before. But anyway, his refined scouting skills don’t really get a chance to stand out here, because most of the other ghosts also show up to witness the rigmarole.

“What? What is it?” Sam asks, holding on to the back of the sofa. She looks a bit green today, if Pete is being honest.

Jay careens into the room all breathless. “Okay, remember that food critic who visited here and kinda-sorta org*smed over my cooking because Evil Gilded Age guy walked through her?”

Sam blinks. She covers her mouth with one hand, swallows hard, removes her hand. “Um, yeah. Yep. Hard to forget that one.”

Jay peers at her, putting the crisis on pause. “... are you good?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. I’m great, actually. I... am...”

All the ghosts lean forward, anticipation boiling their typically inert blood.

But then Sam changes her mind. “I am— I’m gonna need to... talk to you, but that can wait. Anyway, what about the food critic lady?”

Pete and several others suppress groans of disappointment. He doesn’t do a great job of it, though, because Sam shoots him an odd look. Swiftly Pete flashes her a double thumbs-up. Nice save.

“Well, she’s coming back tonight,” Jay explains. “Now she’s writing a review of the restaurant. I gotta be on my A game all day, babe. I don’t know if I can handle the pressure again. I got off too easy last time.”

Sam comes over and rubs his upper back, which Jay helps loosen with a few shoulder rolls and a brief jog-in-place as if he’s at the starting line of a marathon.

“You’ve got this,” she tells him. “Is there anything I can do to help? I mean, aside from summoning Elias to give this woman the time of her life again.”

Hetty grumbles something under her breath.

“Hm.” Jay rubs at his beard for a few seconds. “Okay, how about this. Rayan and I will throw together some favorites from the menu, plus one surprise dish that is T-B-A. And... you can be our taste tester! All you need to do is make sure everything is perfect.”

Suddenly Sam covers her mouth again. Her cheeks bulge a little. “Oh. Taste tester, huh?” She nods lightly. “As in, tasting food? All day?” Yet when Jay looks more closely at her, she swings an arm and chirps, “Sign me up!”

Pete shakes his head. Oh, poor Sam.

“This girl is just torturing herself,” Alberta laments, face scrunched in dismay.

Several hours ago she and Pete followed Sam and Jay over to the Woodstone Grille, which is closed today until dinner service. Since they arrived, it has been several hours of watching Sam choke down bites of gourmet cuisine and proceed to dry heave every time Jay leaves the room. Compounding the distress is the fact that Pete and Alberta are supposed to not know why Sam is sick.

“And we’re torturing ourselves by watching her torture herself,” Pete remarks.

“We need to say something,” Alberta whispers. “Should we say something?” They both frown, observing as Sam dribbles a sip of water into her mouth like it’s acid. “Oh no, I can’t take this anymore.”

In typical Alberta fashion, she hurricanes forward from the sidelines and perches herself on a chair at the same table. “Sam,” she says. “Sam, look at me. Child, if you don’t feel well, you need to tell Jay the truth.”

“I appreciate that you’re worried for me, but”— Sam stifles a queasy hiccup— “now is really not the right time to drop that news on Jay. He’s already stressed enough about keeping up the restaurant’s momentum and— wait.” Her brow drops low over her eyes as her stare scrapes between Alberta and Pete. “You both know. Damn it, Trevor.”

“No, no, it’s not Trevor’s fault. He kept his word.”

“Then how—?”

“We were all listening around the corner,” Alberta confesses.

Sam slouches back against the chair. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“In our defense, the decades of boredom really get to you,” Pete says. “We never want to feel as dead inside and out the way we did during the Great Aunt Sophie days— er, may she rest in peace. But still, we’re sorry.”

Jay chooses that moment to explode back into the room again, moving so fast he must be on roller skates. “And your final course tonight, mi amor— dessert.” Smoothing over his apron, he sets a plate in front of her on the rustic wooden table of what looks to be a puffy cake in a ridged dish. Dropping the fine-dining accent, he adds, “Or in other words, experimental chocolate soufflé. Please like it.”

“Well, it sure smells delicious,” Pete comments, leaning over it with a nod of approval.

Sam picks up her fork while Jay looks on, knuckles pressed to his lips. “I was thinking I might do a salted caramel sauce on top,” he muses. Sam hums, sickly skeptical. “Or maybe a raspberry reduction of some sort. The tartness could be a better balance.”

Sam blinks in mild surprise as she carries a trembling, microscopic bite over to her mouth. “Huh. For some reason, that actually sounds good.”

Jay bends toward her. “‘Actually’?” he repeats, puzzled.

“Tell him he should definitely do the raspberry,” Pete agrees. “Tart and sweet is the way to go. Ooh, and dust it with some powdered sugar.”

Sam ignores him, taking the bite, chewing for a half a heartbeat, then gulping it down. Right away she reaches for her glass of water as if to cleanse her palate, but Pete and Alberta exchange a knowing look that tonight’s meal sampler is about to make an unwelcome reappearance.

Jay is frozen, eyes gradually widening in unison with his wife’s. “Sam?” he murmurs.

“Okay, now, I need you to know,” Sam croaks, heaving herself to her feet, “that what is about to happen has nothing to do with the food you made, so please don’t take offense. Everything is perfect like always, I swear. I’m proud of you. I’m just...” She slaps a hand over her mouth. “I— I need to go.”

With that, she makes a mad dash for the restroom, and it wouldn’t take a gastroenterologist to deduce what’s going on in there.

Jay rushes to the door, pressing his hands against the surface. “Sam!” he shouts through it. “Babe, tell me you’re okay?”

An endless, tense silence. Then a whimpered “... m’fine.”

Pete and Alberta hover close by, watching Jay’s face crumple into a million different emotions within a span of five seconds. “Okay, I’m coming in,” he warns. “I can’t just stand out here while you’re—”

Except that’s when Sam opens the door. She leans on the frame, gazing up at him with apologetic eyes. Nothing, of course, in Jay’s posture suggests that he believes she owes him an apology, yet here they are anyway.

“Sam,” he says softly.

“Jay,” she answers, hands wringing.

In a sore attempt to lighten the mood, Pete jokes, “Roll call! I’m Pete.” In response, Sam and Alberta both project lightsaber beams from their eyes that would surely melt his flesh if he had any to melt. Pete shuts his mouth.

Jay grabs Sam’s worrying hands to still them, then takes her over to an empty table so they can sit. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he regards her with the utmost sincerity. Then he says, “Look, I know our life together has never been what one might call ‘stress-free,’ and I know that lately it has really not been that, and I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like you couldn’t be honest with me about how you feel just because I have some big thing going on. I’m your husband, okay? I made a vow to always be there for you, and I don’t even care that we made those vows legally because I’d feel this way even without the legal stuff. You do so much for others, Sam, especially for me, and I can’t believe I ever thought about leaving this place, because—”

“Jay—”

“No, no, please let me say this, because if I have to think about it too much I won’t get it right.” Jay takes both her hands again, pressing his lips to her knuckles while he arranges the words on his tongue. Pete and Alberta watch, enraptured. “Truth be told, Sam, I am cool with this life we’ve made. Maybe we don’t need anything else. Maybe I’m destined to be a proxy parent to thirty-plus invisible people. I couldn’t ask for anything—”

“Jay, I’m pregnant.”

“— better...” Jay’s train of thought derails violently. He stares at her. “I’m sorry, come again?”

Pete feels the arrow shift in his throat as he swallows.

Sam just stares back, letting the news sink in. Jay leans away in his chair, speed-runs through approximately twenty-seven different levels of unadulterated joy, then surges forward and pulls Sam into his arms. He lets go of the hug only to meet her eyes. “Are you serious?” he rasps.

She nods rapidly, her own joy and relief blooming crimson in her cheeks. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah, I am.” She cycles through a few breaths. “Wow, honesty feels good. The ghosts have almost made me forget what that’s like.”

“Hey!” Alberta retorts, but she’s beaming too hard for anyone to take her offense literally. Pete gives her a playful elbow nudge. Alberta still criss-crosses his mind into knots sometimes, though not all the time anymore. Slowly but surely, Pete is moving on. As well as a ghost can move on, that is.

Jay laughs, hugs Sam again. “I don’t even know what to say, I’m— god, I am so in love with you. How do you feel?”

“Good. I’m good. I love you, too.” Her voice crumbles around the next sentence. “I feel like I’m on the moon.”

His eyebrows shoot up all of a sudden, and he looks from the abandoned chocolate soufflé, then back to her. “Wait,” he says. “All those wine pairings I served you—”

Sam rubs his arm to put him at ease. “I’ve been taking tiny fake-sips all day.”

“Oh my god, you’re right. A drop hasn’t left any of those glasses the entire time. I thought something was up, but I never thought—” Jay shakes his head, chuckles again. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know why that matters.”

“Well, to be fair, wine is very important,” Sam points out, a giddy smile carving into her cheeks.

“So important. Actually, you know what’s even more important right now? Champagne.” Jay calls toward the kitchen doors, “Rayan! Crack open a bottle of our best bubbly, er...” His celebratory exclamation tapers off as he frowns in question at Sam.

“I’m sticking with the water anyway,” she says. “My stomach’s still a little... upside-down.”

“You know what, me too,” Jay agrees. “I should keep a clear head for that, uh, that thing tonight that I no longer care about. Rayan!” he calls again. “Sorry, dude, cancel the—” He’s cut off by the unmistakable pop of a champagne cork flying out of its roost. “... well, maybe I’ll have a splash.”

“I sure could go for more than a splash,” Pete mutters to Alberta as Jay’s sous chef friend carries out a shiny-labeled bottle and a pair of flute glasses. “The last time I tasted champagne, it was a sixteen-dollar bottle I bought for Carol and I when we went out for our sixteen-year anniversary. Always told her I’d match the number of dollars with the number of years, thinking one day we’d make it to forty, fifty, somewhere in that ballpark.”

Alberta looks solemnly at him. “Y’all didn’t make it that far.”

Pete lowers his head. “Not quite, no.” But then he raises his chin with an air of defiance, absorbing the touching scene laid out before them of Sam and Jay clinking glasses and kissing each other silly. “Though in hindsight, I’m glad I never got around to spending much. Carol didn’t love me the way I loved her. I’ve made peace with that. But it sure would be harder to make peace with dropping fifty bucks on champagne.”

His companion smirks and gives him her own fond elbow-bump. “You go, Pete!” Alberta cheers. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in death, drinking ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“I just wish you’d told me earlier,” Jay confesses meanwhile, one hand still holding Sam’s. “I gotta ask... am I the last to know?”

Her eyes slide over to Pete and Alberta. The pair glance at each other, then back at Sam with a simultaneous nod of shame. Sam returns her attention to Jay and answers, “Pretty much. Our house is like a high school hallway— the rumor mill never stops churning. But I really did only find out yesterday. You know that errand I had to run? That was actually a doctor’s appointment.”

“Man, I should’ve seen right through that,” Jay says. “You hate going anywhere in town apart from the Ulster County Review office.”

Sam nibbles on her lip. “Yeah, and the doctor’s office wasn’t much better than Starbucks. There was the ghost of a little boy in the parking lot, I think from the ‘50s or ‘60s, but he was too shy to speak to me. He looked like he’d been hit by a... by a car.” She struggles to finish the story, eyes glittering. “Sorry, it’s just... it’s just so sad.” And now she is fully crying. Yikes on bikes.

“That’s awful,” Jay murmurs, trying to soothe. “But it’s okay, we can always find other doctors—”

“What, other doctors like that one at the hospital in the city? Doctors who are dead?” Sam covers her mouth, stunned by her teary outburst.

But Jay is as patient as a father-in-law at a family reunion with an army’s worth of burgers to grill. “We can find you plenty of living doctors in ghost-free offices,” he tells her. “I promise you there is no shortage of those.”

Sam blinks over at Pete and Alberta. A fresh batch of tears is brewing. “I’m sorry, ghosts. It really isn’t personal.”

Pete shows his palms. “Hey, no offense taken. Do what you gotta do.”

“Of course not, honey,” adds Alberta. “Who would want to see a dead doctor and a dead child when you’re... well...”

Sam chokes another sob behind her hand, looking back to Jay. “I should’ve included you in the doctor’s visit,” she sniffs. “I just... I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case it was a false positive.” A shaky inhale rattles through her lungs. “I think that watching what happened with my parents made me scared for a long time to commit to something like this. To be married, to be a parent. Because my dad showed that— that to him, it never really was much of a commitment.” She rubs her nose; without thinking twice, Jay passes her a fancy embroidered cloth napkin to use as a tissue. Hetty would have a conniption. “And I never really got to talk to my mom about it before she died, but... then I met you, Jay. You changed everything.”

“Hey, I can’t take all the credit,” Jay quips gently. “But, fine, I’ll take some of it.”

A thin laugh escapes from Sam’s throat. “Huh. Maybe talking to that therapist on Thor’s behalf was more beneficial than I thought.”

“Oh, for sure. Though I think that lady might’ve blacklisted us after you described killing and eating a squirrel with your bare hands.”

Sam shakes her head. “There are some words you think will never leave your mouth, and yet...” She shudders. “Thor really knows his squirrel anatomy.”

“Now, that tale of woe was a real letdown,” Alberta comments. “We all thought that was headed toward him eating some poor fella, right?”

Out of step with a remark he can’t hear, Jay sighs wistfully and gazes in the direction of the house. “Whew. You know, childproofing that place will be one hell of a challenge.” He glances back at Sam. “But there’s never been a better challenge to have.” He scoots forward, pecks her lips again. “And figuring it out with you is the best part.”

“Aw,” says Alberta, though her tone is rather lukewarm.

Pete bends his knees so he’s closer to her height and can mumble in her ear, “Sometimes their schmaltz is a little much, even for me.”

Alberta dips her head in agreement. “But they are just too damn cute. I can’t look away.”

Now Sam and Jay sit with their foreheads pressed together, hands woven in an impossibly intricate pattern of fingers. “I know it hasn’t been as lonely for you here since we opened the B&B,” she whispers to him, “but I’m glad you’ll finally get to see those halls be a little less empty, too.”

“I don’t know,” says Pete, doubt creeping in. “Maybe we should look away.”

“Mm-hmm,” Sam responds, startling both ghosts. “Now would be a great time to do that, Pete.”

“Yep, yep,” Pete says as Alberta ushers him through the door. “On our way.”

Stephanie’s yearly wake-up call comes a bit later than usual. Pete suspects it’s due to the fact that the poor thing was up keening through the night for at least a month after poor Ralph got sucked off. Well, not poor Ralph, Pete supposes. The lucky bastard. Yet Stephanie’s “Why him? Why not meeeee?” still rings through Pete’s head, clear and sharp as a P.E. teacher’s whistle initiating a hellish game of dodgeball.

“Ugh,” Stephanie moans, slipping down the attic steps as if she’s being dragged by an unseen force. “What year is it?”

“Oh, I stopped counting ages ago,” Alberta says as she helps her to her feet. “Time isn’t real for us, at least until we see the Livings and are rudely reminded of it.”

“I stopped counting too,” says Flower. “Though if I had to guess, I’d say it’s about 1940... three?”

Alberta looks at her. “That’s before you were even born, Flower.”

Flower’s eyes, already magnified by her glasses, now seem to breach even further beyond the rims of those. “Whoa,” she breathes. She pats her hands over her body. “Then why am I here?”

“A question we ask ourselves solemnly every day,” says Isaac.

“Far out, man. Too far out...” Flower wanders off looking, indeed, as if she’s been flung far into outer space, and melts through the wallpaper.

Stephanie watches her go, gum snapping. “Y’know, my mom used to be like her. She always denied being a hippie freak, but I saw the photos. She went topless at Woodstock. It’s like, how did the woman go from that to telling me I can’t wear a denim jacket or get a tattoo? Sorry I don’t wanna be like you and walk around school letting it all hang out, Mom.”

“I do not know what most of those words mean, and I would prefer to keep it that way,” says Isaac, also taking his exit.

Hetty joins him, uttering a mean vocabulary quiz as she goes. “I shudder to think of what indecorous recreation the next generation of miscreants will fasten their filthy little fingers around.”

Stephanie completes a magnificent eye roll which culminates in a lazy glance among the remaining ghosts. “Anyone seen Trevor?”

“Oh, he is most definitely hiding from you,” Pete tells her.

“For the last time, I am a grown wo—” Stephanie halts mid-retort; if she were a wild predator, her ears would be pricked. “The hell’s that noise?”

Without waiting for an answer, she decides to investigate herself, creeping down the hallway on literally silent feet. Pete and the remaining others trail behind. Trepidation prickles in his toes.

They track the sound all the way to the en suite of Sam and Jay’s bedroom, the door of which is conveniently open as Sam coughs up her guts into the commode. Pete swiftly looks away, feeling an inexplicable twinge of nausea himself. Ever since the infamous Tent Flu Epidemic of ‘83— swept through his troop’s camp like wildfire— he’s had a tough time dealing with bodily fluids.

“Gross,” says Stephanie upon making the discovery. “Gag me with a spoon.”

With a strangled squeak of surprise, Sam crawls over and attempts to slam the door shut. “Really, guys?”

“Sorry,” says Pete as the door swishes straight through the group of ghosts crowded in the doorway. “We can’t exactly knock.”

“Anything we can do to, uh... help?” asks Sasappis.

“No,” pants Sam. She falls back against the worn clawfoot tub, forehead perched on her palm. “Don’t think so.” She waves a limp hand at their resident assassinated prom queen and speaks with uncharacteristic flatness. “Welcome back, Stephanie.”

Pete frowns down at her. “Well, just know that if I could hop in the car and go grab you some Pepto, I would.”

A deflated sigh. “Thanks, Pete.”

“Vikings did not have drugs or medicine,” says Thor. “Was all natural. When stomach hurt, we take special leaf and light on fire and breathe in smoke. Worked wonders.”

“Right, dude,” says Sas, and he mimes holding a joint to his lips. “That was a drug.”

Alberta scoots in next to Sam on the tiled floor. “All these men never have anything useful to say,” she complains. “Sweetie, where is Jay?”

“At the restaurant,” Sam answers miserably, head flung back over the tub’s edge. “Probably busy with the Sunday lunch rush. I can’t take him away from that.”

“Nuh-uh. I say you call him right now, or you telegraph him on that device of yours. Let that man care for you. You know he will.”

Sas nods in agreement with Alberta. “It’s only fair, Sam. He did sort of get you in this position.”

Sam makes a face that suggests she resents that remark, but pulls out her phone regardless and presumably taps out a lightning-fast summons to Jay. And to think fax machines once seemed like the future!

“What’s your damage?” Stephanie demands, watching as Sam hobbles dangerously close to the toilet again. A giant bewildered bubble of gum pops between her teeth. “I’m lost.”

Sam flicks a wary glance at her. She once admitted to Pete that she thinks Stephanie would have bullied her in high school if they were the same age. And if the stories Pete has heard about teenage Sam heavily paralleling his own teenage experience is anything to go by, he can’t say he disagrees with that assessment.

Treading lightly, Sam explains, “Let’s just say that, um, by this time next year, there will be... somebody new joining us here at the house.”

Stephanie tilts her head, examines her chipped manicure. “Huh, really? So who’s dying?” Then she drops her hand and blinks at Sam. “Is it you?”

“What? No. I’m talking about a baby, Stephanie. I’m having a baby.”

This earns her another long stare. They all watch nervously while the gears turn in Stephanie’s head. Then she shrugs and replies, “Whatever. Kid better not wake me from my beauty sleep too much.” She twirls a curl of permed hair, chomps her gum. “Better kiss your social life goodbye, though, ‘cause that’s definitely gonna be dead.” Pop. “That’s what happened to Betty Barber in my class. Got knocked up, her whole life was over.”

“I appreciate the pep talk,” says Sam. “But even though it might not look like it right now, I actually kind of feel like... my life is just beginning. Or, I don’t know, re-beginning.” She twists her mouth, stumped with herself. “Let’s say... a new chapter.”

“— okay, don’t make this into a John Hughes flick,” Stephanie interrupts.

Jay finally turns up at that moment, carefully squeezing between the ghosts as Sam directs him to with hand gestures. “Okay,” he says, kneeling down next to her. “Tell me what you need, and it’s yours. I will clear out the entire ginger ale supply at Target if you ask me to.”

“Oh, he’s cute,” Stephanie observes. “I forgot about him.”

“Ha, ha. Yes, and he is taken,” Pete tells her firmly. “Hey, friendly suggestion. How about you go bother Trevor now?”

Stephanie snorts at him and prowls out of the room. “Good luck, Sally!”

“Sam,” Sam corrects under her breath. Then she whispers to Jay, “I just need you to hold me for a minute. Then you can go back to your—” She cuts herself off with another wicked retch into the porcelain throne. Pete cringes away.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jay tells her, sweeping back her hair. “In sickness and in health, babe. I stand by that.”

“Oh, no, no, no. You are not telling me I just rolled a five.”

In smudgy pixels on the laptop screen, Jay’s buddy Mike shakes his head. “Looks like you rolled a five, bro.”

Jay muffles a groan into his hands. “I am so upset right now. I need a minute.”

Unbeknownst to him, Pete is perched on the neighboring chair, eyebrows knitted as he tries to make sense of the game pieces laid out on the table. Woof, this is a tricky one. Jay needed to roll at least a twelve for his character to make it out of the cave alive without getting impaled by the dragon’s scepter of sorrow. Rest in pieces, Jon Snow Junior.

Sam passes through the dining room after finishing up a shift at the front desk. “Hey, guys. How’s it going?”

“Terrible. Oh wait, is Pete here?” Jay smiles at the empty chair to his right. When Sam circles her finger, he turns to the left instead. “Pete! Dude, tell me there’s something I’m not seeing here. Some kind of way out of this. I can’t lose Jon Junior, he’s like a son to me.” He tosses a grin at his wife. “Like a son, I said. Nothing compared to the real deal, of course.”

Sam grins back at him and takes a seat across the table. “Well, Pete? Anything you can think of?”

“Oh, no,” Pete says resolutely. “He’s toast.”

She blinks at him, apparently expecting more. “Oh? That’s it?”

Jay leans forward, drumming the table anxiously. “Well? What’s he saying?”

“He is saying... that...” Sam’s eyes rotate to the ceiling, then back to them. “You— you can try to...”

“Toast, I said,” Pete reiterates. “There’s nothing that can be done, Sam. Don’t encourage him. T-O-A-S-T.”

“Yeah, sorry, you’re screwed. Jon is screwed. I’m gonna go read.” Sam bolts out of the chair as if lightning-struck. Pete follows her into the library, leaving behind a mourning Jay.

“Good for you, Sam,” Pete says, walking beside her. “Some things cannot be put delicately. You just gotta rip off that band-aid.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

Sam curls up on the sofa and cracks open a brand-new novel that, oddly, seems to have a layer of dust over it. She holds it up in front of her face like it’s a giant newspaper. This arrangement lasts for about a minute before she lowers it to find Pete standing close by, grinning at her. Slowly Sam raises the book, turns a page, then lowers it again. Now Pete and multiple other ghosts are staring at her.

She closes the book and sets it in her lap with a sigh. “I’ve tried to start this book eight times. Whatever this is, can it wait?”

Pete glances at the others, then turns back. “Sorry,” he says. “But, uh... that would be a resounding no.” He grinds his teeth together. “Guess I better take my own advice. Rip off the ol’ band-aid. There is... a bit of an issue with the bathroom off the Maple Suite. Jon Snow Junior isn’t the only thing that’s toast.”

The group leads her upstairs to the only unoccupied guest room at the moment. There, they find the culprit in action— Macaroni the cat, busy jabbing a cheddar-colored paw at the sink faucet. To Sam’s evident horror, they watch as the faucet responds to the ghost’s touch, turning on full-blast. The aged plumbing has trouble keeping up with the deluge, and within seconds the entire sink is filled. This little snafu accompanies the already overflowing bathtub, which has poured its contents onto the floor, soaking the antique tile and rug.

“Jay!” Sam shouts.

Seconds later, Jay has crammed himself into the destroyed bathroom with Sam and the ghosts. “Well, this explains the water bill we got last week,” Jay says. “But, uh. Crap. Definitely adding this habit to the ghost board.”

“Still polishing that up for publication, huh?”

“Aw, come on. Admit you love it. It would make for such a campy movie.”

Sam shrugs. “It might be a bit esoteric.”

While he splashes his way over to turn off the bathtub faucet, Sam dives for the sink. Macaroni hisses upon realizing his foiled plans, and swats his claws for all they’re worth, but they are no match for the Livings’ solidity.

“It’s a good thing you’re getting a dog,” Flower remarks.

Sam’s head swivels toward her. “What? Who said we’re getting a dog?”

Trevor rocks back on his heels. “No comment.”

“So it was the cat, huh?” Jay infers. “Man, and I thought that evil barn owl was bad.” He shakes his head. “We really should have named the restaurant ‘Horny Owl’ after that traumatic experience. It was right there.”

“— it was right there! Yes!” Trevor exclaims. “See, I told you it was a good suggestion.”

“I don’t know why I shared that,” Sam mumbles.

“Anyway, I’m with the ghosts on this one,” says Jay. “You know, I have always been a dog person.”

“My man!” cheers Pete.

“We can’t get a dog, Jay,” says Sam.

“Yeah, I know.” He clamps his hands on his hips and looks around. “What are we gonna do? This is a mess.”

Sam picks her way across the soggy floor. “I mean, at least it can’t get any worse, right?”

Right on cue, a large chunk of wallpaper peels itself off the wall as if by magic. Like a fallen leaf, it drifts in a swaying motion squarely into a puddle. Sam and Jay gaze at it.

“Okay, so... add a shiny new coat of paint to the list,” Jay mutters.

“No problemo, as you would normally put it,” Pete responds hopefully.

Sam takes his words and half-heartedly runs with them. “Yeah, no problemo, right?”

Jay clicks his teeth, tips his head back and forth. “Well... we don’t not have money, technically speaking.”

“We have savings,” Sam points out.

“Yeah, we do. But...” Jay brings her into his arms. “I really wanted that to be the baby fund now, you know?”

“I understand that, but this is a big place,” Sam replies. “Problems are still gonna pop up from time to time. It’s okay. We can handle this. We’ll just... block off availability for the Maple Suite for a little while. Mark can take a look at the damage and give us an estimate.”

Jay nods. “And the cat?”

Sam’s eyes jump to Hetty. Hetty moans and groans a little, but manages to scoop up Macaroni from his precarious perch on the shower curtain rod. “Fine, fine,” she says. “I will do my best to keep him in line.”

“Just treat him like he’s your child,” says Trevor. Then he pales. “Oh, wait, that doesn’t really help, does it...”

Hetty charges toward him holding Macaroni in front of her like a battering ram. Together, she and Trevor burst through the wall and into a frenzied chase down the corridor.

“Thank you, Hetty,” Sam calls after them. “See? Everything will be—”

“This is not fine!”

Like one entity, Sam and the cholera ghosts all lean around the technician while he tinkers with the ever-troublesome water heater.

“Oh, right, yes. Yes. That’s it,” he mumbles to himself. Like a surgeon over the operating table, he digs his hands into the rusty mechanical guts of the machine.

“Yes?” Sam echoes, cautious. “So is everything okay after all?”

“Oh, no,” he answers.

“But you just said yes.”

“Yeah, ‘yes’ as in ‘yes,’ this is not fine. You are thoroughly fiddle-dunked. Pardon my French.”

Sam blinks several times. “Um, that’s alright.” The guy steps back, and in turn she and the ghosts all jump out of his way. Pete monitors from the bottom step, preferring not to part this sickly school of fish.

“Give it to us straight, doc,” says Nancy, arms crossed in worry as she rests her chin on her knuckles. “What’s the prognosis here?” Sam shoots her a side glance. “What? It’s like a baby to us.” As she declares this, another basem*nt dweller dabs away his tears with a tattered sleeve.

“So... what’s the prognosis?” Sam repeats to the repairman.

“‘Prognosis,’ huh? I like the way you think, little lady.” Sam wrinkles her nose at little lady, while Nancy preens at the compliment. The grizzled fellow gives the heater a gentle pat and rests his other hand on the hip of his stained overalls. “This here is a living, breathing creature. It needs tender lovin’ care.”

“Okay, and how can we... give it that?” asks Sam.

“By getting an entirely new one,” he replies, abandoning the caring veterinarian act. “For a house this size, probably gonna run you about seven, eight hundred bucks. Nine, if you’re fiddle-dunked.”

Now Sam’s complexion isn’t all that far off from the cholera victims’ medieval pallor. Zombie supreme. “Oh,” she croaks. “I see.”

Frowning in thought, Pete jogs back up the stairs. Most of the other ghosts are scattered about, but it isn’t difficult for him to find who he is looking for: the sonogram pinned up on the fridge with an old Akron Beacon Journal magnet. He stands there for a few minutes, recalling how Sam and Jay had arrived home earlier this week, giggling and merry as they marveled over the grainy image.

Pete’s own memories of fatherhood wash over him. Money hadn’t been a major concern for him and Carol at the time Laura was born, but he would be lying if he said it was never an issue. He would hate to stand by idly and witness Sam and Jay struggling through anything similar. This should be the best time of their lives, darn it! And it will be, as long as Pete has any say in it. If it wasn’t for them, he never would have gotten to see his baby girl— now older than he ever was— get married, nor would he know about his grandson.

“Isaac,” he says, striding into the TV room with purpose, where a small group has formed to cry over the Titanic film again for some reason.

“The portrayal of John in this picture leaves plenty to be desired. He and this dolt look nothing alike,” Hetty is complaining. Macaroni wavers somewhere between a growl and a purr on her lap. “And yes, I do mean John Jacob Astor. We were on a first-name basis, he and I.”

Isaac twists around at Pete’s serious tone. “Whatever is the matter, Pete? I will say this only one more time: I am not naming any official groomsmen for my impending nuptials. It is like choosing favorites, and I simply am not at will to disclose that inform—”

“Isaac.” Pete wipes his exterior clean of any of his ordinary happy-go-luckiness. “Assemble the troops.”

Recognizing this is a legitimate matter, Isaac’s eyebrows flirt with his impeccable hairline. He stands and clears his throat. “Ghosts!” he bellows in an admirable military cadence.

It takes a few minutes of teeth-gnashing and thumb-twiddling for everyone to drift in, but they eventually do.

“At ease, gentlemen,” barks Isaac. He adds “... gentlewomen” as an afterthought when he receives serrated stares from Hetty and Alberta. “Pete has the floor,” he proclaims, before retaking his seat on the sofa.

Might as well launch right into it, Pete supposes. “Sam and Jay,” he says, supplementing his words with helpful hand acrobatics, “need our comfort and support.”

“Comfort?” Thor muses. “Thor can sing lullaby, but no promise it will put adults to sleep without light strangling.”

“No, not that kind of comfort,” Pete says. “Let’s revisit that lullaby thing in a few months when there’s an actual baby in the house. Minus the, uh, strangling bit.”

Hetty lifts her hand. “I can vouch for Thorfinn’s lullabies, strangely enough. His vivid recollections of weeping Danes still bring me comfort if I replace the image with weeping Irish maids.”

Pete hangs his head, sucks in a breath. “The comfort I’m talking about is financial comfort, guys. Think about how many things have gone wrong around here lately.”

“Only lately?” Alberta deadpans.

“No, I see what he’s getting at,” Trevor chimes in. “Sam even told me— well, all of us, I guess— that she was worried more things would go kaput. And, voilà, they have.”

“That is the Woodstone way,” adds Isaac.

“They need our help,” Pete insists.

“How? We can’t exactly set up a lemonade stand on the front lawn,” says Trevor.

“I was deep in the throes of a good old Martino brainstorming sesh, and...” Pete throws up his arms. “I think we should sell our likenesses.”

Flower also raises her hand like they’re in a classroom. “But I already sold mine to that Dumb Deaths show. Didn’t you, too, Pete?”

“I’m thinking along slightly different lines than filmed re-enactments,” Pete says. “Just hear me out for a minute...”

Later that evening, Pete raises his knuckles to the door of Sam and Jay’s bedroom. He makes a show of “knocking” on it, though, of course, the gesture is only ceremonial. As is custom, he then calls through the wall, “Polite air-knock. Ghosts requesting entry.”

“How many of you?” Sam asks dubiously.

It had taken more than a few dry runs and false starts to implement this rigid dialogue for entry into The Sacred Bedroom at nighttime. But by now, everyone in the house is accustomed to gaining access to this room as if it is a high-security military base. It makes Pete feel like a real rugged, tough guy, Indiana Jones type. Argh, Harrison Ford was top-notch in those movies. What a cinematic height! Wait, what was Pete thinking about again?

“How many of us,” Trevor echoes her bitterly. “What’s she gonna do next, install a retina scanner?”

Alberta winces. “I really don’t wanna know what that is.”

Pete answers Sam’s question with the best tact he can muster. “Um, all of us?” He resists the urge to simply blip his head through the door; Sam had told them that the boundaries of her and Jay’s room should be treated like the safe’s solid boundaries, so treat it like that he will. Still, though— hard to kick new-old habits.

“All the ghosts that matter, Samantha,” Hetty clarifies.

“You know, technically none of us are physical matter,” Pete points out, “so does that not make us... not matter?”

“Isn’t air matter?” Sasappis counters. “And aren’t we made of air?”

“My head hurts,” Trevor mutters.

“Does it actually hurt,” asks Sas, “or is it just your memories of Living headaches giving off the impression of hurt?”

“I really do not like you right now,” Isaac tells him.

“Well... we’re the core eight, you could say,” Pete tells Sam, steering them back onto the road. Until Flower hydroplanes them again.

“That’s what Ira called the most cherished members of the cult,” she says. “He said we were all part of a starfish— if any of the eight limbs were lost, he could always regenerate a new one of us just like that.”

Everyone is silent for a moment. “But starfish only have five— never mind.” Pete shakes off the million different sidetracks and faces the closed door again. “Sam, there’s something we’d like to share with you and Jay. It’s just an idea, but... we think it’s worth listening to.”

There’s quiet, punctuated by an exchange of whispers on the other side of that tantalizing wall. Then, at longest last, Sam calls back, “Okay. Entry granted.”

In painstakingly controlled single file, the core eight push through the wall and gather at the foot of Sam and Jay’s bed. Pete casts a discreet glance around the room. The Livings sure have whittled an enviable space for themselves out of the austere, cobweb-coated brick they were given. Cozy patterned comforter, plush rug underfoot, comfy pajama sets, modest bedside lamps casting a mellow glow. Oh, the things Pete would give to wear matching family sweater vests and flannel Christmas PJs just one more time.

Sam updates Jay. “The ghosts have something important to tell us.”

He peers in their general direction over the top of his— what was it he called them? Blue light glasses?— and closes his laptop screen. “Alrighty, let’s hear it,” Jay says. “Or, well, you hear it, I guess.”

Isaac leans forward, sweeping his gaze over the others. “I reason that I shall begin the proceedings,” he says, “seeing as I am your democratically-elected leader.”

“Proceedings?” Sam asks, snuggling deeper into the sheets as she stares at them. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be sued?”

“Wait, can we sue for legal emancipation?” Trevor wonders.

“We’re dead, Trevor,” Alberta says. “Dead and adults, despite how some of us might act.”

“This is a good thing,” Pete assures Sam. “We promise.”

“Alright, then, let’s call it a pitch instead.” Folding his arms behind his back, Isaac continues, clearing his throat. “Sam, Jay, we are aware that... you have done a lot for us since you moved here to Woodstone. It has also come to our attention that you two may be in some prolonged financial straits. And so... we now want to return the favor in the only way we really are able.”

“Aside from shutting up once in a while,” Sas supplies.

Sam lifts her eyebrows, so Pete follows his cue. “Right, so— anyone who hasn’t been living under a rock knows about the rumors that this place is haunted. And with all the recorded deaths here, I mean— it’s a no-brainer to assume there are ghosts. Ghosts with individual personalities, stories, quirks—”

“Oh, I’m aware of the quirks,” says Sam.

“Haven’t you learned to embrace the weirdness on a personal level?” Pete presses on. “I mean, look at Jay. He is watching his wife listen intently to a wall.”

Sam quickly summarizes this, and Jay waves a hand. “Not exactly, Pete. When I see Sam staring at a wall, I just picture you all in your underwear. It makes me less nervous.”

Hetty pinches her hands to her chest. “Well, I never—”

“It was a joke, guys,” Sam explains, squeezing Jay’s hand. “A bad joke, but it’s okay.”

Pete waits for the grumbling to settle down before he resumes. “So what I’m saying here is— why not embrace the weirdness in your business, too? Sell this place on it being haunted, rather than hiding it. You’ll attract a whole new wealth of clientele. You’ll still get the old people who like tasteful old things with lots of history. But you’ll also get the ghost aficionados.”

“Hopefully ones who don’t collect our toenail clippings,” Sas adds. Alberta smacks his arm.

Sam summarizes to Jay, then considers. “I guess it wouldn’t be that much of a reach from what we’ve already been doing. When we went on that weekend trip, we did warn the employees to expect weird stuff. And to have us on speed dial in case the walls start to hum, or everyone gets randomly turned on. Well, I didn’t say that last part, but still. Oh, and I also had to edit the website so that the estate is no longer described as ‘relaxing.’ I couldn’t lie. It’s just not true.”

“People love getting hung up on the past,” Jay contributes, “so it is safe to assume they’ll never get sick of death and haunted stuff.”

“And let’s face it, us ghosts would love the extra attention,” Trevor says.

“Cohabitation has never been more groovy!” adds Flower.

Pete spreads his arms. “So, as a way to generate more revenue, we present to you... the Woodstone Ghost Tour!”

“They’re suggesting we start a ghost tour,” Sam tells Jay. “It’s not a bad idea. I just don’t want it to seem too... I don’t know... hokey?”

“Hokey this is not,” Pete says. “Look, Sam, this is one fire we can put out for you. Let us do that.”

“Tell our stories,” says Isaac, only a smidge smug. “They are pretty interesting, if I do say so myself. My biography—”

Sam tips her head back and forth. “Technically it’s been classified as more of a semi-fictionalized narrative. The whole questionable sources thing—”

Isaac gives a sharp spurt of a sigh. “My... narrative has already provided an ample foundation from which you may jump off. We will lend you our names, our lives, our deaths. All you have to do is take people around the property and paint the rather unflattering pictures. Perhaps exaggerate a detail or two.”

An earnest frown envelops Sam’s face. She leans forward and makes a point of meeting everyone’s eyes. “Okay, but we’d have to be careful. I don’t want to turn you all into caricatures. We’d have to be respectful of not only you, but also your living families.”

“Hm,” Jay ponders. “I wonder if there’s a way we could extend this concept to the restaurant, too. Like, what if we—”

With uncanny timing, he and Alberta speak the exact same words at precisely the same moment: “— create a menu of ghost-inspired co*cktails!”

Sam chuckles. “Alberta just said the same thing. I’m honestly a little alarmed at how well-timed that was.”

“Yes!” Jay pumps his fist. “See? I’m more on the same wavelength than you think. Maybe not on the same layer of existence, but...”

Sam hugs her knees to her chest. “Are you sure you’re all fine with this? I don’t want anyone to feel exploited or embarrassed, like when that dumb Dumb Deaths show filmed here. I need everyone’s express permission.”

One by one, each of the core eight gives a nod or verbal consent— or a grunt, depending on the individual. Plus some gratuitous input. “Thor suggest adding cod to restaurant menu. Is valuable food source. Freeze well in case of shortage.”

Sam gazes at them, eyes warm. “Thank you,” she tells them. “This means more than you know. I just hope it works.”

Jay indicates the ghosts with his arm. “How could people not like them?”

“Thank you, Jay,” says Pete. “How could people not like us?”

As they take turns stepping back through the wall, Pete hears another light bulb spark over Jay’s head. “Ooh, got the first co*cktail idea! Super rough draft, so bear with me— wait, that’s what I should call it! ‘Bear with me.’”

Sam hums. “I’m gonna guess this one’s based on Flower.”

Once on the other side, Isaac gives a supportive pat to Pete’s shoulder. “Well done on the pitch, Pete.”

“Yeah, you were really glowing in there,” Flower says. “For a minute, I almost thought you were going to get sucked off.” The other ghosts murmur their agreement.

“I have wondered if I was meant to be a big business tycoon in another life,” Pete responds. The murmurs of agreement suddenly stop. “Look, I appreciate the sucking-off sentiments, but I think my purpose is still ongoing.” He glances back at the door behind them. “I think it might have something to do with—” He turns back to find a deserted hallway. “And they’re all gone. Funny, guys. Good one. We all love a good disappearing act. Not very original for ghosts, but hey, don’t let me ruin your fun!”

It is pure dumb luck that Pete happens to be in the room when Jay wanders in with this pleasantly lost sort of look gracing his features. “Hey, Pete,” he says.

The subject of his greeting startles upright on the sofa, attention stolen from the Golden Girls rerun on TV. Can Jay suddenly see him? Did he take his own accidental tumble down the stairs? Pete hopes somebody would give him a holler if such an event happened.

Instinctively Pete reaches for the TV remote, as if he hasn’t not been able to do that for nearly forty years. But like a miracle in handsome human form, Jay reads his mind and reaches to mute the TV— then, after a thoughtful moment, fully turns it off. “Sorry, man. Hope you don’t mind.”

Pete gives a shrug as the screen winks to black. “No worries. I’ve seen that one before.”

They’re so in sync, it’s like Jay waits for Pete to finish speaking before he takes his turn. No clipped sentences or awkward overlaps. Considering the other ghosts’ propensity for interruptions, the only person in Pete’s recent memory who actually speaks to him like this is Sam. No, not just to him— with him. As best as that can be done, in any case.

“I’m assuming it’s you,” Jay explains quietly, settling next to him on the couch, “since Sam’s told me you’re the only one who still tunes in for ‘80s sitcom Tuesdays.”

“This is true. She knows me so well.”

Okay, so maybe not such dumb luck after all. Still, though, Pete feels touched— and as a ghost who can’t touch a whole lot, it means a lot to be touched.

“I just wanted to talk to you because... well, I sort of wanted to ask for your advice.” Jay trails off into a semi-laugh, semi-sigh, rubbing one hand over his face. “Who am I kidding, though? It’s not like you can answer me without Sam. And this is something I didn’t really want her to know about.” His eyes slide to and fro. “Don’t look at me like that, man. Because I bet you’re looking at me in a certain way right now. I just don’t want her to worry any more than she already does.”

He sits stirring through the stew of his own thoughts for so long, Pete considers fetching Sam anyway. Drat! Why couldn’t he have gotten a touch-friendly power like Trevor’s? Then he could type out his own messages, at the very least. He had never been that adept at using the keyboard on the little IBM Personal Computer he and Carol splurged on for Christmas ‘81, but if it meant he could speak to Jay, he would be a quick learner!

Finally Jay coughs up some words: “I just want to be a good dad.” He stares down at his hands, skimming a thumb absently over his wedding band. “No, scratch that. I want to be the best dad. And I’m scared I won’t be. I’m scared of messing up. There’s going to be this tiny person who I’ve never been more thrilled to meet and it’s so easy to make that tiny person hate me. Resent me. How do I not mess it all up, Pete?”

He falls silent, so Pete takes the in. “You don’t,” he replies. “You’re going to mess up, Jay. But that’s part of life. It might not mean much coming from a guy who’s dead, but life loves little mess-ups. There’s going to be a lot of those, and you know what? You’re also going to be just fine. Kids are more resilient and independent than you’d think.”

Pete struggles with a mean case of floppy tongue before he can continue. “I used to believe I failed as a father because I didn’t get to see my daughter finish growing up. You’ll want to show them everything and tell them everything and protect them forever... but you can’t. Now I realize I did the best I could while I was there. I’ve seen the wonderful woman she’s grown up into, and...” He chokes on the rest of his sentence, his vision misty all of a sudden.

“I hope you’re still here and haven’t gotten bored of me,” Jay chuckles. “Sorry. My head’s like a war zone right now.” As he massages his temples, Pete catches a glimpse of a secret listener— Sam is standing just around the corner, gazing at them with striking serenity. Wow, she is no better about eavesdropping than the ghosts are. She notices Pete noticing her, and promptly presses an index finger to her lips, as if he could even alert Jay.

Jay tells him, “Maybe there’s a way you could, I don’t know, casually let Sam know we had this chat, and then you could communicate through her. Just make sure you’re, like, super chill about it.”

That’s when Sam speaks up. “Sorry to intrude,” she says, stepping in like the floor is made of lava. “Any way I can help connect you two?”

“Sam, we were having a private conversation here!” Pete admonishes, only half-serious.

Elbows propped on his knees, Jay hides the lower half of his face behind his clasped hands and peeks over at her. “... how much of that did you hear?”

Sam can always be trusted to choose her words with tremendous discretion. And by always, Pete means usually. “I heard enough,” she answers. “Would you like to hear what Pete has to say?”

“I mean, I’ll take anything short of Pete possessing me,” Jay tells her. “So he’s really been here this entire time?”

“Are you kidding? That guy is parked on this couch every Tuesday from four to six-thirty. He’s absolutely here.” Rather than sitting between them, Sam scoots in on Jay’s other side. “And he’s already said a lot of incredible stuff. Where do I even start...” She goes on to paraphrase Pete’s silly little speech; watching Sam do her best inflections and impressions of him would make Pete’s heart tick a little harder if it could. After, she grabs Pete’s gaze again. “Have anything to add?”

He beams. “Oh, do I ever! I mean, if I have to pick one thing off the top of my head”— he shutters his face into something suddenly serious— “I’d advise that you do not give your kid any weapons without informing them of the dangers first. Just because they’re a child does not mean they can’t kill you.”

Sam blinks at him, mouth ajar. “Right. I will... make sure of that if the situation ever presents itself.”

Jay glances between them. “What did he say?”

In lieu of words, Sam just shakes her head subtly. Odd. Pete figured that was sound advice.

“You know, there is another thing,” he says. “Childproofing this place is gonna be one heck of a task. So many sharp corners and electrical outlets. Might wanna get around to replacing that faulty light, lest Thor accidentally possesses your kid and makes them eat an entire stick of butter.”

Sam relays this to Jay. “Hey, that’s exactly what I said!” he exclaims. “Well, apart from the possession thing. But that’s a good point. Honestly, I think Hetty would be an even worse deal. My body still hasn’t forgiven me for that level of Cheetos consumption.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sam says with a shudder in her voice. “I’ll never forget the fish burps.”

“Was it any worse than your mom’s shrimp breath?” Jay asks. She glares at him.

“I heard my name,” Hetty announces, strutting in, “and if there is one thing you all should have learned by now, I am never far from any mention of myself.”

“And how long were you listening around the corner?” Sam asks her. Then to Jay, “Hetty’s here.”

Hetty merely smirks. “Long enough, Samantha.” Her eyes stray to Pete. “What has gotten you all worked up?”

Pete sniffs, rubs at his nose. “Nothing. Hay fever.”

“Mm.” Those keen eyes return to pinning down Sam. “And the real reason?”

There is a face-off between the past and present ladies of the manor, but it’s about as short-lived as Oskar the squirrel before Sam caves. “Jay and Pete are having a personal conversation. I’m only here to translate.”

“Eh, the ‘personal’ part’s debatable,” Jay remarks.

“Just pretend I’m not even here,” Sam insists, swiping one hand in front of her face as if she can Etch-A-Sketch herself into invisibility.

“Uh, yeah, that’s impossible. I mean, look at you,” Jay says, and pecks her cheek.

Hetty’s face smushes like Play-Doh. “Not this godforsaken flirting again. Whatever happened to spending all of your time in separate rooms?”

Sam furrows her brow. “You really deserved better.”

“Didn’t we all,” mutters Pete. Then he raises a finger. “Ah-ah, I just thought of another place you’ll need to childproof— the lake. You should probably just install a fence around the entire thing. Better to be proactive and paranoid than, well, dead—”

“What kind of balderdash is this?” Hetty demands. “This house is perfectly safe for children.”

A touch of doubt tilts Sam’s head. “Well, speaking from experience, the stairs are a little steep. Might need to baby-gate those.”

“‘Might’?” says Jay. “We are absolutely baby-gating those.”

“All my children were brought up here just fine,” adds Hetty. “The manor has everything you need as it is. I’ll have you know, I gave birth in the room directly above us.”

Sam chokes on the air. “You gave birth in our bedroom?”

Jay’s spine straightens in a snap. “She did what now in where now?”

“Yes,” answers Hetty. “All five times.”

Sam’s throat visibly wobbles. “... five times?”

“Oh, calm yourself. It’s not as if it was in the very same bed. And besides, I hardly even remember the events. I was on—”

Sam interrupts, “— cocaine?”

Hetty frowns. “Well, yes. I would highly recommend it.”

Sam draws in a breath. When she speaks again— after a dense moment— she sounds notably lightheaded. “Yeah... I think I’ll stick with an epidural in a hospital. Appreciate the advice, though.”

“You know, maybe this is why we’re still here,” Pete says softly. “To help you out. To guide you.” Sam slides a thoughtful glance his way, and he lifts his shoulders. “Even though Hetty doles out more constructive criticism than advice, I have to wonder if... if you’re the reason none of us have gotten sucked off. And I don’t mean that in a bad way! I just mean that we were meant to meet you. And you were meant to meet us. Changing each other for the better, that’s what this is all about, I think. Us ghosts, we never would have opened ourselves up to each other as much if you two never arrived, that’s for sure.”

“Opened up in more ways than one,” Hetty comments below her breath.

“Now, make sure you tell him this, Sam.” Pete turns his attention to Jay. “I remember hearing the story of how you and Sam met. If she hadn’t put aside her woes and decided to go out that night, if you hadn’t swallowed your self-doubt and just walked up to her, none of us would be where we are now. Well, I... I guess us ghosts might still be, but I digress.” He drums his thighs, grasping for the right statement.

It takes some hemming and hawing before Pete finally settles on the words he desires. “Jay, that’s all this is, this whole having-a-kid thing. You’ve had the courage to put yourself out there, to take that step forward, and now in return you get to meet this person who will change your entire world as you know it. You’ve done it before. You can do it again. The reward is sweet, let me tell you.”

With tender care, Sam recites his speech almost word for word. Her eyes glisten all the while, and by the time she’s finished, the tears spill over. Jay folds her hands tightly into his own, but his eyes— god, Pete swears Jay is gazing right at him.

“Thank you,” Jay whispers.

Moments like this assure Pete that he didn’t accidentally sell his soul to the devil to remain on Earth. Here are these living breathing humans who, whether by chance or a lucky guess, can still meet Pete’s eyes, can still stare into his soul.

Ever since life passed him by, Pete has tried to remember and appreciate all that he witnessed during his tenure with a heartbeat: the mottled rosy clouds of a brilliant sunset, the little gasps as rain hits hot pavement and lures out the scent of a fresh world, the way a dear friend gleams at him when he says something funny.

All these tiny glimpses and tastes that lead up to the next great thing, the segments of life connecting into a journey between train stations, all leading up to when the universe calls for you to disembark that train. Sometimes it gets hard, but hard times are when the best bits of treasure shine the brightest.

And, really, that’s the funny thing— all the experiences Pete forgot to savor in life, he now gets to savor in death, too. It’s a second chance. It’s the feeling of his daughter’s arm passing through his own while he walks her down the aisle— right there, but also not, yet still so close. It’s—

“The one they call Dorothy,” says Thor, clenching an emphatic fist, “cruel and cutting. She is Thor’s favorite.”

“I fail to understand what you see in this farce,” Hetty says. “The arbitrary bursts of canned laughter are intolerably grating.”

— fleeting. Ah, life is so fleeting.

Death? Not so much.

“It’s called a laugh track,” Pete replies. “It’s a hallmark of sitcoms from my era. This particular show came after me, technically, but hearing those guffaws still brings me right back.”

“In my day,” Hetty huffs, “we only indulged in laughter when an occasion was actually amusing. Now, you are all gluttons for it.”

“Is it weird,” asks Sasappis, who seems to have been randomly generated out of the wallpaper and woodwork, “that I feel the urge to say ‘Okay, boomer’ to Hetty, despite the fact that I’m three hundred years older than her, and that she’s closer to three hundred years old than not?”

“Watch your mouth. I am not a day over thirty-nine, for your information.”

“Really? Thirty-nine?”

Pete turns around and, oh yep, all the other ghosts are here now, surrounding him and Sam and Jay on the couch like they’ve been there all along. And when did the TV get turned back on, anyway? How long was Pete being introspective?

“My vote for Movie Night tonight is Wolf of Wall Street,” Trevor pipes up, throwing a raisin into their trail mix of random comments. He smiles vacantly, clicking his tongue in pleasure as if that movie is already on screen. “Never gets old.”

“No, it is Thor’s turn tonight,” Thor replies. “And tonight we watch Game of Thrones.”

“Yeah, only that isn’t a movie.”

“You can watch silly small stocks boy on iPad. Thor stakes claim on sorcerer’s window. Who could ever surrender to a man who wears no—”

“Don’t you dare go there with the no pants thing, that is the world’s stalest joke—”

“You know, I could actually use a laugh track for my life,” Sam says, sighing as she rests her head on Jay’s shoulder. “At least it would make all of them silent for a few seconds.”

“I hear you, Sam,” Pete commiserates. “I hear—” Slowly she swings her gaze toward him, and he catches on. “— right. I will shut up now, too.”

Chapter 4: night of the living flower

Chapter Text

It takes a while for Flower to realize that Sam and Jay are not, in fact, getting a puppy.

It’s just that she keeps forgetting. Her memory is a sieve that even boulders could slip through. And it doesn’t help that all of her eager name suggestions could totally apply to a baby dog or to a baby baby. Sadie, Bella, Toby, Earth, Peace, Love, Fox, Otter, Bear...

Hm. Something’s off about that last one. Scratch it from the list.

But it’s alright! There are much more important things at hand, anyway. Like how the pale yellow curtains in her room seem to bleed sunshine in the mornings, and how the birch tree at the far west (or is it east?) side of the yard peels itself away in long, flaky spirals, and how Thor lets her play with the cute little braids in his hair, and how he lets her weave in more until they are inevitably disassembled by spiritual necessity, and—

Ooh, she just thought of another name! Moon.

“Moon?” Sam repeats a few minutes later when Flower delivers her latest submission to the Name Bank. “Why Moon?”

“Because it’s pretty and I like to look at it,” Flower answers. Her words are made of wisps. She can see them floating in front of her. “She’s so mysterious, the moon. They say one day people might walk up there, but I don’t know. I think we should keep her the way she is.”

“Actually, they—” Sam closes her mouth, looks back at her laptop screen. “Never mind. Um, thanks, Flower. I’ll add it to the list.”

“It’ll probably work best if the puppy has blue eyes. Like a husky.”

“Mm-hmm,” says Sam, her face framed in the glow of the screen. “Well, I don’t know if genetics will lean that way, but we’ll see.”

Flower gazes out the window, unbothered by Sam’s dismissiveness. “Either way, it’s at least better than some stuffy name like Susan. Where have I heard that one before?”

Just then, Jay walks in and opens the fridge. “Hey. You still working on the Review column?”

“Oh, no, I finished that. Now I’m fiddling with the script for the ghost tour. I’m trying to keep this sense of mystique, you know, to keep people curious throughout.”

“Ooh, for my section,” says Flower, “you should tell them about the time I robbed a bank. But I should probably tell you first, since you’ve never heard it. When I was—”

“I had a thought, and stop me if you’ve already thought it,” Jay says to Sam, leaning against the kitchen counter with a baggie of baby carrots. Flower still wonders what they do to make them grow so small. They’re like carrots for little gnome people. One time she had a very pleasant conversation with a garden gnome—

Interrupting her Rube Goldberg machine of thoughts, Jay says mid-crunch, “What if we compose a few different tours? Sort of like a collect-’em-all situation. To keep people curious, like you said, keep them coming back. Might help with the spread-by-word-of-mouth approach we’re taking.”

“That’s a great idea!” Sam enthuses. “Like, if we only focus on two or three of the ghosts per script, but then tease a little about the others so they want to know more.”

She motions him over, and Larry— wait, no, Jay— pulls out a chair next to her. “The writing genius is all you, sweetie,” he tells her. “I am just here to cheerlead and proofread.”

“Okay, tell me how this sounds,” Sam says. She rattles out a few more sentences on that peculiar flat typewriter of hers, then begins to read out loud: “‘For those of you who aren’t familiar with legendary singer Alberta Haynes and the quick turnaround between her rise and fall, allow me to give you a glimpse behind the velvet wallpaper...’”

“... where, as you can see, a ragged hole has been hacked into the drywall here.” Sam rolls to a halt next to a where a small square of clear plexiglass covers a rough-edged gap, allowing a peek into the dark, narrow labyrinth beyond. Flower doesn’t understand what’s so special about it; she’s seen behind there a million times. It’s dank and dusty and a little musty but, overall, as decent a hiding spot as any when a headless Crash is looking for her. Which really doesn’t count for a whole lot.

“It is here,” Sam continues, “in this very spot, where Alberta’s lover stored a batch of forbidden whiskey on the night of her death. Lasting far beyond the prohibition era that necessitated its concealment, it remained untouched for nearly one hundred years, nestled safely in the wooden bones of Woodstone Manor, with only the occasional pest for company...”

Occasional? Flower frowns at that. She’s lost count of the number of mice, rats, and possums that have made their nests in these walls. Truthfully, with the way it attracts animals and the way Alberta can make its walls hum, this house is a bit of a Cinderella.

“Go ahead, look inside,” Sam encourages the group of tourists. One at a time, they line up along the wall and peer through the plexiglass into the hole. Not much to see, really. Though after Sam and Jay reopened the wall in roughly the same place it had been broken into before, they did stash one of the same whiskey bottles— now devoid of a single drop of good stuff— back in its original hiding spot. A souvenir of another time.

Bored, Flower slips inside the wall and holds her face up to the other side of the plexiglass window, making funny faces at the unwitting visitors.

Well, they’re funny to her, at least. But not to Sam. Instead of praising Flower for her ingenuity, she mumbles under her breath, “Get out of there right now, or I swear I’ll—” She catches a couple people staring at her, and reroutes her sentence: “— have to wait until next time to show you the library! Come on, everybody.” Through her smile, she adds, “Anyone have questions?”

One person, a young woman probably not far from Flower’s perma-age, asks, “How did you guys know where the whiskey was? I mean, assuming you were the ones who found it.”

“Yes, it was us who found it,” Sam replies as she leads them along. “But, um, we did not know about it ourselves. Not until Alberta passed along a little hint. She helped save what would have otherwise been a very lackluster whiskey tasting. She learned a thing or two from roaring her way through the 1920s.”

“Oh, she is doing me so much justice!” Alberta squeals, following along with adoring fervor. “Take that, Toenail Todd!”

Isaac, also tailing the tour group, gives a blunt sigh. “I know Sam said they plan to hire another tour guide to help with this, but I only want her to tell my story. The intonation in her voice is simply infectious. Everything she is explaining has already been explained to me ad nauseam, and yet I cannot tear myself away.”

While those two scurry on ahead, Flower hangs back, absorbing muttered fragments of opinion from those in the back of the audience.

“I don’t know. I mean, I want to believe this stuff. Clearly they’re putting effort into it.”

“Does it matter if we believe it? It’s just fun to walk around and pretend it’s real. It’s sort of like a live-action dinner theatre thing. Except not as good.”

Flower’s eyebrows knit together. Pretend?

“I was on the other tour where they mention the Revolutionary War guy. At one point, they had this horrible smell rip through the room, and the lady was like, ‘Oh, that’s him right now! You’ll have to excuse him,’ or some crap like that. I guess ‘cause he shat himself to death, they had to come up with some fake fart generator to convince us he’s ‘really here.’ It’s like how Disney World pumps out scents on Main Street, only like, a thousand times worse. I almost gagged.”

“Okay, well, you’re clearly doing it wrong. First you go to their restaurant and have at least three of those ‘Alberta’s Old Fashioned Bootleg’ drinks, and then you come here and do the tour, and suddenly it’ll seem a whole lot better.”

The two visitors share laughter, though it doesn’t sound like very lighthearted laughter to Flower. It’s abrasive and mean. Moving away from them, she catches the final snippet of Sam’s tour monologue.

“... and I’m afraid that’s all I have for you today. Well, aside from those twenty-percent-off vouchers. And if you would be so kind— and brave— to join us again, you might get to hear stories like Isaac’s, one of my personal favorites...”

“Oh, there’s me!” Isaac whispers. “She speaks about me!”

“... in the meantime, we invite you to explore our beautiful grounds and garden, and feel free to ask me any additional questions,” Sam concludes, camera-ready with a pitch-perfect voice and a houndstooth tour guide blazer. Flower is pretty sure she wore the same blazer for her first day of law school way back in 19-Whatsit.

“Ready for my cue, Sam!” Alberta calls out.

Sam catches her eye and nods. “If you have any questions for Alberta,” she says, drawing out her name, “well, she just might answer them for you.”

Beaming, Alberta slips into her signature rhythmic hum, her one direct link to the Living world. All at once, the tour group members blink and glance around, as if searching for a flaw, an exposed wire or a crack in the wall leading to a rational explanation. Flower shakes her head as she watches their eyes strain and reach. If they’re looking for rational explanations, Woodstone is not the place to find them.

One of the bummer mutterers from before speaks up again. “Totally piped-in noise,” he asserts. “No way they don’t have a Bluetooth speaker hiding somewhere.”

Flower isn’t sure what it is about some stereos that entails them having blue teeth, but she’s pretty sure she gets the gist of what these bummers are muttering about. They don’t believe in ghosts. Alright, fine. So why even show up here? She strives to see the better in people— her soul’s still a little too tie-dyed for her own good— but these folks are really a drag.

Flower, Isaac, and Hetty hover impatiently around Sam while she chats with a few guests. When at long last she’s finally free, she ushers them into a neighboring room and closes the door. Already anticipating what’s on the tip of their tongues, Sam spills, “I don’t know, guys. I’m still skeptical about this whole thing.”

“You do not have to be so protective of us,” Isaac tells her. “We agreed to this, Sam. We are jubilant that so many more people will get to remember our names, and know us— kind of. Who knows, it may even inspire an award-winning Broadway musical. Just spitballing.”

Flower stares at a distant lamp. “What if more people on Earth remembering us is what keeps us from being sucked off of Earth? What if this only ties us closer to Living people and prevents us from moving on?”

Isaac’s shoulders go rigid. “Well,” he says, turning to her, “I must admit I do not much care for that theory.”

She meets his gaze after a second. “What theory?”

“It isn’t really that,” Sam says, drawing their attention back to her. “It’s...” She chews on air for a moment, then forces it out. “Of course I’m protective of you, but I’m also worried about... about Woodstone’s reputation.”

“As you should be,” Hetty huffs. “This charade has gone on long enough. Random louts and hicks patrolling through my home as if they own the place, capturing photographs on their feculent little contraptions, judging our history and inhabitants, and I do include you and Jay on their list of judgment, Samantha, because judge you they have.”

Sam’s hands perform that fidgety-grabby motion again. “Well, we can handle a few three-star Yelp reviews—”

“It’s worse,” supplies Flower, head lowered. “There were some real squares in that crowd. They acted like none of it was real. Like we were just characters.”

Defeated, Sam spirals off into a worry mantra. “I knew it. I knew it. I knew this would be a fail—”

Jay pops his head into the room with a cautious thumbs-up. “Everything good?”

“Good?” Sam chirps back too quickly, slapping on a smile. “I think you mean great!”

He looks at her for an extended strip of time, soaking in her hyperactive response, and decides to take it at face value for now. “Well, great,” he responds. “Because there’s a whole bunch of people waiting for the three o’clock tour.”

Sam’s eyes are like falling stars, but they’re still stars, so they’re still pretty to look at. “Right,” she mumbles. “I’ll be there in five.” She glances back at the ghosts. “I really underestimated how interesting people would find you guys. I’m afraid there might be no way to backpedal on this marketing decision.”

Isaac bows forward, hands behind his back. “Haunting is as permanent as death, I would say.” Then he tilts his head, reconsiders. “Not including your own death, I suppose. Well, regardless— like they always say, once your house is haunted, your house is haunted.”

Blowing out a preparatory sigh, Sam smooths the lapels of her blazer and jets off to meet the next tour group.

Flower stands a short distance away, observing as Sam and Jay load some athletic gear into their car.

“Pickleball pickles my brain,” Flower complains to Thor, who stands beside her. “I don’t get why Sam and Jay want to play it all the time.”

“Not all the time,” Sam mutters.

“Though they lack skill with sport, this is a way to build alliance with Fartsbys,” Thor explains.

Sam’s voice carries over to them with another correction: “Farnsbys, Thor. Also, we suck less than we used to, for your information.”

Thor continues talking. “— so that, with luck, Thor can learn more about his son.”

Flower hums in thought. “But you already get to yell with Björn almost every day.”

“Is not enough,” Thor says. “When you have your own flesh and blood, you never want to be apart from them. Thor has been apart from Björn for so long. Now that Thor knows him, he never wants to not know him. Is like... strangling of heart.” He grips his hands together tightly in a well-practiced motion that demonstrates this. “Your simple English cannot explain it well.”

“Aw, that’s really heartwarming, Thor,” Sam gushes, gazing at him as she closes the car door. Thor only turns his cheek, keeping his deeper emotions clad in stone. To Jay, she adds, “Thor was just saying how when you have a child, you don’t ever want to be away from them.”

“I already know the feeling,” Jay tells her. They share a quick peck on the lips. “And hey, Thor, buddy, I’m glad you appreciate us doing this. Because, um, every time I go over there and get another swingers’ party invite, I die a little inside.”

“Dying inside just brings you closer to becoming one of us!” Flower says cheerfully. She almost catches sight of Jay’s point as it sails straight over her head. Key word being almost. But points are hard to see, anyway.

“It’s also important for us to build an alliance with the Farnsbys,” Sam says, “because then we might be able to get a little intel from them as far as what visitors are saying about the ghost tour. ‘Procure the tea,’ as Isaac likes to say. And while I don’t want to know how people actually feel, I also really need to know.”

“Second that,” Jay says. “Okay, TTYL, ghosts!” Swinging open the driver’s door, he adds, “I don’t know why I’m saying that. I can’t talk to you later, or ever.”

Sam gives them a wave, then climbs in also. Thor and Flower watch until their car crosses over the invisible boundary that leads to a world beyond their reach; then they return to the house. Well, the “return to the house” part comes later, after they make out for a while against a tree in the woods. Then Flower apologizes to the tree, and also thanks it for being their third. Only then do they go back inside.

Whenever Sam and Jay are both out of the house, some of the ghosts struggle to find a sufficient way to pass the time. Most of them settle for watching TV, some— cough, Hetty, cough— hang out in the laundry room, and others, like Flower, simply meander. So this is what she does now, falling into her typical circuit around the mansion.

Passing Kelly at the front desk, who’s hypnotized by idly scrolling through her phone, Flower mounts the staircase and hums to herself, spinning through walls and imagining a faint breeze twirling her hair. Spinning and twirling and spinning and—

Dizzy, she stumbles to a pause in one of the guest rooms. It’s currently occupied, if the person napping on the bed is any indication. Curiosity is Flower’s middle name— or, at least, it was her middle name on the commune— so she approaches the stranger, always glad to see a new face around the manor. But when she peers closer at the young man’s face, an unexpected bolt of familiarity strikes through her. Where has she seen his face before? Think, think.

Oh! She’s got it. He was part of the tour group the other day. He was—

Flower frowns, recoils. He was one of the bummers. One of the critics. Bristling, she takes another couple of steps back. And she knows she should go, she knows it’s best to leave uncool things unspoken, but Flower can’t let this bygone be gone, or however that expression goes. Besides, it’s not like the guy will be able to hear her, anyway.

“Just so you know,” she whispers, leaning precariously close to the bed again, “Sam and Jay are really good people, and they try their best, so when I hear folks like you tear them down, it’s... it’s not cool, man. If you don’t like it here, then— then just go home, okay?”

Flower stands there for another moment, waiting to see if anything else comes to her. When nothing does, she gives a pleased nod and promptly turns tail, bursting through the door while imagining it falls shut with a satisfactory slam. A second later, her anger is forgotten, like dandelion tendrils on the wind.

Thanks to her quick exit, she fails to notice the man’s nostrils flare and his eyes pop open, bulging with fear.

“I’m telling you, there was someone in my room.”

Flower hesitates on the landing alongside a cluster of ghosts sleuthing on Sam at the front desk below.

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I understand you’re upset, but I can’t imagine who would have been in your room,” she tells the frantic visitor, picking her way through the sentence with meticulous diplomacy.

“I dare say Samantha could negotiate her way through a treaty to establish her own colony,” Isaac breathes, impressed.

The guest jerks forward as if he wants to smack his hands on the desk, then thinks better of it. “Are you sure your locks are secure? Because when I woke up it was like my door had just blown open.”

“I can assure you our locks are secure. You know, it might help if you could provide a description of the person—”

“Like I said, I didn’t see her. I only heard her...”

“What’s going on?” Flower whispers over the man’s ongoing rant.

“This dude is convinced somebody was hanging out in his room, whispering in his ear while he was sleeping, doing all this spooky stuff,” Trevor says. “In fact...” He trails off, eyes sliding her way. “Sounds a lot like... ghostly stuff.” He aims an accusatory index finger at the other ghosts gathered on the staircase. “Okay, who did it?”

“Obviously it was none of us, Trevor, because this Living would not be able to hear us, let alone see us,” Isaac points out.

“Are we sure the cat can’t talk now?” Flower tries.

Trevor shrugs, his tie waving limply. “Look, all I’m suggesting is that maybe one of us has gained a new power where we can communicate in that particular room, or something. Didn’t that room used to be yours, Pete? What if it’s still significant to you in some way—”

“Might I point out that the guest called their intruder ‘her’?” Pete says.

Sasappis gazes thoughtfully at the altercation below. “Either one of us has a new power, or... somebody else has developed a power.”

Slowly, they all follow his gaze to where the guest is still arguing with Sam— or, more accurately, still hurling abuse at Sam. Meanwhile, she tries valiantly to juggle his grievances one-handed, with her other hand busy at the computer issuing a refund for his stay. It takes Flower a moment— or two moments— but when the realization hits her, it hits like a sack of bricks. Or like tear gas at an anti-war protest. Or like a chainsaw’s first bite into a tree she’s chained herself to.

Huh. It really is a wonder she didn’t die sooner.

Flower shakes her head to clear it of pre-death thoughts. Yeah, she knows this guy. This is the guy. The Big Fat Complainer.

“Oh!” she squeaks. “Yeah, I know that man. He’s not very nice.”

“Evidently,” mutters Isaac.

“Which is why I gave him a little talking-to in his room. I figured it was alright, since it’s not like he’d hear me or anyth—”

“Flower!” Trevor exclaims. “Why didn’t you speak up before? Well, I know why, but still— there’s our answer!”

Thankfully, Sas spells it out for her. “That dude heard you. That dude,” he announces, nodding at the chaos beneath them, “can see ghosts.”

Trevor all but throws himself over the railing. “Sam,” he hisses. “Sam!”

If what happens next doesn’t prove their theory, Flower doesn’t know what would. Reeling back for another verbal strike, the irate guest pauses and makes direct eye contact with Trevor while he dangles precariously above the desk. “Can’t you see she’s busy? Wait a sec. And where are your pants? Have some modesty, man.”

“Who are you...” Sam spins around, looks at them, spins back to the guy, then spins back to the ghosts again. “Wait, how—”

“All those performers, or cosplayers, or whoever they are have been huddled there staring at me for the past five minutes, and it’s getting real creepy,” the guest snaps. “I don’t know if you suddenly decided to hire reenactors to play your ghost characters or what, but I’ve got to say it’s pretty damn unnerving.”

“They’re...” Sam visibly swallows, her customer service facade crumbling as she points a trembling finger over her shoulder at the group on the staircase. “Y- you can see them?”

“Yeah. They’re right there. You expect me to believe you don’t see them?”

Sam whirls back toward the ghosts, sucks in a loud breath. “Tell me,” she whispers to them, “that this isn’t just some weird symptom of pregnancy hormones. Tell me that you all can see that guy, too. That he isn’t just a hallucination.”

“Uh, yep, we see him,” Trevor says.

“Granted, that does not help you much, considering we see all,” says Isaac.

“But he can see... us,” adds Pete. “What does this mean?”

Alberta waltzes in, interest piqued as she lays her eyes on the scene. “What’s going on here?”

“Ah!” The guest jumps. “Oh, jeez. Who are you supposed to be, the murdered flapper lady?”

Alberta draws back, offended. “For your information, sir, I was more than a flapper and more than murdered. I was betrayed. And I also—” She blinks several times. “Wait, how can you see me? Are you a—”

“Ghosts!” Sam blurts out. When the man turns to her, eyes narrowed into glinting shards, she rambles on, “... is what they are not! They are... these people are just some very dedicated fans of ours. They love falling into character, walking around the property, imagining what it would’ve been like for our resident ghosts. But don’t worry, they aren’t them.”

“No, duh,” he growls. “I didn’t think they were. That would be ridiculous.”

“Would it?” hums Isaac, mimicking his stormy glower.

Sam holds out her hands in a placating gesture. “Look, Mr. Burr, I apologize for this experience, and I promise we’ll do all we can to make it up to you for the remainder of your stay—”

“Oh, this man is not named Burr!” Isaac gasps. “I mean, Burr as in Aaron Burr? This is too good.”

“— why don’t you return to your room for now and continue your rest, and my husband would be happy to treat you to a complimentary meal at his restaurant later,” Sam goes on, not-so-subtly herding Mr. Burr towards the stairs. The other ghosts scoot back to make way for him, equally as disturbed to be seen as he is to see them, like it’s wrong for any other Living eyes besides Sam’s to behold them.

Well, all are disturbed except Flower, who grins and waves as he passes them in a befuddled stupor. “Hi!” she says.

He stops suddenly, swiveling to her. “You,” he says. “It was you.” Then to Sam, who wavers on the landing looking quite pale, “It was her. The Woodstock girl. That’s her voice. She was in my room!”

“I will... I will talk to her. I’m so sorry. Um, quick question— you haven’t recently... hit your head by any chance, have you?”

Sam is only met with a look of disgust before Mr. Burr resumes ascending the staircase.

All together, she and the present ghosts wait until he disappears around the corner upstairs. As soon as he’s gone, the ghosts explode into a flurry of voices and movement. Sam holds up a single hand to quell the flood.

“Something must’ve happened to him,” she muses, head shaking back and forth as she tries to wrap her hands around a solid idea. “Something that brought him near death, something that made him...” She falls into a frenetic pace, then pivots on one heel to face the ghosts again, index finger up. “Just like Eric, Bela’s boyfriend. He briefly met you guys while he was... dead. And I was… Thor.”

“Oh, he became a full-on ghost,” says Alberta. “That man was damn close to spending the rest of eternity in a Wally-world reindeer sweater.”

Sam is still pacing, eyes distant as if she barely even hears herself speak. Flower can relate to that. “So if he had a situation happen like Eric’s, then... it must have happened between the tour and now, because he definitely couldn’t see any of you earlier.”

With nifty timing, Jay enters the house looking worse for wear. “Hey,” he greets Sam, giving her a peck. “Please tell me all is well here, because all is not well in this area,” he says, making a circular motion in front of his abdomen.

She frowns. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. Nope. I think I got some mild food poisoning from this sushi we had for lunch? I told Mark not to order from that place again, but...” He sighs. “I’m gonna go lay down. I already told Rayan I’m skipping dinner service tonight.”

“Yes, of course. Just— oh, wait, before you do...” Sam catches him on the arm. “We, um, may have a situation.”

“Okay. Lay it on me.” Jay presses a fist to his mouth. “Oh. Oh, that was a cramp. Now I know how you’ve felt these past few weeks.”

She squeezes a sorry-not-sorry smile at him. “I doubt it, babe. Morning sickness is a different beast. But I can understand your pain.”

“Right, my bad.” He eases out an exhale and puts his hands on her shoulders. “Let’s put all the hospitality, charisma and sweet talk aside. What have we got on our hands?”

Sam gives a curt nod. “There’s a guest who can see the ghosts.”

“A ghost-seeing guest?” Jay demands. “Damn, it’s like everyone gets to do it but me.” Now he touches a hand to his forehead. “Wow, my head is spinning. Has your brain ever— like, orbited the room?”

Sam directs him to sit on the landing. “Listen, I can handle this myself. I just wanted to keep you up to speed, since, well, we promised each other we’d be better with that.” She sighs. “I don’t know what I should do, though. Do I tell him? Will he even believe me?”

Isaac gives a doubtful hum. “Plenty of evidence to suggest the contrary.”

“Do you believe him?” Jay counters.

Sam only needs a moment to turn over her answer in her head. “Yeah,” she says. “I do. He’s... he’s a bit of a hothead, and a no-nonsense one, so I’d be surprised if he would make up something like that. And how could he make it up? He explicitly pointed out Trevor’s lack of...”

“Yep, we know. Everyone knows,” Trevor says flatly.

“And I don’t make a point of mentioning that detail on the tour,” adds Sam, “at Trevor’s behest... and my own.”

“Well, then I’d test the waters. Dip your toe in, try to judge how much he might judge you if you tell him the truth. But I’d say he deserves to know. Wouldn’t he have suffered something super traumatic to even gain the ability?” Jay’s shoulders drop like rocks. “Either way, I think you’ll know what to do, babe.”

“Thanks.” Sam runs a hand over his hair, then pulls him into a quick hug. “Okay, now go take some Tums and get to bed. I’ll be up in a bit. Let me know if you need anything before then.”

Jay heaves himself to his feet, climbs the stairs at a stoner’s pace. “Keep me updated,” he tells her. “Keep the tea hot.”

“Oh, the tea will remain scalding,” Sam assures him. Once he’s upstairs, she flicks a glance among the ghosts. “Guess we’re gonna have to pamper this guy for dinner, huh?”

“Yes. I simply must know his ancestry,” Isaac says as he and the others follow her out of the foyer. “Because everything about him screams Aaron Burr, the absolute prick.”

With a gang of fascinated ghosts in tow, Sam leads their long-suffering guest down the newly-paved brick walkway that snakes across the lawn to the restaurant. It was Flower’s suggestion to string fairy lights along the path, and she’s pleased Sam and Jay agreed to do it— the vibe is immaculate.

“Is there any way they can not be here?” Mr. Burr asks. He tosses an acidic look over his shoulder at the ghosts. It ricochets off them without much harm done; any Living who can see them is worthy of a museum exhibit, in their book.

As he faces forward again, Sam gives the group her own capital-L Look, surreptitiously motioning for them to stay back a bit. Turning around, she speaks through a strained laugh. “That’s all part of the haunting experience, I’m afraid.”

“Would’ve been nice to disclose that in the reservation’s fine print,” he gripes.

Sam dips her head. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they mind your personal space.”

“And can you mind mine?” Mr. Burr asks next. One of his eyebrows crawls up into an antagonistic arch that would give Nigel a run for his money. “Believe me, I’m flattered, but aren’t you married?”

Isaac’s scoff is so quick it’s like a snap of air. “The gall of this man.” Leaning over to Hetty, he whispers, “He is a Burr through and through.”

“Sir is a title he does not live up to,” Hetty agrees.

Sam lurches to a temporary standstill, disbelief etched on her face as she scowls after him. Unfortunately for her, this jerk reaction to a jerk causes Flower to step through her.

“Flower! No!” Alberta hisses, yanking her back. But the damage has been dealt. Wincing away the ripple of discomfort— it’s an uneasy chill, like a bunched-up sock exposing an ankle, which is why she always wore sandals— Flower looks up to catch Sam already mid-giggle.

“Oh, she is flying,” Trevor says.

“What if the baby’s high, too?” Pete whimpers. “That can’t be good.”

“Doubt it,” Sasappis answers. “The effect is all mental. There’s no physical substance.” He shrugs and is the first of the group to resume following the Livings. He swings an arm in invitation to the others. “Either way, it’ll be entertaining. Come on.”

Alberta clicks her teeth, but joins him nevertheless. “Can’t argue with that,” she sighs.

They catch up to Sam, who is holding open the door to the restaurant for a baffled Burr. She falls forward into an ostentatious bow, nearly face-planting as she does, snickering the entire way down and the entire wobbly way back up.

“Now, my... my husband, Jay, he couldn’t be here tonight, but we’ll take care of... you. Mmmph.” Sam covers her mouth to suffocate a laugh, flinging herself inside after him. As if the rapidly closing door might hit them, the ghosts all hurriedly squeeze inside through the doorway. For now, they have an illusion to maintain in front of their newest necromancer— the illusion that they aren’t apparitions.

“Yeah, you mentioned that already,” Burr says.

“You know, Jay is such a weird name,” Sam says, scarcely noticing her surroundings as she directs him to a table. “Jaaaaaay. It’s like, who named him? His mother?”

“Good Lord, Flower,” mumbles Trevor. “Who did you source your kush from, John Lennon?”

“Actually, I think I got my final hit from a gal who knew a guy who knew a guy who knew Ringo,” Flower replies. “It wears off in five minutes or five hours. No in-between.”

Pete tips his head, nods. “That explains a lot. Well, not really.”

“Now, I am going to go to...” Stretching out the word, Sam whirls around once or twice before she has her feet aimed in the right direction. “To the... kitchen. Yes. Where I will get your”— another stifled snort— “your food. Yep. On my way!” From there, she floats across the dining area and, after some trial and error with pulling on doors that are clearly marked PUSH, she slips into the kitchen.

“And off she goes.” Pete accompanies his flat narration with an unneeded wave of farewell.

Burr props up his arm on the back of his chair, glancing among the ghosts. “Is she always like this?” he asks.

They all deliberate on this. “Mm, yes and no,” Hetty answers at the same time Alberta nods tightly and goes, “Mm-hmm.”

Uttering a string of uncool words under his breath, Burr works on unraveling his napkin and smoothing it over his lap. “So how come no one else here is getting the deluxe haunting experience?” he wonders. “Why me?”

“Well, I’d say you’ve taken a real shine to us,” Pete jokes lightly. He stops short of inserting a playful elbow in Burr’s ribs. “Or, uh, we’ve taken a shine to you, Mr. Burr. Sir. No joshing here!”

Isaac wrinkles his nose.

“Uh-huh,” Burr says, still skeptical. “Well, if you’re not going anywhere, and I’m not going anywhere because I’m starving and free food is free food, and we’re gonna be all buddy-buddy, then you might as well call me Aron.”

Isaac’s composed demeanor splits into an abrupt guffaw. “Oh, you must be joking,” he says. Aron’s signature stone face meets his, knocking him down a peg. Incredulous smile slipping, Isaac demands, “Do you jest?”

“Thor would say, based on smushed face, he does not jest,” Thor observes.

“Right, right,” Aron says, crossing his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes toward Isaac. “Of course your character will get all worked up about the Aaron Burr thing. Well, for your information, big guy, my name’s spelled A-R-O-N. One A. So, not the same thing.”

“Never mind how it is spelled. I think it is quite the same thing,” Isaac argues, “based on how your name sounds and how your insufferable personal—”

Sam emerges from the kitchen with a basket of bread and a glass of ice water. Her fraught expression indicates her momentary high has passed. She drops the first set of peace offerings on the table, takes Aron’s wine order, then pulls the ghosts into an alcove away from curious eyes.

“I have zero memory of the last five minutes,” she whispers urgently. “When I came to, Rayan was shoving bread in my hands and staring at me like he’d seen, well, a ghost. What happened?”

“Flower happened,” Trevor tells her.

“You walked through me,” Flower says. “Or did I walk through you?” She ponders this, then shrugs and adds, “You’re welcome.”

Sam squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head. “Oh, boy. Okay. Great. Um... I am going to go get his wine. And try not to make a bigger fool of myself than I already have. You all need to...” She waves a hand apologetically. “Disperse, maybe? Look, I promise I’ll get some info out of him. There has to be a reason he can see you. We just haven’t gotten to the bottom of it yet. But we will.”

She makes a not-very-subtle show of opening the door for them, though not before Isaac shouts across the restaurant, one arm fastened in Hetty’s as she drags him outside, “Whatever you do, do not agree to a duel with him, Sam! You will be swindled out of your life!”

“Duly noted,” Sam mumbles.

While seven out of the core eight dutifully make their exit, Flower takes a more roundabout route back to the house. Creeping around the side of the converted barn, she discovers a good eavesdropping place by a window that just so happens to be close to Aron's table. Flower grins, dropping into a crouch so that only the top half of her face is visible around the window’s lower edge. What a happy coinkydink!

She spends all of two minutes alone before the others find her sneaky spot. Turning around the corner of the building, Thor leads the pack in copying her crouch. “There you are,” he whispers as best as his trademark boom can allow. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing,” Flower whispers back. “I wasn’t listening.”

Isaac heaves a sigh.

“Oh, for the love of Pete,” mutters Pete, which is apparently only amusing to Flower. “Scooch over, Snoozy Suzy.” He nudges her aside so he can also peek through the window.

“Why on earth are we peeking and whispering?” Hetty demands. “There is no reason for us to do either.”

“I don’t know!” says Pete. “Just sticking with the established theme of sneaking behind Sam’s back, I guess.”

“Please,” Hetty scoffs. “Samantha knows better than to expect us to listen to her.” She stands in front of the window, leans close to the glass. “I take back what I said. Everyone hush now. Arrogance personified speaks.”

They all listen in on the conversation.

“Bread wasn’t bad,” Aron’s saying to Sam. “Could have been warmer, though. Crust could have had more crunch. Anyway, what’s up next?”

“You will love this pinot grigio,” Sam raves as she places a very full glass of white wine in front of Aron. A few customers stare at her, ostensibly worried about that tottering glass. “It’s from a local winery in Kingston. Rumor is they have Clydesdale horses stand on top of these heavy stones, which then crush the grapes... not sure how true that is, but either way, it’s really good. One sip and you’ll be like, ‘Have I died and gone to heaven?’”

“Well, that’s a bit on the nose,” Isaac comments.

Meanwhile, Aron asserts, “I’ll be the judge of that.” He reaches for the wine glass— only to have his hand pass clear through it.

The world stutters to a stop. If Flower’s heart was still going, it would be throbbing in her throat.

“Is this some kind of prank?” Aron asks while Sam stares, stricken. “What is this, a hologram? Haunted wine?” Like Macaroni trying his darndest to destroy Jay’s ankle, he keeps swiping his hand through the glass, and the glass keeps staying precisely where it is.

“Oh, no,” Pete says.

“That doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Sas murmurs.

All at once, the scant remainder of Aron’s patience fractures, and he leaps out of his seat. Not a single customer glances over. “This place,” he says, voice gaining altitude as he continues, “is weird as hell. I’m going to get out of here, and you and your bizarre ghost-reenactors are going to quit bothering me.” He starts to stomp off, only to whirl back around for one last jab. “You know, if these were real people as you claim, I bet they’d be offended by these cheap actors you hired. Why don’t you all go get real jobs?”

“He has a point. I am rather offended by who I have become,” Hetty admits.

Isaac’s glare alone could pierce through the window glass. “A fitting diatribe for a Burr,” he growls. “If there is one thing I despise more than a Hamilton...”

The following seconds unspool in rapid bursts. As Aron turns to go, Jay’s sous chef Rayan appears from the kitchen with a full plate of food. Flower frowns at the steak, though she’d be lying if she said it didn’t smell good.

“Here it is. Eight-ounce rib eye with our famous house-made brown sugar glaze, as requested,” he says, setting the plate on the table. “Sorry for the wait. Jay said to make sure I got the char on the steak just right, so...” Rayan frowns, glancing at Sam. “Uh, where’s the guest?”

“Hello!” Aron yells, waving his arms. “I’m right here! Are you stupid?”

Sam gazes at no one in particular. “But he could touch the bread,” she mutters.

“What?” asks Rayan.

“I said I’m right here,” Aron says. His voice cracks into halves as his attention-grabbing attempts grow more desperate. “Right in front of you, dude. What—” He windmills his arms, and one passes cleanly through Rayan’s left shoulder. The other would have knocked an older lady out of her chair, if it was in solid form. He staggers backward. “H- how...”

As the reality of his new un-reality sets in, liquid sympathy fills Sam’s eyes. She rises from her chair, murmurs to Rayan to box up the food to-go, and then reaches out to Aron with a friendly arm, only to retract it when he flinches away.

“Delusional,” he’s muttering. “You’re all delusional. You’re—” He turns tail and runs for the doors. His hand whispers through the handles. “No. No. It’s not possible, it—”

“Let’s go outside. Let’s talk about this,” Sam suggests, a few tentative steps away. Right as she says that, Aron falls through the wall to the outside. She whips open the door and follows him.

Not willing to miss a single second of this spectacle, the ghosts make a beeline around the building. They pass Nancy, who’s spying through another window. “What?” she says to their bemused looks as they scuttle by. “I’m a nocturnal creature. I moonbathe. I prowl.” As they careen around the corner, Flower hears an aggravated groan behind them. “Aw, come on, lady! I came here to smell hamburgers, and you order a salad. First the Pepsi, now this. You are nothing but a disappointment.”

They ignore her and continue onward, falling over each other to reach the front of the barn. Sprawled on the grass, Aron is feverishly crawling away from Sam. “Stay away from me! Stay back, I’m warning you. I’m... something’s wrong with me,” he whimpers.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re only... dead.” She gulps. “That... that did not come out as tactfully as I meant it to.”

A wail— uncharacteristic, at least as uncharacteristic for as long as they’ve known this guy— rips through the early evening repose.

“This is not going well,” Pete states.

Taking notice of the ghosts, Aron raises a shaky hand toward them. “Wait. So— so does that mean you’re all—”

“Legit ghosts?” Trevor fills in the blank. “Now you’re getting it.”

“It can’t be,” Aron rasps.

Thor lifts his chin. “Truth stranger than fiction,” he says.

Sas jabs a thumb at him. “Dude’s a thousand years old. And I’m half that.”

“That isn’t helping,” Sam tells them. Turning to Aron, she says, “If we just go back to the house, I can explain everyth—”

“Are you dead?” Aron demands. “Can there even be a dead pregnant lady? That’s just depressing.” Then his jaw sags open. “sh*t. I mean— I’m assuming you’re—”

“You are damn lucky you’re right, you little twerp,” Alberta grumbles. “Assuming a woman is— ugh, the nerve of you!”

“No,” Sam tells him. “Well, yes, I’m pregnant. And no, I’m not dead. Um, everyone here is dead except for me.” He stares blankly at her. “Yeah, it’s as insane as it sounds. And now I am realizing none of what I just said helps, either.”

“Not even gonna try sugarcoating it, huh?” Pete says glumly.

“You’re telling me,” Aron mutters. There’s something muddled behind his eyes. Slowly he rises to his feet. “Okay. Fine. Explain it to me, then.”

And so Sam explains for the entire walk back to the house. How she straddles the planes of existence. How it’s a long story. How it actually isn’t as long as she thought once she explains it all in less than five minutes.

The conversation trickles into silence when they come to a stop outside the door of Aron’s room. The pair stand there quietly, absorbing this final moment before confronting whatever lies on the other side. Automatically Aron reaches for the door handle, only to drop his hand dejectedly.

“So you’re telling me my body’s in there,” he says to Sam. His temper has plateaued out significantly since his meltdown at the restaurant. All that’s left seems to be crumbs of resignation and sorrow. “I don’t get it. How did I not even notice I died?”

“It happens that way sometimes,” Flower says. “It took me a few minutes to realize.”

“A few months,” Sas mumbles into a convenient cough.

Sam uncovers a question of her own. “How did it not even occur to me that you might be dead?” Her eyes flit to the ghosts.

“Hey, don’t look at us,” Pete says, palms raised. “We may be dead, but that doesn’t make us the harbingers of death. And... now that I’m saying it out loud, I do see how that could be misleading.”

Isaac shrugs. “We could have hazarded an educated guess, in hindsight.”

“Guess I shouldn’t expect it,” Sam concedes. “None of you figured out there was a ghost cat in the barn until Jay and I woke him up.”

“To be fair,” says Sas, “from what we know of cat ghosts, they sleep forever.”

Aron frowns. “Wait, there’s a ghost cat?” He presses a hand over his mouth and nose. “That’s not good. I’m allergic.”

“Somehow, I doubt that will be a problem,” Isaac tells him.

“Add that to the pros of being a ghost,” Trevor says to Aron, who gives a sniff as he reluctantly lowers his hand. “I was always allergic to dogs, but now Sam and Jay are free to get a dog anytime because it won’t bother me anymo—”

“Not happening, Trevor!” Sam says a bit too brightly.

“Hm,” Aron grunts, sniffing again. “I think my list of cons is still longer, bro. Sorry.”

Trevor waves him off, ducking his head. He acts oddly bashful in front of Aron, which Flower supposes makes sense since he and Aron have a similar aura surrounding them. Both young men with a blazing, crimson, tryhard energy. “S’alright, bro.”

Hetty shoots him an indignant glance, while Sas rolls his eyes. “Don’t embarrass yourself, bro. You could be his dad.”

Trevor pulls a face and looks elsewhere. “I could be his uncle, maybe,” he mutters.

“And the difference is?”

“Everything!” Trevor snaps.

Everyone exchanges a look that is tossed around the group like a hot potato.

“... is he good?” Aron asks.

“He’s fantastic,” Sam answers, voice clipped as she goes to unlock the door. “So, shall we?”

Aron blows out a breath. “Guess it’s now or never.”

“More like now and always,” Pete provides, which is about as unhelpful as it is dismal.

The key’s teeth click smoothly in the lock, and the door falls open almost with a sigh. Sam leads the slow motion charge inside.

On the surface, nothing is amiss. The bed is unmade, sheets ruffled up like frozen waves. A phone is still plugged in on the nightstand. Aron peers more closely at it, then reaches for his pocket, producing a ghostly copy of the same phone. “One of your artifacts,” Isaac explains gently. “If it was on your body when you died, well... there it stays.”

Their shocked ghost guest (or is it guest ghost?) places the ghost phone on top of the real phone, only for it to fade and regenerate back in his pocket. “This can’t be real,” he whispers.

After a thorough visual sweep of the room, Sam’s gaze trails over to the now foreboding bathroom. Then her eyes drag themselves back to Aron, who’s staring at the same spot. “Do you wanna look, or should I?” she murmurs.

“Or I can!” Flower volunteers. “I don’t mind.”

“Psh, well, I’m glad you don’t mind,” Aron says. Regardless, he steps back and holds out his arm, allowing her to go first.

Flower steps inside the bathroom. When she spots a pair of feet sticking out from behind the shower curtain, she yelps, then calls out, “Yep, you’re in here!”

Everyone else crowds in. Sam slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes bugging. Aron simply stares.

“Ah. Death by tub,” observes Thor. “Just like George.” The older ghosts hum in agreement.

“Who’s George?” asks Sam.

“Drowned in tub after death of Hetty, but before Alberta,” Thor says. “Was sucked off after one week.”

“Ah, yes, George,” says Isaac like he’s only just remembered. “I miss him. Fine fellow.”

Shaking her head, Sam approaches the tub and gingerly peels back the curtain. Immediately she scoots away again, eyes closed. “Oh, yes. Definitely dead.”

“Oh my god,” Aron mumbles. They all turn to him. “I remember now. I was— I saw a spider.” A shattered guffaw pours from his lips— sort of tragic, in a way. “A spider! I was trying to kill it, it was up in the corner by the ceiling, and I— I must’ve fallen wrong.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t fall right,” remarks Sas, leaning forward to sneak a peek at the broken neck in question.

“I’ve told y’all how spiders are dangerous,” Alberta says. “And here’s your proof.”

“Aw, they’re harmless,” says Pete. “Well, I mean, not in this case, but this— this was an indirect result, right? It’s just a shame, Aron, because I’m sure Sam would’ve come and killed the spider for you if you asked.”

It takes a second for Sam to reanimate. “Oh! Yeah. Spiders. Hate ‘em. Kill them all the time,” she chirps, though it’s less of a chirp and more of a record scratch.

“Gonna take a wild guess and say Jay is the spider killer in this relationship,” Trevor says.

“Actually, no,” Sam confesses. “He’s more arachnophobic than I am. Usually we just burn the whole place down.” She catches Aron’s morose expression. “Kidding! Kidding.” Gradually her face evens out into a mood more like his. “I’m really sorry that you... died,” she says softly. “But for what it’s worth, you’ll never be alone here.”

Aron grimaces. “That’s not very comforting to me. I’m a bit of an introvert.”

“Oh, so was I,” says Sam. “And then I started seeing ghosts.”

Pete beams. “She loves us.”

Sam poses her next question delicately. “Is there... anyone I can call?”

Aron offers a deflated shrug in return. “Only person who might give half a sh*t is my boss. And that’s just because I’d be a missing cog in the machine.” He kicks at the bath mat, only to grunt in frustration when it fails to respond to the spectral physics of his foot.

“What did... er, do you do for work?” Sam asks.

“Lovely,” mutters Sas. “She’s evolving into reporter mode.”

Aron’s answer comes as a heavy blow. “I... was a web developer,” he says. “Working for a hotel chain most recently. Marketing, etcetera. They’ve been somewhat worried about the resurgence of bed-and-breakfasts imposing on their business. They sent me to do a little snooping around, plus it tied in with my one week of vacation I get every year, so...”

The awkward silence doesn’t last long, as Sam then proceeds into investigative reporter mode. “There’s one thing I still don’t get about all of this. Nothing has explained yet why Aron was still able to touch the bread at the restaurant.”

“Not just touch,” he clarifies. “I ate that. I know I did.”

“You know very well, Samantha, that the rules confuse us too,” Hetty says.

“Yeah, like the whole not-being-able-to-finish rule,” says Sas. This earns a groan from just about everyone.

Trevor seesaws his head. “Well...”

“We get it! You have sex,” Sas cuts in.

“What?” Trevor’s eyes snag on everything inanimate in the room. “No I don’t.”

Aron’s gaze darts to Sam. “You put up with this all the time?”

“All day, every day,” she says. “And strangely enough, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

He shudders. “It’s like watching a ping-pong match between”— he does a quick head count— “eight people.”

Sam chuckles. “You’ll never be bored.”

“Welcome to Woodstone!” Pete says. “Again.”

“There are just so many of them. How can this many people die in a single place that’s not, I dunno, a hospital or an amusem*nt park?” Aron jerks out his hand at random toward Hetty, as if he’s playing spin the bottle with the ghosts. “I mean, what’s the deal with Downton Abbey here?”

Sam perks up a little. “Hey, that’s what I called her, too! At first.”

Truthfully, the last handful— multiple handfuls, and footfuls— of words spoken have gone right through Flower like, well, a wall. She’s still gnawing on Sam’s bone of contention. “I have an idea!” she pipes up.

Sas outstretches an arm, flexes his fingers in a grabbing motion. “Quick, grab it before it’s gone!”

Sam rolls her eyes from him over to Flower. “What is it, Flower?”

“Maybe the ghost effect on Adam was delayed.”

“It’s Aron,” says the man in question.

“— if Alan’s physical form was lying inactive for a while, and his spiritual form had no idea he was gone, it sort of makes sense that it would take him a minute to pass on.” She grins. “That rhymed!”

“Huh,” says Trevor. “That does make some sense, actually.”

“What does?” Flower asks. Then she brightens. “Oh, you know, I was just thinking about how it could be a delayed effect—”

“Plausible theory,” interrupts Aron, “but... how is this even passing on if I’m still here?” Sam blinks at him dejectedly as reality sinks in a second time. “Oh. I get it. I’m not really here anymore, am I?” He looks at the floor, at his corpse. Then he lifts his gaze to the ghosts. “Kind of funny, in a way, that I questioned your existence, since it turns out I was questioning my own existence, too. And I guess it explains why I can do this.”

To everyone’s combined horror and awe, he pops his neck clean out of its socket, or wherever it is necks are supposed to belong. His head flops limply onto his shoulder.

“Ahhh!” Trevor’s shriek overpowers all else. “Putitback-putitback-putitback!”

Aron complies, though not without another nonchalant comment. “Because I really was wondering how I could suddenly do that.”

“And please never do it again,” Alberta begs.

“Okay,” Aron says. Then, quieter, “No promises.”

A sharp sigh scrapes through Sam’s lungs. “Well, that little... demonstration just reminded me of who I need to call.” She leans over, pulls the shower curtain a little more closed. “At this point, I’m convinced we paid for the new deck the local coroner put on his house last summer.” They blink at her. “What? We’re friends on Facebook.”

“So sorry to inconvenience you,” Aron snipes back. Sam opens her mouth to apologize, but he steamrolls it by adding, “Look, if it matters at all, my last meal was some damn good bread. I know I complained about it, but it was good. It was great.” He shakes his head. “Man. Is that really the last thing I’ll ever eat?”

Thor pats his back. Well, slaps it, really. “Possess a Living. Then you can eat all delicacies you want. Like cod.” Sam visibly cringes at that memory.

“I mean, seriously, how do you guys do it?” Aron asks her. “I’ve never tasted gluten-free bread that good. Because obviously it was gluten-free, right?”

A fresh flame of fear is sparked in her eyes. She nods tightly. “Mm-hmm.”

Pete coughs to disperse the taut quiet that ensues. “Well! It’s about time we get you started on the real Woodstone tour, huh?” He throws an arm around Aron’s shoulders, only to have it immediately shrugged off. “Come on. I’ll show you all the best places.”

“He means places where death occurred,” Thor adds. “Is very fun.”

“That sounds like the worst possible—” Mid-sentence, Aron changes his tune. “No. You know what, normally I’d decline this sort of thing, because it sounds terrible, but it’s about time I made some real friends again. I’m tired of being bitter. I’m tired of giving up my life for a soul-sucking job that— wait, what’s this?” He squints upward as a halo of pure white light yawns open above him.

“For us, death is a constant,” Pete begins to monologue, and Flower zones out. “We’re all just hourglasses that keep getting flipped over and over again, stuck not in the afterlife but in this strange intermission. And here you are, getting sucked off right off the bat.”

“Not even off the bat,” Trevor mumbles, dumbfounded as the portal reflects in his round eyes. “Before the bat.”

Sas crosses his arms, head shaking. “How is it that easy for some people?”

“Wh— what’s going on?” Aron asks, eyes flashing from the heaven hole to Sam. “I thought the whole seeing-a-light thing was a myth.”

“Yeah, um, no,” says Sam. “You’re moving on, Aron. Someone up there must’ve decided you’re ready. Whatever unfinished business you had is...” She shrugs. “Finished.”

“Wow,” Aron murmurs. “It’s like the rapture.” A shaft of bright light spills down, highlighting him in its warm embrace. He tilts his face up to meet it. “Who knew it was this easy?” The other ghosts grumble at this.

“There’s a whole damn beach vacation contained in that column of light,” Alberta remarks. “I can feel the heat from here.”

As Aron’s voice climbs in volume, it also climbs in jubilation. “It’s so wonderful! Oh! I’m so free! Thank you, thank you all for helping me!”

“Don’t mention it,” Alberta says flatly.

“Chatty blonde lady!” Aron cries, now addressing Sam exclusively.

She frowns. “Wait, you didn’t get my name? I was wearing a name tag the entire time you were yelling at me at the front desk—”

“I’ll be eternally grateful for your help in my transition between life and death,” Aron continues, speaking rapidly. An irreverent gleam in his eyes shows he already has one foot in a better place. “All I ask of you is one final wish.”

Sam opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “Okay?”

“Name your child after me! Let my gratitude live on!”

Now her jaw just hangs open. “Oh. That... surely that can’t be your last wish. There are so many other good last wishes, like, I don’t know, world peace or— not that I’m judging you or anything.”

“Nope! It really is my last wish!” Aron insists, now levitating obnoxiously. The heavenly light has reached a blinding peak, filling the small bathroom and rendering it a box of harsh, in-your-face radiance.

“You must agree, Samantha!” Hetty says. “Otherwise he might never leave.”

“Yes, I must say I am quite over him,” Isaac adds. “Not as charming as I thought.”

“When did you ever think that?” Sas asks him.

Sam grimaces. She starts pulling out excuses like joints from Ringo’s pockets. “Right, well... does— does the spelling matter? Because if I’m going with ‘Aaron,’ I kind of prefer it with two As. And I really should discuss it with my husband first—”

“Sam!” Trevor hisses through his teeth. This kaleidoscopes into an array of pleas and Come ons! from the ghosts, while Aron remains midair, fixed in place in a rather clumsy hover. Flower has to duck around his dangling feet.

“Okay! Okay, fine! You have my word,” Sam says.

They all watch, transfixed, as Aron finally disappears through the portal. The last they hear from him is a droning, euphoric “Thank youuuuuu...” before it’s all sucked away into a weighted silence.

“Well,” grunts Alberta. “Damn.”

“That was... that sure was something,” says Isaac.

“I just want to make this clear— I wish him all the best, but I am not abiding by that,” Sam says. “I barely even knew him. And he didn’t bother to remember my name!”

“Also, ‘Aron Arondekar,’ anyone?” Pete points out.

“I don’t blame you,” says Trevor. “He sucked way before he got sucked off. Plus you didn’t sign a contract or anything, so... he can’t hold you to it.”

“Right,” says Sam. However, she soon loses some of her resolve and begins to pace. “Right, but... can God hold me to it?”

For a moment everyone braces themselves, as if the portal will reopen and dump Aron right back where he came from. Luckily, no such thing happens.

“Oh, who knows if there even is a blasted god,” Hetty complains, turning to leave. “If there is, it is certainly not a woman.”

“I mean, really!” Pete agrees as he follows her out. “That guy gets to go?”

As the others file out through various walls, Trevor hangs back just to drop a casual comment. “You know, Trevor isn’t a bad name.”

“Not happening, Trevor,” Sam tells him.

“Right on,” he says, then also goes.

“You should be the one with your feet up,” Jay tells Sam as she enters their room later. “Not me.”

“Hey, you deserve a break too,” she says, settling next to him on the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now that you’re here.” He reaches for her hand, which she offers without hesitation, and when he takes it he tugs her forward, inviting her to crawl across the covers and fall against him with a giggle. “So, what’s the update on Mr. Sixth Sense?” he asks. “How much is he suing us for?”

“He can’t sue us,” Sam says, tucking her legs under the covers, “because as it turns out, he’s dead.”

“Wait, what?” Jay’s realization coasts out on a long sigh. “Ah. So that’s why he could see ghosts. What happened to him?”

While Sam regales him with today’s tale, Flower finds a more comfortable position for herself inside the wall. It has taken decades to perfect her inter-wall shimmy, but sometimes there’s still a stray rusty nail or two that pokes inside her ghostly bubble, causing an unwelcome twinge in an errant elbow or toe.

“... and then, right before he gets sucked off, he has the nerve to share his final wish with me. You’ll never guess what.”

Jay clicks his teeth as he weighs the possibilities. “Aw, how bad could it be? Go feed the pet turtle he left behind? Contact his sister so she can spread his ashes somewhere that is hopefully not here?”

“Wrong and wrong,” says Sam. “He wants— er, wanted?— me to name the baby after him.”

Flower pokes part of her face through a portrait in the room, lining up her eyes and nose to that of the glowering painted figure as it gazes upon the Livings. Not her personal choice for decor, but she’ll take the easy disguise.

“How bad could his name be? Honestly, I’ll take the suggestion, because I’m fresh out of ideas.”

“Jay, his name was literally the first half of our last name.”

“Hmm. Would take some getting used to, but—” He’s cut off by her laughter, which he replicates in due course. Flower sighs dreamily; she could watch these two for ages. And in all likelihood, she probably will. She used to anticipate their deaths so that she could ask to be their third, but, well, that was before she and Thor started going steady.

“It feels selfish to admit this, but... part of me is pretty bummed that he’s gone,” says Sam, “just because for the first time in literally ever, I thought I had that sort of connection with another person— with another living somebody who can also see dead people. Not that you don’t try, because you do, but...”

Jay hums. “I get it. You think you have someone who really relates to you on that front, and then...” He splays his fingers outward from a fist. “... poof.”

“And I don’t know if I’ll ever find that. I’ve searched around a little online for other people like me, but at this point I’ve given up. It’s not like I’m about to throw caution to the wind and travel to Omaha to meet someone from Reddit who claims they can chat with their dead grandpa on a regular basis.”

“Uh, right,” says Jay. “Please do not throw that particular caution to any particular wind.”

After a few minutes of thoughtful quiet, Sam murmurs, “I can’t believe we have to make that call again.”

“The bodies are piling up, indeed,” Jay says. He glances at her from the corner of his eye. “Y’know, we... probably should have called the cops as soon as you found his body.”

She nods slowly. “Yeah. True. But we’ll call first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, for sure,” he says.

“Are we becoming a little too desensitized to death?” Sam wonders.

“Nah, not a chance.”

As they banter, the pair lean closer and closer to each other, until the sliver of space between them is swallowed by a kiss that rapidly multiplies into more. Flower, ever the shameless voyeur, finds herself tilting further and further through the painting— unbeknownst to Sam, whose back faces Flower’s favorite wall.

“I guess you’re feeling a lot better,” she teases softly, mouth brushing his.

“Much,” Jay breathes, and the lip-locking resumes.

Suddenly, Flower’s hidey-hole is invaded by Alberta, who pokes her head in with a disgruntled huff. “There you are!” she says. “Girl, I have been looking everywhere for you. They’ve got me outnumbered down there for Movie Night. I told those boys if I’m made to watch one more episode of that spaceship program, I swear I’ll—”

Flower pulls her face back onto this side of the wall, presses her fingers to her lips.

“You are not doing what I think you’re doing,” Alberta admonishes, dropping her voice to a grave whisper. Her eyes flick apprehensively to the wall. “Oh, and they are not doing what I think they’re doing in there! There is a man’s body just down the hall, for Christ’s sake!”

All Flower responds with is a featherlight shrug and “Love doesn’t wait.” And what’s another few hours in the tub? Aron’s corporeal form won’t mind. It can’t mind. Her chilled-out composure briefly dissolves, however, as Macaroni comes tearing through, weaving in and out of the wall in hot pursuit of something or other.

“Look out!” Alberta hisses. Then she squints. “Hold on. Is that cat chasing— a ghost rat?”

Her warning comes too late. Macaroni’s brief tangle with Flower’s feet knocks her off balance, and she falls through the wrong side of the wall straight into Sam and Jay’s bedroom.

All at once, Sam whirls away from Jay, shoulders dropping when she realizes what all the havoc is about. “Really?” she asks in that not-mad, just-disappointed tone she’s chiseled finely over the last couple of years.

Flower grins lazily up at her from the rug, glasses knocked askew. “Hi,” she says.

“Hi. Please leave,” Sam says.

Alberta’s voice booms from safely on the other side of the wall: “Flower, don’t make me come in there!”

“Don’t make her come in here,” Sam agrees, wiping hair out of her face.

Jay tosses in an empty threat for good measure. “I will call Ghostbusters, guys. I will unleash Bill Murray on your asses. And I really shouldn’t have to do that to a septuagenarian.”

Without hurry, Flower rises to her feet, casts her eyes around the room. “Ooh, I like what you’ve done with the drapes.”

Sam’s throat is cleared with an admirable air of authority. “If you don’t mind, Flower, I just really, really want to kiss my husband right now.”

“Aw, thanks, babe,” says Jay. “The feeling’s mutual. About the... kissing.”

Alberta’s arm flashes through the patterned wallpaper, gropes blindly for a moment, then fastens around Flower’s ankle, yanking her back onto the other side of the wall.

“Thank you, Alberta!” Sam’s voice calls.

“With how little peace those two get,” Alberta remarks, shaking her head, dragging Flower downstairs to the TV room, “it is a damn miracle there’s even a baby at all.”

For her part, Flower only grins and lets herself be dragged.

“Our one day off in a whole month, and it’s raining buckets,” Jay laments, gazing through Flower and the window to the green and gray watercolors outside.

“I’m sitting here watching old basketball clips with you, babe. Please just take the win,” Sam replies without looking up from the computer on her lap.

“Mm, watching, writing on your laptop, those are two different things,” Jay says. Sam merely looks at him, then looks back at her screen. He releases a spiked breath and stands from the sofa.

“Where are you going?” she asks, forehead dented as she watches him leave.

Jay’s tone is as brisk as his pace. “Dunno. I’m so bored, maybe I’ll go count my sneakers in the attic!” Throwing his arms up, he turns the corner out of the room.

“Great! And while you’re up there, why don’t you change that broken carbon monoxide detector!” Sam yells after him. “The last thing we need are any more dea—” She stops short as a group of guests walk by. “Good morning! Lovely weather we’re having.” A clap of thunder sounds outside. “That’s a lie.” The guests move on without a word, a choice which truly does say a lot.

Sam’s laptop snaps shut, and she casts it aside with a massive exhale. The present ghosts all exchange a glance and take a careful step backward from where she fumes on the couch.

Flower misses all of this in her pursuit to daydream at the rain-speckled window. “You know what they say about April showers,” she comments absently. “They bring gay power.”

“Um, I don’t think that’s how that one goes,” says Pete.

“You are correct, and yet I am content with her amendment,” says Isaac.

“It’s May,” Sam points out, easing herself to her feet and shutting off the TV. Thor and Sas grumble, hang their heads in tandem dismay. “The May flowers should be here by now.”

Finally Flower tears herself away from the view outside. “What’s bugging you?” she wonders.

“It’s the first full day off Jay and I have had together in a while, and according to him, we’re wasting it,” Sam says. “I feel bad, but I’ve been so tired lately.” She indicates the closed laptop. “And I wasn’t even writing just now. I was researching other farmer’s markets in the area for us to check out.”

“Why?” asks Pete. “You love the one in Highland.”

Sam frowns, hugs herself. Even the ruffles in her shirt sleeves look sad and droopy. “There was a ghost near our favorite burrito stand at the market the other day. Someone who died close to that park a few years ago, but now she’s decided to make the burrito stand her new haunt since she likes the smell of them. Jay wasn’t around, so I had to let Carla the burrito lady think I was chatting with a nearby squirrel.”

“Big Thor energy,” Sas remarks.

“Now she doesn’t look at me the same,” Sam continues, the stress in her voice spiking as the words unwind themselves. “And the couple with the cute corgi is avoiding us, and the vegetable booth stopped selling the cucumbers I like because their crop failed, and—”

“I know what’ll make it better,” Flower interrupts. All eyes flash to her. “Follow me.”

She leads the curious procession out of the room, past Kelly at the front desk, all the way up to the front doors. Sam blinks inquisitively at her and reaches for an umbrella.

“Don’t,” Flower tells her. “Just let the rain hit your skin.” And with that, she ventures into the downpour.

One by one, Sam and the other ghosts pop out to join her. Flower twirls around the driveway, gravel unmoving under her feet, arms raised to the heavy clouds, hair miraculously dry as it lifts with the breeze her movement makes.

“See? It isn’t sad, the rain,” she explains. “It’s making everything fresh. It’s all starting over again.”

Sam stands watching her, thoughts swarming behind her gaze. Damp hair plastered to her scalp, she tilts back her chin and closes her eyes.

“This is one thing I really miss,” Flower tells her, just her, as the others scatter. “Now it’s only an absence, but... I always loved feeling the rain on my skin.”

“Oh, that’s a great song,” Sam remarks idly. Flower tips her head, not understanding. Sam laughs. “Never mind. I’ll play it for you later.”

But Flower has already forgotten what she was mystified about, because that’s when she notices Jay standing at one of the windows upstairs. She starts to wave to him only to realize that, oops, he can’t see her. But Flower can see him. And she really likes what she sees— the fond touch of his gaze as he looks down at Sam, an embrace intimate as lips and fingertips grazing, the unbridled joy of someone loving so strongly that they enjoy their lover’s enjoyment without question or thought.

Flower used to assume everyone had a beginning and an end. There were people who left life before she did who certainly seemed to meet their own foregone conclusions. But for the ghosts here, their stories have begun and may never end. She hopes that Sam and Jay, and the love story they have chosen to write together, will never end, either.

A little later, Flower is reminded of another love story she doesn’t want to end— which means a whole lot, considering there are not many things she is reminded of without help.

She and Thor are seated at the best table in the heart of Woodstone Grille, which is closing down for the night. They are on an impromptu date, just smelling the fading food smells and staring at each other, since there isn’t much else to do while sitting at a table.

“I wish this could be more romantic,” Flower admits. A busboy rushes by, nearly losing his grip on a tub of dirty dishes. The perilous clacking of glass against porcelain slices roughly into their cozy mood.

“The lights could be more dim,” agrees Thor. “Sets a nice atmosphere. Like when roasting moose haunch over campfire.”

“Yeah. Something along those lines.”

As if on cue, a server comes by and blows out the votive candle that was still burning between them on the table. Both of them slump.

“Thor did not mean this dark.”

“Oh well,” Flower chirps, getting over it quickly as is her forté. “I guess we can move on from the staring-at-each-other part of our date.”

“Yes,” says Thor. “Now is the time to entangle our tongues.” She starts to lean across the table, only for him to hold up a hand. “Wait one moment. Thor have idea to make moment even more... private.”

Reaching higher with his mighty fist, he squints with his entire face in concentration as he manipulates the restaurant lights strung above them. They start to flicker; a rumble builds in his chest and throat while he battles with the resistant electricity. Then, after close to a minute, with one last defiant spark, the lights finally go out.

All of the lights.

On the entire property.

“There,” Thor says, dropping his hand with a broad smile towards Flower that she only imagines she can see. “Much better.”

Flower smiles back.

Right when they meet over the table, the first distant holler comes from the house: “Thoooor! Not again!”

Chapter 5: a nightmare on alberta street

Chapter Text

Alberta knows where Sam has been when she hops out of the car wearing one of her snazzy work blazers. Alberta also knows Sam must have good news when she catches a glimpse of her face— the sun wishes it could be that bright.

The pins and needles prickling in her nerves are too much to handle, so Alberta rushes out to meet her in the driveway. “Well?” she asks, hands sewn together. “What did your boss-man say?”

Sam only leaves her shaking in suspense for a moment; she rocks back on her heels, then leans forward with her arms spread. “He said it’s a go!”

“Yes!” Alberta cheers. All the worried seams binding her fingers are broken so she can clap her hands together. “Oh, I knew it! Who could turn down a story as juicy as mine?”

“I know it isn’t a whole book like Isaac’s, but—”

“So? It’s still in print! It’s still telling others about how I was wronged, it’s...” Alberta centers herself with a calming breath. “It’s everything to me, Sam. Thank you.”

“I’m glad that you’re glad,” Sam tells her. “You’re so alive to me, all of you, so it only feels right that you can be alive in other people’s minds, too. Even if it’s not exactly in the same way.”

“Still counts!” says Alberta.

Upon the conclusion of the murder mystery podcast a while back, Sam admitted to Alberta that she still felt like something was missing, like there were more details to the story that could be fleshed out. Several weeks of brainstorming— with a hearty side of bickering— had paved the path to this idea: Sam writing a weekly column in the Ulster County Review that expands the tragic chronicle of Alberta Haynes. The past month has been a trial period, and apparently audiences have received Sam’s new column well. Now it is a confirmed hit. Oh, if only Alberta’s mama could see her today. Not many ladies like her get to go down in history more than once.

“I promise I’ll make it great,” Sam says. “With a little help from Todd, of course.” Alberta barely has a second to wrinkle her nose before Sam adds, “And maybe I’ll reach out to Alicia, too. See how she’s moving along in her career. Because whoa, those pipes.”

“Even better than Jay in the shower,” Alberta teases, only a touch haughty.

Sam’s agreement is laced with a breath of laughter. “Oh, no contest.”

Alberta’s attitude sobers somewhat as they walk into the house. “I oughta come clean to you, Sam. There are days where I wake up scared that you won’t be able to see us anymore. And I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re like a sister to me.” She leans closer, lowers her voice, as if to divulge a secret from someone who could possibly overhear. “Maybe even my favorite one.”

“I feel the same way,” Sam replies, her words all syrupy and soft. “And I haven’t been able to say that to many people in my life, so... it’s special.” She sighs. “I wish I could hug you.”

Alberta frowns in sympathy. “Maybe someday you will?” she says uncertainly.

Sam considers as she hangs her purse in the closet and slides off her blazer. “Guess all I have to do first is die, and then have enough luck and staying power to become a ghost. Hopefully that bridge is many miles away from being crossed, though.”

As if to emphasize his own point that he is about to make, Isaac storms in on their tender moment, stomping it flat under his too-shiny boots.

“I would not call it luck, Sam. I am being belittled and shamed out of the room solely for my choice of what to watch on television!”

Alberta rolls her eyes. Sometimes she thinks society never should have invested so much in talking pictures. Other times, though, she thinks of Jason Momoa and has to recant that passé opinion.

Sending a quick apologetic glance Alberta’s way, Sam shuts the closet door and obediently follows Isaac back toward the TV room. “What were you trying to put on?” she asks him.

Isaac flails his hands helplessly. “If I were not so flustered, I could think of the name! I— I believe the title is... Mean Women? It is a new play that just appeared on one of those blinking squares.”

“‘Mean Women,’” Sam repeats. “Okay, off the top of my head, that could be Mean Girls or Little Women.”

“Whichever one is the musical,” Isaac says.

“So... Mean Girls?”

“That would be the one, yes.”

To her credit, Sam is able to contain a spurt of laughter fairly well. Balancing an even tone and neutral face, she marches to a stop in front of the TV. It takes half a minute for resident couch potatoes Thorfinn and Sasappis to notice; they are otherwise occupied by squabbling.

“Kelsey and Harold make cute couple, but Thor has problem with age gap. Forty years just pushing it.”

Sas scoffs. “You’re one to talk, Mr. I Have A Girlfriend One Thousand Years My Junior.”

“That does not count,” Thor insists. “Our love is different. Flower sees Thor, and accepts Thor, age, rugged looks, and all.”

“What, so you think Harold can’t see Kelsey just because he has cataracts? Check yourself, dude. I thought we left judgments at the door in this house.”

“That has never been accurate,” Isaac remarks.

Sam clears her throat. “Thanks for that segue, Isaac.” She fixes her sharpest stern stare on Woodstone’s very own Statler and Waldorf. Granted, it’s about as sharp as a pencil nub. “Guys, you know what Musical Monday is.”

In their respective dialects, Sas and Thor boredly recite something to the effect of, “Musical Monday is the second Monday of every other month, which really is not asking a lot.”

“Thank you!” Isaac exclaims. “It really is not asking for much, men. I understand we all originated from times that were not pretty, but it does not mean we must henceforth reside selfishly in the lap of luxury. We should take turns languishing in her sweet embrace. And right now, the turn is mine.” He swings his head toward Sam. “That was good. Write that down.”

Resigned, Sam takes out her phone and taps something into the notes app. Alberta squints over her shoulder; Sam’s just typing random emojis.

Wiggling his shoulders higher, Isaac goes on, “And they wonder why I never took part in the writing of important speeches! The fools in Philadelphia could not have handled my genius. Those Federalist Papers would have been sunken like the tea bags, I can promise you that.”

During this tirade, Sas has sat hunched with his head hanging between his knees. “... is he done yet?” he asks, tentatively looking back up.

“I will never be done, Sasappis,” declares Isaac. “Not as long as our country of America is alive and well.”

Sam, who has wrangled easy control of the almighty remote, flips through selection screens on the TV. “America isn’t really a country,” she points out. “It’s a continent. Two, actually.”

“Ugh, fine,” Isaac concedes. “As long as democracy is alive and well, then.”

“There,” Sam says, putting down the remote. “Mean Girls is on. Is everybody happy?”

There’s silence bookended by the shuffling of feet and a mumble of, “Thor not especially happy.” He holds up a clawed hand, threatening to coax the TV into another power outage.

Sam points at him. “Don’t.” Her hands go to her hips. “I haven’t seen the original Mean Girls since it came out, but if I remember correctly, the plot and a lot of the lingo could be taken verbatim from your Naked Love shows, or whatever they’re called. As long as you don’t think about it too hard, it’s almost like a compromise. So sit back and relax, or take a walk.”

Pleased with her command of the situation, Sam leaves the room, and Alberta follows. “That was delightful, Sam!” she praises. “I’ve got to say I am loving the new you.”

“Trust me,” Sam replies, “it’s for the sake of our collective sanity.”

The next day, Sam and Jay are busy setting the breakfast table for guests when Alberta filters through the dining room.

“You know you don’t have to help with this, right?” Sam is telling him. “You’re supposed to be doing the cooking part.”

“Uh-huh, I’ll get to that in a minute,” Jay says in that not-really-listening voice men often adopt. In so many ways, Jay Arondekar is the antithesis to the men Alberta met in her lifetime. But in other ways, he is just the same. Harmless as a puppy, though.

Slowly Sam sets down a plate, looks at it, nudges it over half an inch, then looks at him. “... you’re conspiring,” she says, a prying edge in her voice.

Now Jay is fully tuned in. Frowning, he relinquishes his hold on a fork. “Conspiring with who?”

“I don’t know. Yourself?”

He circles around the table until he’s beside her. “Sam.”

She tries and fails not to mirror his mischievous grin. “Jay...”

“Are there any ghosts around?” he asks, eyebrows lifted.

Sam’s eyes dart elusively to Alberta, then back onto him. “Nope.”

“Come on. I know your ghost face.”

“My ghost face?” She forces a guffaw that is more wheeze than laugh. “You come on.”

“There’s this look you get when there’s a ghost in the room,” Jay says. “You have it right now.”

Sam attempts to wipe her face into an utterly blank expression. “... no, I don’t.”

See, this is why Alberta can’t understand why the others love that television so much. You just can’t beat the in-person entertainment these Livings create!

“Yes, you do.”

“You are...” Sam shakes her head a little too rapidly. “You are mistaken, buddy.”

“Then what were you looking at just now?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you. I just really like the wallpaper in this room.”

Jay imitates a buzzer sound. “That’s where you fumble, babe. Nobody likes the wallpaper in this room. Might I remind you of your own words from a few months ago? And I quote: ‘This wallpaper looks like grandma’s floral print curtains and bus seat fabric patterns had the world’s loudest baby.’ Side note, kudos to your mind. A+ creativity.” He raises a finger; her eyes narrow. “Now, I have a guess who you were looking at,” he goes on. “It was a ghost. I’m gonna say...” His lips pucker in thought. The dart he throws ends up boasting some alarming precision. “... Alberta?”

Sam’s jaw hangs open for a second. “Okay, jig’s up. You’ve got us,” she gives in, glancing at the ghost in question. Alberta is equally as floored as she is. “I can’t not commend you for that, Jay. How did you know?”

He grins broadly. “That is what I call pure guesswork.”

Alberta continues on her way through the room, jabbing a thumb at Jay as she passes him. “Have I mentioned he’s a keeper?”

Sam’s cheeks are rosy. “Once or twice,” she murmurs. Her gaze slips easily back to her husband. “Alberta said you’re a keeper.”

“I try,” Jay says, dipping into a bow. “Thank you.”

Wanting to respect their privacy, Alberta leaves the room. Well, she mostly wants to respect their privacy, so she mostly leaves the room. She can respect it from the other side of the wall, at least. She hasn’t quite had her daily fill of the lovebirds’ affectionate sap yet.

Naturally Hetty catches her mid-eavesdrop. Before she can roll out any expected witticisms on a forked tongue, Alberta shushes her. She pulls Hetty aside so they are both pressed as flat to the wall as possible without falling through it.

“So. I know it’s two days belated, but...” Jay pauses, and there’s a sharp intake of breath from Sam. “I wanted to get you something, because you are my favorite person. And my best friend, which is not a label I ever thought I’d give to someone who doesn’t know how many rings there are in Lord of the Rings.”

“Hey, I’m still weird, though!” Sam defends herself. “All of my closest friends, apart from you, are dead. And I describe those friends’ deaths to random strangers on an almost daily basis. In detail.”

Hetty tuts. “Why is she calling us her friends in a derogatory manner? I have half a mind to be offended.”

Alberta waves her off. “You’re always offended,” she whispers back. “Now hush up.”

“Huh,” Jay muses. “Now that you mention it, we really should get our city friends up here for another visit sometime soon.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t come running when we had that whiskey tasting,” Sam says.

“My theory is they’re allergic to going anywhere north of Harlem. They’re scared of the Bronx. And twisty roads.”

Sam and Jay share a chuckle. Alberta and Hetty share a sidelong glance.

“I don’t know. I didn’t always like the person I was when I was around them,” Sam admits. “But sometimes I miss that side of me.” She lets out a shuddery breath that Alberta can practically feel in the floorboards. “I’ve been so sentimental lately.”

“Lately?” Hetty murmurs. “There is not a single day that passes where that girl is not sentimental.”

Alberta responds with a disinclined hum. “Can’t deny it. She does sprinkle a heaping helping of hearts-and-flowers on her corn flakes every morning, so to speak.”

“If it makes you feel better, I love both city Sam and upstate Sam,” Jay responds. There’s an anxious dollop of silence. “Crap. Was that the wrong thing to say?”

Another beat. But when Sam speaks, she sounds more amused than anything. “You mentioned you got something for me?”

“Yes! Yes. Okay, check this out. You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Now Alberta can’t resist taking a tiny peek around the corner. And, oh boy. Jay may be a dumbass sometimes, but Alberta sort of wants to steal him for herself now.

“Like I said, I know Mother’s Day was two days ago...” Jay slips something from his pocket, holds it up enclosed in his fist, then carefully lets a whisper-thin silver necklace dangle from his fingers. Its charm is a chip of brightness in the room, capturing the sunlight from outside like a miniature prism. “... but you know better than anyone how hard it is to get away from here. The place really has a knack for sucking a guy in. I only just found a spare second to make a quick run into town for this.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Sam whispers. “But, Jay, I’m not even a mom yet. You didn’t have to get me anything for—”

“Nuh-uh, no buts,” he insists. “You’re busy 24/7 growing a human. So, it still counts in my book.” He holds the necklace closer to her, and her fingers graze the charm. Alberta wishes she could make out what it is. “Put it on?” Jay prompts.

Sam laughs. “Yes!”

He steps behind her, fiddling with the clasp while Sam gathers up her hair. Alberta gazes at the intimate scene, wiping the wetness from under her eyes.

Hetty leans over, her head above Alberta’s like they are part of Woodstone’s weirdest totem pole. “Are you crying?” she whispers disdainfully.

“Just a little misty,” Alberta sniffs.

Meanwhile, Sam’s fingers trail along the tail of the necklace before she lets it fall down the nape of her neck. “Thank you,” she tells him. “I never want to lose this.” Alberta wonders if it’s only the necklace she is referring to.

“Ugh,” Hetty groans. “Somebody free me from the saccharine confines of this Hallmark film.”

“Now, I should confess,” says Jay, “this is also an I-apologize-in-advance gift.”

Sam’s hands freeze where they play with the charm. “... why?”

Jay buries his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched by his ears. “Yeah, so I may have told my family they can come visit us next month? Sorry. I was cornered on FaceTime. You know how that goes.”

She sighs. “I’m just amazed your mom didn’t teleport here the same moment we told them our news over the phone.”

“That truly is a miracle in and of itself,” Jay agrees. “The woman has been known to break light and sound barriers to get places.”

And just like that, a dangerous seed is planted in Alberta’s mind. Spinning to Hetty— who is nearly knocked over by the sudden whoosh of movement— she enthuses, “Ooh, I know how to make a party out of this!”

“I should mention, I might have entertained a politician or two here in my day,” Hetty replies, setting her shoulders all formal-like— which, really, when are they not? “I... could be of some assistance, if you would like.”

“No, I think I’ve got this,” Alberta dismisses. “But thanks, girl.” She parades off down the hallway, ignoring Hetty’s appalled stare.

“Alright, alright, it wasn’t a ‘might’!” Hetty calls after her. “I definitely entertained politicians! Come back!” She pinches up her skirts and scurries after her.

“Hey, can we talk?”

Alberta swallows a wince, turns around. “Yes, Pete?”

She’d been bored watching Sam conduct another ghost tour from afar, but now Pete leads her to the gazebo, which is shaping up to be a real site of eternal doom and gloom.

She has an idea what this must be about— her and Pete’s unrequited thing. Just as unrequited as Sam and Trevor’s weird thing... and Trevor’s weird things with many other women. And Thor’s thing with a floor lamp the first time he saw one, so she’s been told.

Pete waits until they are both perched on the bench seating, their feet shuffling over the wooden floor. Then he says, “I just want to know. Just... lay it all out there for me. Are we ever going to happen, Alberta? Is there even a sliver of a chance?”

Right away, the word comes to her mind: No. It comes more from a place of defiance, of anger, than she would be willing to admit. Because how dare he dredge this up again. No, Pete. Never. The words are right there, a complete answer, no explanation or excuses needed, because she knows he would accept it wholeheartedly and finally leave it alone and let his foolish hopes die. She has it all ready, prepared for launch on the tip of her tongue— and yet she can’t bring herself to speak.

“It’s been killing me, not knowing for sure. I— I know it’s not even fair to say that you’ve been stringing me along,” Pete rambles on to fill the gap of squirming silence. “But if you could shut it down once and for all, tell me to— to screw off, then I will. I’ll relinquish all my hopes and... and embrace the closure.”

“I can’t give you that, Pete,” Alberta interrupts. He’s staring at her with those kind magnified eyes of his, but she can’t meet his stare. “I... I’m not sure what I want. All I know for sure is that I... I see people like Sam and Jay, and Isaac and Nigel, so in love it hurts, and of course I want that for myself, I want that for us if we’re going to be stuck here together for all eternity.”

“But that’s the thing,” Pete says softly. It takes a minute before he manages to draw her reluctant eyes onto him. “It shouldn’t be that we’re stuck here together. It should be about us choosing to be together. I guess what I’m saying is— make it clear to me, Alberta. Clearer than you probably already have. Cut the cord, once and for all. Or, er, thrice and for all, you might say.”

“Fine,” she says, gazing out at the lake again. “If there’s no room for maybes, then... I can’t be that person for you. I won’t be. It... never gets any easier to tell a guy this, but... you’re my very best friend, Pete. That is one thing I hope you know for certain.”

“I do know,” he says, though it comes out in a sigh that doesn’t make either of them feel much better. They both conclude the moment with twin forlorn gazes fixed on the lake.

Alberta spends the next few days shadowing an unaware Jay and company in the restaurant. It’s not that she’s not avoiding Pete and all that mess, but she also most definitely is avoiding it.

After the barn goes dark for the night, Alberta follows Jay back to the house for the third or fourth evening in a row. She’s so concerned with hiding herself behind him that she nearly runs head-on into Flower and Sas in the foyer.

“There you are,” Flower says emphatically, and Alberta can’t help but feel she’s being mocked a little. “I’ve been looking all over for you, man.”

“So, what have you learned about the restaurant trade?” Sas asks her. “Seeing as you’re besties with Jay now.”

“Oh, spare me,” Alberta says, shouldering between them. “I’m trying out a change of surroundings during the day. Don’t tell me you don’t get sick of this house, too.”

Sas stage-whispers to Flower to clue her in. “She’s been avoiding Pete.”

“And avoiding you,” Alberta adds, turning on him sharply, “Gossipin’ Gus you are.”

“I accept the label with pride,” Sas replies, bowing in feigned gratitude.

Jay finds Sam folding towels upstairs; since they’re sticking with the buddy system at the moment, Alberta stays with him, peering carefully left and right and up and down as they walk into the unoccupied guest room. Well, it’s unoccupied by any guests. It is, however, populated by just about every other ghost in the joint. Nigel included, apparently here to be Isaac’s arm charm and remind everyone he’s British with that stiff upper lip of his.

Jay, unable to perceive that the room is as crowded as a damn train station, greets Sam with a smooch. “Hey,” he says. “How was your day?”

“As boring as it can be around here,” she answers. “Only had a Level B emergency with the basem*nt ghosts. Or so I thought, but it turned out they were just putting on their own informal production of Macbeth.”

Isaac tilts his head. “The water heater played King Duncan. Its performance fell rather flat for me. Would have made a better Siward, in my humble opinion.”

Nigel peers at him. “Is that right? The English general is to be an inanimate object?”

“And just so you’re aware,” Sam informs Jay, “we have an audience of, like, ten right now.”

“Really? Just to watch you fold towels?” Jay clicks his tongue, impressed. “You have amassed quite the fanbase for yourself.” Sam tosses a towel at him. He catches and folds it without missing a beat, then adds it to the teetering stack.

“Is better than watching paint dry,” says Thor with a shrug.

“Though not much,” adds Hetty.

“And how are you doing, little bean?” Jay asks next, bending so his face is level with the slight bump at Sam’s belly.

Instead of spending her time doing anything even remotely sane, Flower’s head pops through Sam’s body to meet Jay with a vacant smile and “Good, thanks!”

Everybody jumps, Sam most of all. “Ah!” she yelps, stumbling away from Jay and through Flower, who straightens and glances at Sam over her shoulder, surprised by her surprise.

Jay, too, is now visibly alarmed. “‘Ah’ what?” he demands, reaching for his wife. Full rings of white flash around the color in his eyes. “Is everything okay?”

“Don’t do that, Flower!” Sam and Pete scold at the same time, with an addendum from Pete— “You could hurt the baby!”

“Wait, do you actually believe it could harm the baby?” Sam asks, her voice high and panicky.

“I have no idea!” Pete exclaims, also panicky.

“That isn’t comforting!” Sam snaps.

Jay looks ready to faint. His voice also has the same panicked pitch. “Uh, Sam, I’m about as lost as you were when I made you watch Dune: Part Two without seeing Part One first, if that provides some perspective!”

She distractedly feeds him a shred of context. “Flower just popped through my stomach like the alien in, well, Alien.”

“Oh,” Jay mumbles. “Nope. Don’t like that.”

Alberta tosses her own comment into the circus. “Can’t call this day boring anymore, now, hm?”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Flower says innocently, moving as if she wants to try the act again. “Maybe it tickles them.”

“Please don’t,” Sam pleads. “I really don’t need to be high off sixties-vintage weed right now.” Flower backs off with a shrug.

Sas poses a serious question amidst the mayhem. “Do you think she could tell the gender from doing that?”

Trevor rolls his eyes. “Obviously not. Does Flower look like an ornithologist to you?”

Sam blinks at him until the realization clicks into place. “... you mean an obstetrician?”

Trevor crosses his arms, bluffing all the way to hell and back. “Sure. Whatever you’re calling it these days.”

Sam scrambles to summarize the last couple minutes to poor Jay, who’s been dangling like a loose button all this time. When she’s done, the pair trade a thoughtful look. Picking up on the anticipation, the ghosts grow more restless until the room is thrumming with energy.

Hanging on each other for dear life— as is the norm for them— Sam and Jay put on matching smiles. “Well,” she says, stretching the single syllable into mischievous proportions, “since it was brought up, you all should know that... we are... finding out the sex next week!”

“The sex?” Trevor parrots, poking fun that nobody asked to be poked. “Uh, yeah, no need for that. I’ve already found it.” He wiggles a hand toward Hetty, who sidesteps him neatly and growls, “Get off of me. She means the sex of the child, you imbecile.”

“Congratulations, you guys!” Pete cheers. The others join in the cheerful sentiments.

Alberta claps her hands together and beams. “Y’all must be over the moon!”

“Yeah,” Sam says, her voice breaking slightly around laughter, like a warm crumbly cookie. “Yeah, we are.”

In the celebratory chaos, Alberta’s eyes snag on Pete’s for a fraction of a second. He gives her a nod and a grin and an unspoken it’s okay. She nods back, takes a moment to herself, then spins to catch Hetty’s ear.

“Alright, I got a fresh idea for this party. We are amping. It. Up!”

Hetty’s gaze is keen with devious interest. “Good. If it fails to make me question my life and death choices, then it is not a real soirée.”

Rubbing her hands together, Alberta beckons Hetty to follow her to a stealthy planning location where no one will bother them— the creepy cement hallway that leads to the safe. Or the vault-way, as some like to call it.

“Well, you best buckle up, buttercup,” Alberta replies.

Then she turns her face away to hide the cringe. She nearly turns her own face inside out from the force of it. Ugh, where did she pick up that phrase?

Ah, yes. That has Pete Martino written all over it. The delightful bastard.

“It’s official,” Jay announces early the following week, striding into the library. “My family will be here on the thirteenth.”

Sam looks up from her book, tries to drum up some enthusiasm. “Cool. Cool, cool. Very cool.” Her eyebrows lift. “The thirteenth, huh?”

“I know, I know,” Jay chuckles. “Lucky thirteen. How fitting.” He stops behind her chair to rub her shoulders for a couple minutes. “How’s the book?”

“I’m not sure yet. I am only...” Sam flips through the novel in her hands. “... eleven pages in. Check back with me in two weeks or two years.”

She closes the book and collapses into Jay’s massaging hands with a sigh. On her other side, Hetty groans. “I was not finished with that page yet, Samantha. How am I ever supposed to find out whether the love of Pippa’s life will walk into her coffee shop?” She sits back, stunned. Macaroni yawns, pounces off her lap. “My god. What have I become?”

“You’re becoming a lover, Hetty,” Alberta tells her. “Bask in it.”

“Is it weird that I still get so nervous around your family?” Sam asks Jay. “They’re perfectly nice people.”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, they haven’t killed anyone. As far as we know, at least.”

“We’ve known each other for over six years, Jay. At what point will I be normal about them?”

“Hard to be normal when they aren’t normal themselves,” he points out lightly. “But look, don’t worry. If they didn’t like you, I wouldn’t have married you.”

“Oop.” Alberta slaps a hand over her mouth.

Hetty leans toward her. “See, there are still moments where he is an idiot.”

Before Sam can so much as twitch a muscle to retaliate, Jay recognizes his misstep. “... and now, playing that back in my head, I see how it is not a good joke. Did not land and could not land because it is not even a joke.” Now he squeezes her shoulders with a rough sort of desperation; his words pick up in speed until they’re practically drag-racing off his tongue. “Can I get you anything? Water, tea, lemonade, water with lemon, tea with lemon, even though I don’t think you like that... um, co*ke, Diet co*ke, seltzer, orange juice, Dr. Pep—”

“Jay, you’re not at the restaurant,” Sam reminds him. He starts to hurry off to lick his self-inflicted wounds, only for her to add, “A lemonade does sound nice, though.”

“Comin’ right up!” Jay says. He’s gone like a rocket.

“Now’s our time to shine,” Alberta tells Hetty. Together they swoop in like wings on either side of Sam, who has no choice but to abandon her neglected book yet again.

“Can I help you two?” she asks tightly.

“Sam,” Alberta begins. “Do you recall your 30th birthday party?”

Before she can answer, Hetty chimes in for her supporting role. “No? Exactly.”

“No, I remember it,” Sam says. “We had barely started unpacking here, so Jay and I just drank wine and played board games on the floor. It was fun.”

Alberta’s forehead crinkles, and she shakes her head disapprovingly. “Now that was not a party. That was just sad.”

“Monopoly is far more enjoyable in actuality, with legitimate legal tender,” adds Hetty. “Not played off as the mockery it has become.”

A parenthesis forms at one end of Sam’s mouth as she considers. “I guess it did pale in comparison to the rooftop bash Jay’s rich city friends threw for his 30th before we moved.”

“You can do better, and we can help you,” Alberta continues.

She almost believes she has Sam hooked on her line, only for her hope to deflate when Sam shrugs and says, “Look, it’s not a competition. I like the new tradition Jay and I have for my birthday now. He doesn’t roll out his special edition Star Wars-themed Monopoly set for just anyone.” One eyebrow slants. “Also, it’s nowhere near my birthday. Why are we talking about this?”

“I’m talking about another occasion,” Alberta tells her.

Hetty swats a hand vaguely toward Sam’s baby bump. “Do people not throw lavish festivities for these nowadays? We have viewed the evidence. Blues and pinks, cakes and balloons and ducklings made of rubber. In my day, we never made such a fuss about it because odds of survival for mother and child were not favorable.” Sam pales somewhat, and with Alberta’s elbow crammed under her ribs, Hetty swiftly clears her throat and course-corrects. “Anyway! Rubber duckies. How adorable.”

“Oh,” Sam says. “Really, guys, it’s fine. I don’t need a big baby shower—”

“As a matter of fact, you do!” Alberta insists. “Girl, you would move heaven, earth and hell to put on a party for someone else! You brought the prom to Stephanie. You helped Pete walk his daughter down the aisle. You’re going to dream up something special for Isaac and Nigel soon. I mean— in what universe do you not deserve the same sort of honor?”

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know. I just want this to be low-key. There wouldn’t be many people to invite, anyway, aside from Jay’s family and a few friends from college. I don’t...” She trails off, stares down at the book in her hands. She toys idly with a corner of a page, curling it in her fingers. “I’m not much of a party person, anyway,” she eventually says. It is a shoddy amendment to whatever she had originally planned to say.

Sam then excuses herself, probably to go put the kibosh on Jay adding any more apology-embellishments to a simple glass of lemonade. This leaves Alberta and Hetty to blink at each other in bewilderment.

“I suppose we should put our plans to bed, then,” Hetty sighs after a moment. “Oh, well. How pleasant it was to imagine for a minute that there might be some excitement around here.”

“Now, hold on, hold on,” Alberta says, catching her shoulder as she turns to go. “Technically, Sam didn’t say not to throw a party. Not in explicit terms.”

Hetty’s nostrils flare as she peers down at her. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, Alberta?”

“You know it!” She grabs Hetty’s elbow, pulling her from the room. “Come on, let’s go find your boy toy. We have some scheming to do.”

Before Hetty can sputter another lie about her and Trevor’s relationship status, they track him down in his reliable roost in the kitchen, messing with that silly iPad. Although the iPad doesn’t seem so silly at times such as now, when it can be used to their advantage.

“Trevor,” Alberta trumpets as she and Hetty enter the room. “I’m enlisting you to be creative.”

Trevor pauses his concentrated tapping to frown at them. He looks like a stockbroker when the overhead lights suddenly come on in a strip club— that is, he looks like himself. “Uh, you do know what I did for a living, yeah? Gray cubicles, hive-mind money-making. Only splash of color allowed was the tie I’d switch up every day with the same basic black suits. The creative juices don’t exactly flow up here,” he says, gesturing to his head.

“Oh, please,” Alberta shoots back, coming to a pointed stop next to where he sits at the table. “As if you and your frat bros didn’t know how to make a party interesting.”

This statement garners the results she’d hoped for. Waving a hand all casual, Trevor rocks back in his chair. “Well, okay. You said it, not me.”

“Great. We need you to produce and distribute enticing invitations on that device of yours,” Hetty orders, all business.

“Keep it classy yet whimsical,” adds Alberta. “Attractive. Elegant. But fun!”

Instantly his forehead crinkles. “The parties my bros and I threw were more... how do I put it... spontaneous? It was sort of a word-of-mouth thing, y’know? Didn’t exactly have time to assemble cutesy little invites at five o’clock on a Friday.”

“Sounds like a poor excuse to my ears,” Hetty retorts. “We know how bored you are, Trevor. We are all in the same puttering, aimless death-boat here.”

Trevor expels a heavy sigh. Alberta’s grin expands; she knows he won’t be able to resist a light verbal lashing from the lady of the manor.

“It’s easy!” Alberta tells him. “Look, just slap some words on a document the way Sam does all the time.” A fresh glint sharpens itself in her eyes. “You have Jay’s contacts on there, right?”

It takes several minutes, but Trevor is eventually able to pull up a long list of names. “Uh, yep. Here we go.”

Alberta’s gaze is now a hearth housing an ambitious blaze. “Send an invite to everyone.”

Both Hetty and Trevor gape at her. “Everyone?” they echo at the same time. They glare at each other, then back at Alberta.

“I said what I said,” she confirms.

“What kind of party is this?” Trevor asks.

“It’s a baby party for Sam. That girl is too humble! She deserves something extravagant in her name. I want to see this house bursting at its seams. Every hall full, every room packed. We’ll get some good music going— me and Alexa, we’re old friends— and we will raise the damn roof. It is about time we had a—”

“Are you sure?” Trevor interrupts, mid-muse as he scrolls through the contacts list. “I mean, this person has a label on their name saying ‘High School Ex. DNC.’ And if I was a betting man— which, let’s face it, I totally am— I’d guess that stands for ‘Do Not Contact.’”

Hetty lifts her shoulders. “It could be... ‘Do Notify of Celebration.’”

“Uh-huh.”

“Or it means ‘Don’t Not Contact,’” Alberta tries.

“Ooh, can I have a guess?” Flower chirps, popping out from the hinterlands. “‘Dead Neon Carburetors’!”

Hetty’s nose wrinkles. “Those certainly are words.”

Alberta puts a step of distance between herself and Flower, grumbling, “You’d think this was a one-room cottage, the way y’all need to be in my space all the dang time.”

“I’ve got another one. ‘Dirty Nosy Crackpot.’”

“Mm-hmm, that’s what you are,” Alberta replies.

Flower persists. “‘Dark Necessary Contempt.’”

“I’m definitely feeling some necessary contempt at the moment.”

“So will you complete the task or not, Trevor?” Hetty demands, ignoring Flower’s one-woman show.

He clicks his teeth. “Well...”

“For the love of god. Do you want me to ever jump your bones again or not?” she snaps.

“Alright! On it.” With that settled, Trevor aims his finger carefully at the screen.

Alberta and Hetty smirk at each other. All in a day’s work.

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s safe,” says Pete, grimacing away from the display on the screen.

Sas, on the other hand, has about as opposite of a reaction as possible. Forget the other hand— he’s on another hand on another body. “Wi-i-icked,” he chuckles, leaning closer to the TV.

Alberta wanders into the room just in time to catch a giant explosion of blue confetti on-screen. She crosses her arms, observing in an appropriately judgmental manner. “Now what rabbit hole have y’all fallen down this time?” she asks.

A roar erupts out of Thorfinn. His gaze, too, is wholly captured by the television, as if they are watching helmeted men bump into each other, or that Keeping Close with the Carpathians, or whatever it’s called. And, hell, for all Alberta knows, maybe they are watching one of those. She prefers her trash.

“Sam put on some boring YouTube documentary for Isaac and Nigel to watch,” Trevor explains at length. “When they were done geeking out, I tried pushing the back button on the remote. Ended up clicking a random video, and two hours later, here we are.”

“It’s called the magic of autoplay,” Sas marvels, eyes still trained on the screen. “I think I might be in love with it.”

Alberta shakes her head. “What kind of twisted-ass path takes you from war stuff to...” She trails off, peering more closely. “... hang on, is that a cannon in someone’s backyard?”

“I’m afraid so,” Pete sighs.

“Yes,” answers Thor, an appreciative gleam in his eye. “Yes, it is.”

The group watches with suspended breath. No thanks to the shaky camerawork, Alberta struggles to make out what exactly is going on. There’s a cluster of blurry people, and somebody is lighting the butt-end of the cannon, and then there’s a burst of pink pyrotechnics from its gaping mouth. The people on screen jump and cheer, failing to notice the fire that has been sparked behind them, until it abruptly switches to a different clip.

“What in the hell...” Alberta mutters. “I do not understand the twenty-first century sometimes.”

“Is more like twenty-worst century,” says Thor. “Still needs more explosions.”

“These are gender reveals,” Trevor tells her. “Took us a minute to figure it out.”

“‘Gender Reveals Gone Wrong,’ if any of you could read the video title,” says Sas.

“Well,” Alberta huffs. “One thing I can say for certain is that we are certainly not blowing up this house or the barn with a colored powder cannon.”

“How about the shed?” Nancy asks.

Alberta startles, spinning to find that the basem*nt dweller has slithered out of thin air to stand next to her, also watching. “Ghosts live there, Nancy,” she points out.

“Really?” Nancy hits back. “Ghosts ‘live’ there? Watch your language. Not everyone is comfortable with the same words as you are, Alberta.”

Luckily, Alberta is able to conceal her ensuing eye roll with the homecoming of Sam and Jay, who stop by the front desk to chat with Kelly. Unable to wait, Alberta scurries over, vibrating through to her bones.

“So?” she asks, pressing the ignition immediately. “What’s the news?”

Mindful of Kelly’s proximity, Sam takes out her phone under the guise of speaking to Alberta on a call. “Hi. I actually can’t tell you,” she says.

“Sam.” Alberta lifts an arm in their receptionist’s direction. “Does Kelly believe in ghosts?”

“Huh? I don’t know.” Puzzled, Sam glances from Kelly back to Alberta. “Well, if she works here, she must believe at least a little.”

Alberta raises her eyebrows.

“Fine.” Sam “hangs up” her phone and speaks over her shoulder with playful sincerity. “Be right back. Ghost business.”

Kelly grins. Jay flashes the OK sign.

“So? Was I right or was I right?” Alberta demands, on her heels as they step out of the room.

Once they’re around the corner, Sam responds, “I was only saying that I don’t have any news to share. Not yet. We asked them to write down the baby’s sex and put it in an envelope for us to open later.”

Alberta throws her head back. “Ugh! How can you wait? Once again I fail to understand your 2020s mindset. If only we had that technology in the 1920s. My cousin would have stopped after baby number five was baby boy number five.”

Sam shoots her a soft look. “Sorry to disappoint. But Jay and I decided we want to do a special little reveal for ourselves over dinner tonight, instead of under doctor’s office fluorescents. Soon enough, everyone will know. I promise.”

She walks away, leaving Alberta to ruminate on that promise. A new treacherous seed takes root in her mind, and once it sprouts, she can’t let go of it.

Shuffling back to the TV room, she stands in the doorway and hisses, “Trevor!” He blinks at her, then back at the TV, only mildly concerned by her urgency. “Trevor, get your puny butt over here!”

“Okay, alright,” he says, rising to his feet. “But only because I need to correct you on that adjective.”

With a steadfast grip on his arm, she drags him to the edge of the foyer, where Sam and Jay are still shooting the breeze with Kelly. “There,” she whispers, directing his gaze with a pointed index finger. “You see that envelope in Jay’s hand?”

“Alberta...” he says hesitantly.

“I want you to watch that thing like a hawk, and whenever he puts it down, try to take a peek in there. I have an even better idea for Sam’s party!”

His gaze slides to her, eyelids low. “Does it involve a glitter cannon?”

“No.”

“Confetti bomb?”

“I’m walking away now, Trevor.”

“Okay,” he mumbles. “Whatever. Disappointing.”

It takes all of an hour for disaster to strike down its meaty fist.

Trevor approaches Alberta where she’s tracing a leisurely loop around the lake’s perimeter, taking in some fresh air away from her and Hetty’s party-planning bunker. Fluffy spring clouds drift across the ocean of sky, and a shallow breeze skips through, stirring restless strands of grass.

He clears his throat, matches her pace. “Beautiful day, huh?”

“Indeed.” Her eyes flick to him, then forward again, hands folded into neat origami behind her back as if they are agents engaged in a covert operation. “Is it done?” she asks.

“Um, about that.” Trevor stops, and Alberta halts a few steps ahead. Slowly, she turns to face him; he only shrinks a fraction. Regardless of fear and nerves, those shoulders will never completely fill out that suit jacket.

“Good news first,” he begins. “I was able to touch the envelope. It was sticking out of Jay’s pocket, so all I had to do was pinch the edge of it between two fingers. And I did.”

“And what else did you do?”

He swipes a hand through disheveled hair. “Well, problem is, I can only hold stuff for a few seconds, so... then it fell.”

“Right...”

“And when it fell, it fell open, so this card inside slipped out. I was able to read it, but—”

“But what, Trev?” Alberta’s acerbic expression falls. “Oh, hell. It ain’t triplet boys, is it?”

“What? No.” Those undersized shoulders droop. “Alberta, Jay was standing outside in the driveway talking to some contractor guy. But of course the dude decided to get in his truck and leave while this was happening, so... yeah, he kind of drove over the envelope? And, like, ground it into the dirt. It’s totally illegible now.”

She presses two knuckles to her forehead for a moment, then glances back at him. “Did Jay notice?”

“Nope. He went back inside. Didn’t see a thing.” Trevor’s head tips to the side like a puppy’s. “I feel kind of bad, Alberta. I hope whatever you have planned makes up for it.”

“It will be, as long as you tell me what you saw,” she says. “So?”

Grinning shyly, Trevor leans over and whispers in her ear.

On the big day, anxiety wakes up early and spreads itself thick through the old mansion. Alberta and Sam are its primary targets, though the former can’t put her finger on why.

“I always loved a good party!” she insists to Hetty. They’ve parked themselves by a front window, taking turns stealing furtive glances outside for any arrivals. “I still do. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“Perhaps we have overstepped,” Hetty admits, sneaking another peek through the curtains. Her eyes snag on Alberta’s, and she gives a faint head shake. “But, what’s done is done. All there is left to do now is sit back and admire the bedlam.”

Nibbling on her nails— a bad habit made harmless by her body’s permanent resistance to change— Alberta watches out the window and waits for the day to unfold.

By some stroke of fortune, the only expected visitors of Sam and Jay show up first. Less fortunately for Alberta, she underestimated how much pandemonium Jay’s mother and sister bring on their own. It’s Bela— she should have known.

“Code red,” Jay calls out, staring through the window between Alberta and Hetty. “Sam, they’re here!”

“Okay!” she calls back. “Great. Great, great, great.”

They hurtle into the entryway right as the doors burst open as if forced by a gust of supernatural wind. “Sure, Ma, go ahead and let yourself in,” Jay mutters. “Awesome.”

Champa Arondekar makes her grand Woodstone debut, trailing only just behind her larger-than-life personality. And trailing behind her is Jay’s father, who tends to be a man of few words. “Ah, finally we are here!” she trumpets. “I thought it would never be over.”

“How was the drive?” Sam asks.

“Terrible. Thank you for asking, dear,” Champa answers, motioning to Bela and Eric as they troop in dutifully after her. “She sang Twyla Switch songs the entire drive down from Boston. I may have brought her into this world, but I am ready to take her out of it.”

Sam leans over to Jay. “Does she mean Taylor Swift?”

He gives a single curt nod. “I am amazed you got that from, uh, that.” He bumps his shoulder to hers. “See, you’re part of the fam.”

“Of course she is,” says Champa as she scoops Jay into a hug. But when Sam goes in for a hug next, her mother-in-law instead greets her unborn grandchild first, giving Sam’s stomach a pat that is less than welcome, if Sam’s face is any indication. “I won’t mention how you two broke my heart by eloping.”

Alberta winces. She can almost trip on the guilt from all the way over here.

“And yet you mentioned it. But I’d also like to point out that, uh, Sam and I didn’t elope, Ma. We were engaged for six months and sent out invites,” Jay tells her.

She waves him off. “Hardly any time to plan for a proper ceremony! My son deserved better than a courthouse.”

“For your information, it was a pretty fancy courthouse,” Jay insists. “There were marble floors, Ma. Genuine marble! And one of those neat swivel doors.”

While that minor tit-for-tat goes on, Bela and Eric greet Sam warmly. “Hey, sister!” Bela gushes. She squeezes Sam on the borderline of too tight— really, Sam’s facial expressions could be their own art form, Alberta can read her like a billboard— and then pulls back, still holding her hands. “Look at you! Wow. A glowing goddess. Isn’t she a glowing goddess, Eric?”

Eric lifts a slack hand, then drops it, apparently unsure what he had been planning to do with it. “Y- yeah. For sure.”

Bela lowers her voice into a conniving whisper, eyes bright. “Are the ghosts here?”

Eric smiles widely, speaking through his teeth. “Please don’t ask about Trevor, babe. That whole thing is still... kind of... weird—”

“How’s Trevor?” Bela asks.

“I’m great!” Trevor calls over. “Sam, ask Bela if she—”

“He’s great,” Sam tells her, and leaves it at that.

Obviously jonesing for more details, Bela squirms a bit, but moves on. “Where are all the decorations?” she wonders, peering past Sam into the house. “Figured you guys would at least put up, like, some balloons or a cheesy banner or something. I thought this was supposed to be a party!”

Sam’s grin falters, a fresh groove carved in her brow to join the others. “A party?”

Meanwhile, Champa carries on to Jay, “... I am only saying you could have closed your little hotel for the weekend while we visit. It isn’t asking much to make this a private event.”

“We kind of need all the income we can get right now, Ma,” Jay tells her patiently. “Also, what event?”

As if she hadn’t heard him, Champa continues, “This is special, you know! I have waited so long for a grandbaby.” She shuffles along the foyer, inspecting every bit of worn imperfection, every speck of undusted dust. Her gaze briefly passes over the ghosts, and a shuddery ripple effect passes over them in turn. She has a good soul, Alberta feels— but also a very solid soul.

“Ah, there it is. The real reason you’re finally here,” Jay replies. They have barely made it past the entryway, and already a touch of perilous honesty is beginning to ooze through his words.

“Well, of course, Jay. I’m not getting any younger. I am just relieved I’ll have a grandchild before I’m too old to pick them up. Didn’t you hear about Nirmala? She threw out her back when they put her newborn grandson in her arms. Seven pounds of weight, her spine cracked like a glowstick, and down she went like a leaden balloon!”

Champa plucks a peppermint from the dish on the front desk. Kelly opens her mouth, then wisely closes it.

“I thought this day would never come for me, beta,” Champa continues, unwrapping the candy. “ And it is plain that I will never be getting any grandbabies from her, so.” Everyone follows her gaze toward Bela, who is currently trying to either make out with Eric or swallow his jaw whole. In broad daylight, in front of the whole family. “Perhaps a grand-gerbil, at the most,” Champa mutters disdainfully.

“Fascinating,” Hetty comments. “Jay’s mother seems to be a woman after my own heart. I quite admire the way she thinks.”

“So now women are allowed to think?” Trevor asks.

She blinks at him like he’s the only one bringing crazy to the table here. “When the interests align with my own, yes.”

“Now,” Champa says, marching back through the front doors, “you help unload all the gifts from the car.”

“Oh, boy,” Jay whispers, then louder: “Um. Gifts, plural?”

“This may be my only grandchild. I will not spare a single resource!” his mother answers, already halfway to the car. Jay and Sam stare after her with mild fear. Jay’s father shuffles back into the house, emitting a grunt as he passes, his entire upper body hidden behind a massive gift box.

“Oh, yeah,” Bela says. “It’s a lot. I almost thought she was gonna strap us to the roof to make more room inside for the Baby Bop Play Pillow that was smooshed against my face for three hours. You have unleashed a monster. A grand-monster.”

“I can hear you!” Champa’s voice rejoins them in the room. “Less talking, more carrying!”

“Ah!” Jay yelps. “Good to know her supersonic ears are still intact.”

As they all venture cautiously outside, the ghosts in tow, a delivery van pulls up, followed by another couple of cars rumbling over the gravel.

“Oh, finally!” Bela remarks. “Some other people are showing up. Thank god. I always hate being the first one to arrive. Usually I’m the last.”

“You could say we were... fashionably early,” Eric jokes. Nobody laughs.

“What the...” Jay mumbles, staring at the impromptu parade. Next to him, Sam is equally nonplussed. Alberta’s nails would be gone by now if she could chew ‘em away. This is worse than her first time taking the stage at— oh, who’s she kidding, she’s never experienced a day or night of stage fright in her life. Or death. This— this is something else.

The delivery van cracks its door first. A bored-looking guy who can’t be a single sprig of facial hair above nineteen years of age climbs out and circles to the back. As the doors fall open, they’re greeted with a whole gaggle of ghosts crammed inside the small cargo space. Sam and the ghosts gawk at them; the car ghosts gawk back.

Sam’s eyes couldn’t get any wider even if a flying saucer landed on the lawn. “What the hell—” she starts, but when the guy’s head swivels to her, she refashions her sentence with semi-nimble skill. “I mean... what the hell could this be! I am just so... excited, in... multiple ways.”

While this goes on, Trevor and a few others get to know the van ghosts. “So what’s the deal with you guys?” he inquires, arms crossed all business-like.

“This used to be an ambulance,” an older man explains. “I died of a heart attack en-route to the hospital in 1996.”

“‘03 for me. Extreme peanut allergy. Still a little puffy,” a woman adds, poking her own cheek to demonstrate. “We were all worried about what would happen when they retired this as an emergency vehicle. Sat for a while until it resold. But now I get to smell peanut butter frosting all the time, so. That’s something.”

“Interesting,” Trevor says. “I can’t decide if it’s gross or not that it’s now owned by a bakery.”

The woman smiles, all too eager to relate to someone. “Neither can we!”

“Uh,” the teenage driver says, chomping on a wad of gum worse than Stephanie’s. “I have a cupcake tower delivery for a...” He peers at his clipboard for a moment, and so begins the surname stutter. “Samantha A... A-ron... A-ron-dee—”

“It’s really not that hard, dude!” Jay and Bela snap at the same time. Evidently this is a well-practiced line. Without looking, the siblings proceed to form a flawless fist bump.

Sam’s focus is elsewhere, however. “Cupcake tower?” she echoes. “But I didn’t...” She shakes her head. “Can I... can I see that, please?”

The kid hands her the order form, and she scans it over.

“Hmm.” She clicks her tongue, pokes it inside her cheek, then flicks her gaze toward the ghosts. “I wonder who could’ve done this.”

Jay snatches the form next, brow heavy over his eyes. “Huh. Cupcake tower, super expensive, paid for two weeks ago with... that one credit card you always forget about.”

“I don’t always forget about it,” Sam counters, only to add less aggressively, “Except... I did this time.” Then she glares at him. “Also, you’re one to talk, SneakerGod1208 on eBay.”

“So let me get this straight,” Bela cuts in. “You guys didn’t order this huge thing of cupcakes for your huge party?”

“What party?” Jay asks, turning to her. “And why do you say huge? You know what else is huge? The amount of rising panic in my body.”

Sas turns to Alberta. “You did this, right?” She nods grimly, so of course he tacks on a critique. “Really? Cupcakes are so 2012.”

“Hey, that’s when I died!” another van ghost pipes up. Then she frowns. “Wait, how long ago was that, exactly?”

Hetty shrugs, face pinched. “Beats me.”

Careless of all the mystified chatter, the delivery boy slides out an enormous box from the back of the ambulance-turned-van. He stands awkwardly for a minute, slumping under the weight of it, while the adults argue amongst themselves. Then he grunts, “Uh, where do you want this?”

Sam motions vaguely. “Just... you can put it down there, I guess. Thanks.”

With a shrug, he dumps it unceremoniously on the ground and turns to go. Sam casts another rueful glance into the back of the van. The captive ghosts stare back.

“Wait,” one of them says, “isn’t she alive? How can she see us—” Just as unceremoniously as the unloading of the cupcakes, the van’s rear doors are slammed shut. The driver climbs back in and peels out, though not before cranking down the windows to let some musical crime pour out that, if Alberta recalls correctly, Jay once identified as Post Malone. Personally, she'd love to go back toPre-Malone.

Pete grits his teeth. “They always say it’s a rough life on the road.”

What happens next makes Alberta relieved that Sam can’t physically fasten her talons around Alberta’s arm. “Excuse me, everyone,” Sam announces, fishing out her phone. “I really have to make a call.” Whirling around, she hooks Alberta with a fierce side-eye. For all intents and purposes, she then drags her aside where they can speak one-on-one. Facing away from Jay’s family, Sam smacks her phone to her ear and hisses, “Alberta. What was that about?”

“Yes, so, I may have spruced up your family visit a tad...” Alberta tells her, speaking through a friendly grimace. “Invited friends, ordered cupcakes and such.”

“Right,” says Sam sharply. Her eyes flash over to the growing crowd of people by the front fountain, several of whom are curiously observing her furious fake phone call. She forces a friendly smile-and-wave in their direction. “A lot of cupcakes for, presumably, a lot of people.”

Alberta throws up her hands to beg mercy, strained smile slicing into her cheeks. How can she be dead and be afraid of getting murdered a second time over— let alone by someone whose worst signals of anger are typically little stomps and cute nose scrunches? “Just take it out of my allowance?”

The slice of Sam’s gaze through the air as she pins it back on Alberta could cut steel and dismantle mountains. “But you don’t have an allowance, Alberta!”

“Huh. Isn’t that right,” Alberta replies, a bit breathless for someone who no longer needs breath. “Well, guess I do now!”

Her quip falls flatter than Todd when he imbibed the bad booze.

Suddenly a fresh gleam is revived in Sam’s eye. “Wait,” she murmurs. “Is— does this have anything to do with that missing envelope?”

“It—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“It may, yes.” Alberta nods quickly, curls in her lips. “Oh, Sam. It was never meant to get this complicated. I’m sorry.”

Sam pulls in a shaky breath. “I thought when Jay lost the envelope, that... I don’t know, maybe it was a sign of some sort. It doesn’t really matter, anyway, as long as they’re healthy, and happy.” An exhale. “I should’ve realized one of you was behind it.” Then her eyes dart back onto Alberta’s. “Did you see what was inside?”

In lieu of the more direct answer Sam rightfully deserves, all Alberta can do is throw a far-reaching glance toward the box of unsolicited cupcakes. “All I know is what’s on the inside of those little cakes,” she says.

Without another word, Sam jabs her finger at her dark screen, essentially “hanging up” and ending their conversation. She marches back over to the crowd, Alberta struggling to keep up in her undertow. The closer they get to the others, the more obviously Sam’s confidence fades— until she is engulfed completely by a wave of squeals and arms and bouncing feet.

“Oh. My. God.”

“It’s Sammy in the flesh!”

“Wham, Bam, Thank-You-Sam! I missed you!”

Alberta rolls to a stop among the other ghosts. “So these are the city friends we invited,” Trevor says.

“Yep, it’s me,” Sam’s bashful voice emerges from somewhere within the pile. “Piper, Dan, Louise. Long time no see...”

“We’re so thrilled you’re here!” Jay says, phoning it in only slightly. “Also, why are you here?”

“What, are you joking?” one of the women asks. Piper, if the giant P initial on her necklace is anything to go by. “You sent out those adorbs invites over email like it’s 1995! Love the old-school vibes, by the way.”

“Yeah! So retro,” Louise adds.

“1995? Old-school?” Trevor croaks. “Retro?”

Thor holds out a fist, gazes at it midair like he’s beholding an ancient artifact. “Adorbs,” he repeats in that magnificent boomin’ baritone of his.

Pete pats Trevor on the back. “Better get used to it, buddy. Once you’re old, you’re old.”

“I love retro,” Flower says. “It’s always in.”

“Mysterious email invites,” Jay says meanwhile. “Mm-hmm. Right. Uh, why didn’t you RSVP?”

“Pffft. Who RSVPs anymore?” Piper asks.

“Ha,” Jay mumbles, visibly deflating. “Yeah. So ridiculous.”

“Huh,” Alberta says. “He’s more like Sam than I realized.”

“They truly do belong together, the charming doormats,” says Hetty. “It is disgusting.”

Among the Livings, the prattle continues. “So, the invite mentioned you guys got Destiny’s Child to perform today,” Dan says. “How did you get them to reunite?”

“Reunite?” Trevor mutters. “Man. I thought they’d never break up.”

“Is that what I said?” Jay replies. He and Sam share a glance. “Weird. It’s almost as if someone who’s been in a coma since 1999 wrote those invites.”

Louise rolls her eyes. “Downplay Jay at his finest. So come on, where are they?”

Sam crosses her arms. “Right. So, um, you all only came here because you actually thought we got all three members of Destiny’s Child to drop everything and travel to upstate New York to perform at an old mansion that currently has...” She counts on her fingers. “... just two working toilets?”

“Well, that’s not so bad. Child’s destiny could take turns. And there’s always the woods,” Flower suggests, not at all getting the memo that Sam transmits to her through seething laser vision.

Silence settles— only for about ten seconds, but Alberta can feel every tick of the unseen clock under her skin. Playing with her pearls, she watches Dan chuckle awkwardly and say, “No, of course not. We... we came to see you, too.”

“Because, just for future reference, the best we could get up here on short notice would maybe be Maroon 5 minus Adam Levine,” Jay tells them. “Or a local one-man acoustic band.”

“What is a Maroon 5?” Hetty wonders.

Sas shudders. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

Alberta shares that full-body ripple as she recalls yet another version of Jay’s Famously Infamous Shower Concert.

“Look, we’re happy for you two, about the baby and everything,” says Louise. “I mean, Jay, you saw that I liked your post, right?”

“Uh-huh,” he says flatly. “Meant so much.”

“— but things change when your friends become parents,” Piper admits. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. I feel like this might be the last time we’ll all be together like this. You’re the first ones in our old group to have a baby. Now it’ll never be the same again.”

A furrow indents Sam’s brow. “We’re not the first. Jake and Maria had a baby two years ago.”

They’re met with blank stares.

“Thor suppose not all Marias come flat,” Thor remarks.

“Jake and Maria,” Jay repeats. “Remember them?”

Then, all at once, the trio of city rats rediscover their own cache of memories.

“Oh, right! That Jake and Maria,” says Dan. “Wow. Totally forgot they existed.”

Sam and Jay exchange another look that conveys approximately thirty types of discontent. Regardless, Sam puts on a fresh smile and leads them inside. “Come on in! I’ll give you the abridged tour, free of charge.”

Her contrived humor is given rather chilly reception from Louise, who retorts, “It better be! You know I’m an influencer,” as they follow Sam inside.

All this time, Bela has been perched on the open tailgate of her mom’s car, observing the interaction like a social scientist taking mental notes. “Damn,” she says, hopping down to provoke her brother. “That was tough to watch. Reminds me of that freaky nature documentary Eric put on the other night, about how a small herd of lionesses ate a pair of antelopes in ten seconds flat. Or that time in high school when Travis Warner stole your shirt in gym class and you spent the rest of the day wearing some girl’s cardigan from the lost and found.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Jay shoots back. “And FYI, that cardigan was comfy as hell. I might still have it.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with anything,” Bela replies with a shrug. “I just wanted to bring it up.”

Jay shrugs her off, already distracted by the next vehicle rumbling up the drive. “Can you help Mom carry the stuff in?” he sighs. “Looks like the plumber’s here. Maybe he’ll want a cupcake, too.”

While the Livings and the other ghosts wander off to various places, Alberta’s fingers continue their anxious dance with her pearls. So far, this shindig is going about as well as a slow-motion car wreck.

“Oh, god, there are still more people showing up,” Sam breathes, gazing out the bedroom window. She spins away, hands over her face. “I can’t even look anymore.”

Jay takes her place; his breath fogs the glass with rapid clouds of nervous energy. “Shiiiit,” he exhales. “sh*t on a shingle. Ooh, wait, is that Mike and Alison? Aw, I missed them. I can’t believe they’re here.” He wiggles his eyebrows over at his wife, who still stands with her back to him. “Not gonna lie, the gift box they’re holding looks pret-ty big. Maybe they bought our kid a trike or a cute rocking horse or something.”

“Or, knowing Mike, a baby bomb-defusing playset,” Sam mutters. Her eyes sweep over where Alberta hovers in the doorway, fingers still wrapped in pearls. “It helps that Alberta looks remorseful, at least.”

“I should probably get back down there,” Jay says. He wheels away from the window, letting Sam fall back against him for a quick cuddle. “The longer I let Bela cover for us downstairs, the more likely it is we’ll alienate everyone we like.”

“Well, everyone we sort of like,” Sam points out.

“Everyone we sort of like,” he revises. Silence touches down for a moment, then he shoos it away by saying, “I really did have zero idea about this whole thing. You know that, right? Because I know you’re not big on surprise parties. I would never—”

“Of course,” she tells him. “You don’t have to preach to the choir. I know it’s not your fault.”

“Still,” he says, dropping his voice a notch lower. “We already have to deal with my family, and then everyone else on top of it—”

“It’s a bit much, yeah,” Sam admits. “But... I don’t know. Maybe it’ll turn out to be fun. We just... have to get back out there. And stop hiding.”

“Mm. Easier said than done. Did you hear my mom quizzing me earlier about what we’re serving for lunch and dinner? Like, I literally run my own restaurant now, Ma. I think I can handle the food.”

Sam skims her fingers along his arm. “She just wants everything to run smoothly,” she says. “She cares about you. A lot.”

“A lot, a lot,” Jay agrees. “And she cares about you. She sees you as a bonus daughter. Seriously.” He drops his hands so they briefly cradle her belly. “And she cares about you probably most of all, bean.” He fixes his eyes on Sam; she nuzzles his neck before pressing her forehead into his shoulder with a melty sort of sigh. “Promise you’ll tell me if Grandma starts caring too much about grandbaby stuff,” he whispers into her hair. “I’ll be the first volunteer to drop her off at the Amtrak station.” He presses closer to her ear, making her giggle from the ticklish heat of his breath. “Or better yet, the bus station.”

“Honestly? She’s already started to care a little too much,” Sam replies. “But it’s okay. I don’t feel like I’m being reduced to a grandbaby incubator or anything. Well... mostly.”

“Just hang with Mike and Alison and Mark and maybe my sister,” Jay suggests. “They’re the best ones.”

He plants a tiny kiss between her eyes, then makes his way downstairs to put an end to Bela’s blossoming karaoke concert. Champa’s voice floats above the distant clamor— “Beta, I implore you, turn that off! You are decidedly not twenty-two anymore!”

Sam assures him she will be right behind— except when Jay leaves the room, she doesn’t move from where she’s resting on the foot of their bed.

Cautiously Alberta steps inside, keeping a safe distance. “Sam,” she begins. “I’m so sorry for getting carried away—”

“I understand that your heart was in the right place,” Sam interrupts, gentler now than she was earlier. “Surprise parties are just difficult for me. It’s hard to explain.”

Alberta inches closer. “Well, I... I’d love it if you could try explaining it to me,” she says. “I want to know you better. If only so I don’t make another mistake like this.”

“Mistakes are inevitable. Jay and I? We mess up with pretty much every other breath we take,” Sam points out. When she finally meets Alberta’s gaze, there’s a twinkle now that wasn’t there before. “Okay, fine. The last time I had a real surprise party...” she says, drawing in a quiet breath, “... was the same day that my parents decided to tell me they were getting divorced. They worked so hard to give me the best day ever, only to drop that bomb at the end of it.”

Alberta hums. “I can imagine that’s not the sort of surprise you were hoping for.”

“At twelve years old, no. It was not.” Sam slides her hands along her thighs until they come to rest over her knees, knuckles flashing white. “And ever since then, during any big moment in my life, there’s been this mean, minuscule monster lurking in the back of my mind, reminding me that neither of my parents are here. They’ll never be here, and we’ll never all be a family together again. Mom is gone, and my dad is...”

“Out of the picture,” Alberta fills in the tense blank.

“He’s around when he wants to be,” Sam explains. “But he almost never wants to be. The more time that passes, the harder it would be for him to make an appearance, and he prefers to live on Easy Street, at least when it comes to himself. In his mind, I guess it’s easier to drift apart and let things lie than to reach out and try again. I’ve analyzed it with a therapist or two over the years, yet it somehow never gets any easier for me.” She squeezes her eyes shut, willing away the tears that want to fall. “And despite all of that, I still wish he was here today. It doesn’t make any sense, but—”

“Not a lot of things do,” Alberta says. “People make the strangest choices sometimes... like me, today, when I acted directly against your wishes. Missteps are impossible to calculate. Your daddy did not do right by you, Sam. But where he failed, you and Jay are going to make all the right moves with your child. Or, well... you’ll try to, and your heart will be in it, and that’s all that matters. Your little girl is going to be so loved—”

“Wait,” Sam says. Her eyes widen to impossible proportions, then soften like ice cubes in the sun. “We’re having a girl?”

Alberta slaps a hand over her mouth, until she lowers it with an apologetic wince. “Those damn cupcakes were supposed to tell you that, not me.” She glides her eyes around the room before finally allowing them to land back on Sam. “Yes,” she answers. “You are. And oh! It’s been so hard keeping that in. I just knew my hunch was right.”

It doesn’t take long for Sam’s smile to bloom into a fine mimicry of Alberta’s. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “I have to— I have to tell Jay. I can’t sit on this without him knowing, too.”

She makes a dash for the door, only to freeze and pivot back around on her heels. “I can’t go down there looking like this.”

“Girl, of course not! This is your baby shower. Go big or go home! And who cares if you’re already home— the point stands.”

Sam stands there, mind whirring, twisting her fingers into knots. “Help style me?”

“Oh, I have been waiting for this moment all my death,” Alberta breathes. Sam blinks at her, so she swiftly adds, “No offense.”

The next several minutes are a movie montage of trying on outfits, holding up dresses and blouses in front of the mirror, and fixing makeup. A twinge of yearning phases through Alberta as she watches Sam tame her hair back with a couple of pins. For nearly one hundred years— for multiple lifetimes— she has longed to be able to switch up her own appearance, to stunt and impress in the latest gown and jewels purchased with her own hard-earned cash.

But in this scene she feels a different sort of twinge— to be able to not only stand behind Sam as a sister and friend, but to also run her hands through Sam’s hair and tease it up all pretty for her. It’s such a simple want— and Alberta shouldn’t call it a need, because if she does then it will hurt all the more that it will never be possible. It is merely a want, a wish to style her friend’s lovely hair and not have to think twice about the basic miracle of being able to do such a thing.

At the end of it all, Sam looks radiant as ever. She wears a flowing frock patterned with pinpoint gray puppy dogs that is cute as the dickens, and a step up from her usual floral attire. She lingers in front of the mirror for just a minute more, Alberta beside her. Like Alberta’s fingers tangled in her pearls earlier, Sam’s hand now twiddles with the charm on her new necklace— a bitty strawberry. Anyone else would only see Sam standing alone... but Alberta forgets that for now.

“Now that,” she says softly, “is one hell of a look, Sam.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Sam’s eyes slip shut temporarily as she lures an easy breath through her chest. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“Now get out there and live a little,” Alberta tells her. It’s all she can do not to accidentally let her arms pass through her. So many unfulfilled hugs and shoulder-pats and hand-squeezes sit between them like a small chasm.

With Alberta close behind, Sam emerges from her hiding place and slowly makes her way down the staircase, hand skimming the railing with sorely learned instinct. Her eyes illuminate more with every step, lit like fireflies, with glowing recognition of all the familiar faces in the party crowd: friends and neighbors old and new, Jay’s family, former coworkers, Pete’s family, the Farnsbys, among others. Warmth fills Alberta’s cheeks as she recognizes her great-great-grandniece, Alicia, in the audience. Hell, even creepy ol’ Carl from the gas station is here.

Thinking quick on her feet, Alberta calls out a command to the Alexa device that has been tentatively reintroduced to the main floor. Bela’s Kesha karaoke calamity is cut off, giving way to the timeless tune of “My Girl” by the Temptations right as Sam hits the landing.

Jay is there to greet her at the bottom; without saying anything, they both laugh. She accepts his offered hand, and he guides her the rest of the way down. The best moment, however, comes when Sam whispers in his ear. Alberta can only imagine what Jay is saying based on reading his lips, so instead she focuses intently on the way his expression shifts into something brighter than the surface of the sun.

Together they turn to face everyone else, and Jay opens his mouth, only to hesitate. He leans back, whispering something else in Sam’s ear. She catches his eye and nods with a gentle grin. It sinks in to Alberta that they must be keeping the news to themselves for now. Key words being “for now”— anyone who bites into a cupcake will know, after all. And anyone who can pick up on a little musical hint.

With that decision made, Sam and Jay venture forth into the fray and begin to mingle. Alberta tails them for a while, at one point catching an interesting tidbit with Jay’s mom.

“It is beautiful here,” Champa tells them, halfway through chowing down on a cupcake. A thin mustache of pink frosting lines her upper lip. “And you two have made it beautiful. I’m sorry it took so long for us to visit. We should have been here for the holidays.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Sam says politely. “Holidays are no big deal.”

“Now, that’s a lie,” Alberta remarks. Sam shoots her a vague sideways look.

As it turns out, Jay is on her same wavelength. “Actually, no,” he speaks up, wrapping a supportive arm behind Sam’s waist. “It’s not fine. We’d like you to be here next time, Mom. Christmas is really important to Sam. It means a lot to us to have the entire family together.”

Champa is struck silent— though only for a second. “Alright,” she replies. “Your father and I will be here. I promise.” She parts her arms, welcoming her son and daughter-in-law into an embrace... with the partially-demolished cupcake still clutched in one outstretched hand.

“Love you, Ma,” Jay mumbles, voice muffled on account of his face being shoved into his mother’s shoulder. Nestled in next to him, Sam appears to be on the verge of mild asphyxiation, but the glitter of tears in her gaze says enough. The thought always counts, Alberta supposes.

At the end of the night, when nary a cupcake remains and the hallways of Woodstone Mansion are once again vacant and dappled with unsettling shadows, Alberta tracks down Sam and Jay while they wave farewell to the final group of departing party guests.

They stand on the open threshold, leaning on each other and propped up by nothing but pure exhaustion. Once the last set of tail lights have blinked out of view, they close the doors and set free matching sighs of relief.

“That was... actually pretty lovely,” Sam confesses as they leisurely work their way to the staircase.

“It was.”

“We’re never gonna see most of those people again, huh?”

“Nope, definitely not,” Jay agrees. “But hey, at least that frees emotional bandwidth for us to make some new parent friends in the near future. Starting with Jake and Maria. We did them dirty.”

Sam frowns. “Wait, who are Jake and Maria?”

Silence. Then Jay points at her, and they both laugh.

Alberta feels the expected urge to trail them upstairs, but something stops her in her tracks.

“You got me!” Jay exclaims, his voice fading as they continue upward. “You got me good.”

Alberta stares after them for a few seconds. This is Sam and Jay’s moment, she realizes.

She’ll let them keep it for themselves.

Chapter 6: hettyween

Chapter Text

When she enters the dining room to find all of the ghosts seated in alarmingly orderly fashion around the table, Hetty’s suspicions are immediately sparked ablaze.

“What is this?” she inquires, slowing to a halt a safe distance away, raking a probing gaze over the others. “Please tell me this is not another séance.”

Trevor, it seems, has already been lured into their stratagem. “We’re being cornered,” he grumbles. He’s slumped in one of the chairs with his arms crossed over his chest, like one of the petulant child laborers who would get fussy on the graveyard shift.

“I wouldn’t call it cornering,” says Pete, cloyingly amicable as always. He raises an unhelpful index finger. “I’d call it an intervention.”

“Thanks, that helps,” Trevor scoffs. He squeezes his arms as tight as they can go. “I’m being treated like a wild tomcat here! This is like a trap-neuter-release situation.”

“I sure hope it ain’t,” Alberta says. She pats the chair next to her. “Hetty, honey. Please, come sit.”

Hetty scoots over unhurriedly, eyes the seat of the chair as if she expects there to be an upturned pushpin on it. She’s been on both the playing and the receiving end of that prank before.

“Go on, sit,” Isaac sighs after half a minute. “We do not have all day, Henrietta.”

“I think you very much do have all day,” Hetty retorts, peering at him sharply. Isaac is her dearest friend— pathetic seductions aside— but god above, can he be a tribulation sometimes. “In fact, we all do. Perhaps I will remain standing all the damn day, if resting my posterior is what it takes to initiate this ignominious pantomime.”

“Stand, then!” says Isaac.

“Look, you don’t have to go all alphabet soup on us,” Pete tells her gently. “We only want to discuss whatever funny business is going on between you and Trevor. I mean, you were together in secret, then together publicly, and now...”

“Not to mention your fake breakup,” Sasappis adds. “We already know the truth. So don’t even try to be exhausting about it.”

Trevor scowls. “Our business isn’t funny, and it’s also nunya.”

Flower blinks several times. “What’s nunya?”

“Nunya business!” Temporarily breaking character with Oscar the Grouch, Trevor sticks out his tongue and leans across the table with his palm exposed to Hetty. “Up top!” Nobody moves. He quickly sits back down, mumbling, “Too slow.”

Hetty attaches a glare to him that she knows he won’t be able to shrug off. “See, I told you that you never should have stopped hitting on Samantha! That was a foolproof cover. Now look at this embarrassment you’ve gotten us into.”

“Uh, are we talking about the same Sam?” Trevor replies. “Married, having a baby, disgustingly in love with her husband Sam? Yeeeah. I’ll get right on that.”

Hetty sniffs, then perches herself on the edge of the proffered chair, meeting everyone’s gaze with a bold stare of her own. “Very well. You all have one minute to air your ill-founded grievances against us.”

“We seek information,” Thorfinn says, “on if you are truly together or not. If answer is yes, Flower and Thor look forward to double date that still has yet to transpire.”

“Hm,” Hetty hums. “Well, in that case, we are not together.”

“Really, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if you’re official again,” Pete says. He jabs a thumb toward Woodstone’s Second-Most Unlikely Couple. “At least you’re not as smelly as Thor and Flower.”

“Indeed, that does hold truth,” Isaac remarks. “Those two express a potent mixture of sandalwood and wolf urine.”

Flower beams, clutching her hands together. “Thank you! You know, sometimes we call our signature scent sandalwolf. It’s especially noticeable when we—”

“It is remarkable how minimal of an odor Trevor and myself possess,” Hetty agrees, “considering I only bathed thrice a week at most, and Trevor never moved far beyond his fraternity brother-era hygiene habits.”

Trevor opens his mouth, tilts his head, then closes it, conceding to her point. “Fair enough,” he says. “Thought a generous dab of Old Spice deodorant did the trick, but okay. At this point, I’ve accepted that no one will ever smell as good as Sam does.”

Everyone murmurs their consensus on that item.

Trevor continues with a woebegone glaze in his eye. “And her hair looks so soft, I don’t know how she—”

“Alright, alright. Spare me,” Hetty interrupts.

“See! You’re jealous!” Sas exclaims, wagging an intrusive finger between the two of them. “You’re so obvious! Just admit that you’re together and in love.”

The final pair of words seem to be spoken in slow motion. Hetty’s vision narrows, zooming in on his mouth, and she stares in horror as his lips form the dreaded accusation: in love. She feels as if she is on death row, and if she is, then she is a guilty woman.

Trevor grinds his teeth, lightly pounding his fist on the table. “Come on, man,” he begs. “Don’t—”

“You’re protecting her,” Sas presses. “Why? Hetty, why don’t you want to be open about it? I mean...” He chuckles. “Life’s short, right?”

“That I can attest to, for certain,” Nigel comments. “And death is long. So very long.”

“You know,” Trevor cuts in again, digging ocular daggers into Sas’s flesh, “they say don’t speak ill of the dead, yet I speak ill of you all the time, bro.”

“Likewise, my friend,” Sas responds, unfazed.

“So if you wanna go there, then do it to me. Don’t drag her into it. It’s not—”

“Fine!” Hetty shouts. Silence lands like a brick. Every ghost pivots their attention onto her. She droops somewhat. “Oh, must you make me repeat it?”

“Mm-hm. Preferably,” Alberta says.

“Dying to hear it myself, yes,” says Isaac.

“Oh, I wish I could record this on home video!” Pete whispers.

Hetty parts her trembling jaws. Swallows. “Trevor and I are...”

“Spit it out,” Sas prompts.

Her forced smile sits on her face like a wart. A sore. “... together,” she says, the syllables squeezing strangled through her teeth. “We are... an item. A couple. A couple who is in...”

Her entire audience leans forward, Trevor included, as if this is news to his ears. Oh hell, what if it is?

She gulps around the bothersome lump in her throat. “Might— might I have a small bump of—”

“If you think Sam’s gonna go get co*ke for you, you’re delusional,” Sas tells her.

“I dunno, maybe she would,” Trevor jokes. “She’d put it in a little plastic baggie, draw a heart with Hetty’s name in it with a Sharpie marker. Maybe brown-bag it with a PB&J sandwich.”

“That would be sweet,” Flower says earnestly.

“Finally I dare to believe I have come to understand modern slang,” says Isaac, “and then he goes and unleashes something like that.”

A groan of defeat rips through Hetty’s chest. “Love!” she blurts out. “If that is what I must say in order to shut all of you up for five seconds, then so be it. We are in love, that silly boy and I. Love, alright? Are you all quite happy now?”

Silence.

Then, at the speed of Flower picking up on sarcasm, the responses trickle in.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Yup.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Congrats. I guess.”

As they all file out of the room, on to the next thing like a pack of wolves sniffing for a new scent, Trevor is the only one who remains seated, gazing gently at her. How unnerving.

“What?” she snaps.

A lazy, lollygagging grin stretches across his face. A sh*t-eating grin if Hetty has ever seen one. “Nuthin’,” he replies.

“Is there not something you should be saying in return?” she demands. “Do not pretend you haven’t heard Samantha and Jay constantly lob those three doltish words back and forth like they are in Cupid’s tennis match. You know how this is meant to work. It is an exchange.”

“Okay,” Trevor says. “I love you too, Hetty.”

He stands, swaggers slowly over to her side. He bends toward her. Hetty slants forward in anticipation.

And what does the idiot do? He pokes her arm and books it out of the room. “Tag!” he shouts. “You’re it!”

“Damn,” she hisses, springing up after him. “Wait! Don’t you dare run away like the chicken you are!”

Naturally Trevor would be more focused on the ongoing game of tag the ghosts have been playing for the past week. How silly of her to expect a kiss.

“I mean, this has got to be solid proof, right?” Kelly asks. Her eyes are pinpointed on her phone as she zooms in obsessively on a photo. “Like, obviously I already sort of believed in ghosts since I’m working here and all, but...”

“Look, it’s not like we were searching for that specific criteria on your résumé,” Sam points out. “But, um... it helps if you believe.” She nods, staring at where Kelly pinches her thumb and forefinger on the small screen. “And that... that looks like a ghost, yeah.”

Her eyes flash to Hetty, who retorts, “Well, what do you expect? I am naturally photogenic.”

“Should I post it online?” Kelly wonders. “Feel like Twitter would have a field day over this.”

Now Sam tips her head back and forth. “Maybe don’t?”

Kelly sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. Everyone will just think it’s photoshopped, anyway.”

It had occurred quite by accident, which is not often a circ*mstance Hetty admits to. The pretty little front desk assistant— whom Trevor claims not to lust after— was scrolling on that device to which she is so attached. Hetty just so happened to be behind her, watching a vast array of images pass by in vivid technicolor. Then suddenly Kelly was looking at an image of herself on the screen, and then the shutter flashed to form a photograph, and, well— there Hetty was in the background. Dim, faded, not all that flattering, but there she was. A ghostly smear. And a far cry from her beloved ankle portrait.

Kelly wasted no time alerting Sam, who she assured the photograph— a “selfie,” so it’s called— was taken for very professional reasons. Hetty believes that statement as much as she believed her husband’s copious assurances that he only saw the local innkeeper’s outgoing, ample-bosomed daughter as a mere “acquaintance.”

Frankly, Hetty is not all that enamored with her so-called power to appear in photography. What use is it to appear as a moderately terrifying smudge? Sure, she makes a fantastic and compelling smudge, but that is beside the point. And so, off she goes elsewhere. That is Samantha’s problem to deal with. She has played her role.

In the kitchen, she finds Jay talking quite loudly on the telephone while he stirs some sort of unidentifiable yet delicious-smelling gruel on the stove. Several ghosts form a ragged crescent behind him, eagerly drinking in the savory aromas.

“... yeah, yeah, Ma, I know. I know you’ve never liked our car. You’ve referred to it as a ‘clown car’ many times... uh-huh. Uh-huh. But listen, just because we’re having one kid, it does not mean I need to go out and write a big fancy check for the first minivan I lay my eyes on.”

“What is this about?” Hetty asks Pete.

“Jay’s mom is pestering him about getting a ‘family car,’ from what I can discern,” Pete tells her. “Personally, I agree with her. I’d recommend he gets his hands on the latest Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser. Carol and I had a 1980 model, sky-blue with this beautiful wood paneling on the flanks. Fantastic wagon. Darn-tootin’ magnificent. There’s no way they don’t still make those.”

“Hm,” says Hetty. “In my day, it was less about the wagon and more about the horse. Elias and I always had our pick from the cream of the crop, of course. Ugly and filthy animals, but what other options were there? Can’t have the children pulling the carriage, now can we?”

Meanwhile, Jay ends the call and spoons a serving of soup into a bowl. He flicks some leafy garnish on it half-heartedly, then takes a seat at the table, clearly deep in thought. After a minute he lifts his head, eyes backlit with a fresh idea. “Any ghosts around?” he asks hopefully. “Come on, give me a sign.”

All eyes go to Trevor. He sighs and gets to work concentrating on poking Jay’s spoon. He has developed admirable proficiency in his special skill over the past few years, but it still takes him a couple of moments to get one of the Livings’ objects to respond to his touch.

Jay seems to know this by now, so he exhibits impressive patience while Trevor gets the spoon moving. Not for the first time, Hetty privately envies the selection of suave, intelligent suitors Sam surely must have been presented with. So few gentle, kind-hearted men on this shriveled planet, and she managed to marry one of them. She ought to play the lottery.

Finally, Trevor convinces the spoon to bow to his will. It makes the tiniest clink against the rim of the bowl, but that is enough to snag Jay’s attention.

“Hey, Trevor,” he says. “Is it just you?”

Trevor pokes the spoon a number of times— one clink each for himself, Hetty, Pete, and Isaac.

“Okay, four of you are here. Got it.” Jay props his elbows on the table, hands clasped together, soup still untouched. “Guys, I need your help, but I don’t even know what I need help with.” He sighs. “Gotta improve my negotiation skills, I guess.”

While he speaks, Trevor wakes up the iPad and selects the little icon that looks like blank parchment. Then, with more refined precision, he taps out a short message: with mom?

Jay leans over to read it, then wheezes out a laugh. “Uh, no. Well... yes and no. I think she’s already talked me into the new car thing, unfortunately. I’m feeling the pressure now, and Vinny the MINI has been paid off for a little while. I’m gonna miss Vinny, but his backseat is tight. Like, trying to wedge a booster seat back there might end our marriage, tight. Problem is, I suck at haggling with salespeople. They’re so slick, and I have... never been that.”

“I hear you, brother,” Pete says. “That’s why in another life, we’d be best friends sharing a six-pack of whatever beer is your favorite, complaining about commercials from the safety of the couch ‘til the cows come home.”

“A middling existence,” says Isaac.

Jay goes right along on his tangent train. “You know, dealing with a salesperson is like trying to wrap your hands around an otter. Which I did attempt once at the Bronx Zoo. Would not recommend. It escaped, and I was a drunk college student, but still— super slippery. Unrelated fact, I’m also banned for life from the Bronx Zoo.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I can’t add buying a car to Sam’s already super-full plate. I’d love to take charge on this one, but... I don’t know if I can.”

“Oh, Trevor, you should tell him I was a fine barterer in my time,” Isaac boasts. “I was feared all the way from First Street to— well, Sixth Street was our upper limit at the time, but no matter. You could find me standing at a market stall for hours just to talk down the price of lobster. Such basic foodstuff, and yet they gouged me for it time and again! I have no doubt it is still the same non-luxury today. A lobster is merely an oversized shrimp, if you think about it.”

Rather than type out Isaac’s remarks, Trevor just looks at him and says, “You guys really should start assuming things less.” Ignoring Pete, Hetty, and Isaac’s overlapping advice, he proceeds to pull up an inter-webs search for his own preferred vehicle. Hetty spectates over his shoulder, disgusted.

When Trevor nudges the iPad an inch across the table, Jay leans over again and laughs at what he sees on the screen. “C5 Corvette, huh? I think I’ll save that one for the midlife crisis, buddy.”

Trevor wrinkles his nose. “Midlife crisis? This car is hot sh*t, dude! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Isaac coughs a single word into his fist. “Was. Ahem.”

Hetty’s nose also falls victim to the unbecoming crinkle. “Is Jay not far past the age for a midlife crisis?” she asks. “When I was alive, you were well into middle age by your twentieth birthday.”

Pete shrugs. “I’m still rooting for the Custom Cruiser. Google that, Trevor. And make sure to emphasize to Jay that it sounds like a spaceship. And sorta looks like one, too. All those sharp, boxy angles. So modern. He’ll love it.”

Rather than heed their orders, Trevor bows and presses his forehead to the table, throwing in the towel. Hetty tsks. She will have to give him hell for that later, no question about it now.

When Hetty walks past Sam and Jay’s room a few days later, her attention is captured by what appears to be a rather intimate moment between Sam and a bottle of perfume. Alright, so not intimate— that isn’t exactly the best word to describe it, and besides, Trevor has taught Hetty more than enough about how to make even the most trivial details into something sexual. But still, it appears to be personal and private and Hetty has every intention of continuing on her way. Only then that wretched thing known as a conscience stops her.

Wavering in the doorway, she clears her throat. Sam startles, though it only shows in the clumsy way she sets down the perfume on her dresser.

“Is everything...” Hetty thinks of how to phrase this question. Rubs her nose, looks elsewhere, as if she has any elsewhere to be. “... up to snuff?”

“Sure,” Sam replies slowly. Her eyes trail back to the bottle. “Everything’s fine. I’m just missing my mom a little extra today.”

Hetty unleashes an admittedly gigantic sigh of relief. No heartfelt horrors for her today! “Oh, wonderful. Well, not wonderful that your mother is dead and ascended, of course, but I digress,” she says, the words tumbling over each other in a rush. “So I will be on my way then—”

“Actually, do you think you could spare a moment to talk?”

Hetty freezes mid-escape, helplessly snagged on Sam’s soft tone and damned doe eyes. “About what? About— about the arrangement of furniture in this room? Because I have been thinking for a while, it is rather cluttered and allows no ease of passage through the...” She trails off as Sam simply pats a spot on the bed next to her. “Oh, damn it,” Hetty groans. But she obliges. Scooting in beside her dreadfully delightful descendant, Hetty awkwardly drums her thighs and clears her throat a second time. “Alright. What ails you?”

Sam eases out a long breath. “There are days where I think too much about Mom no longer being here. Today is one of those days. It’s so strange, because...” She pauses, her eyes flickering back and forth rapidly as she collects her thoughts. “Before she moved on, before I could see ghosts, I used to talk to her. You know, ‘talk,’” she says, bending her index and middle fingers to form air quotes. “More often right after she died, then it became annual updates. I only wanted her to know what I was doing. To know I was doing okay, even if I really wasn’t. It’s funny looking back now, knowing that she never actually heard any of that, because her ghost was still here. And then I met her ghost. And I felt so... lucky. How many people get a second chance like that?”

“Very few do,” Hetty grants.

“And I really let myself get my hopes up. Planning future trips back to Ohio, thinking of all the things I had to tell her still, tell her properly. All the things I still needed to ask her about, things I’d never thought to ask until it was too late. And then I just... watched her slip away right before my eyes.” Another trembling breath. “For a while, all that experience felt like was nothing more than a second chance to watch her leave. I wasn’t there to say goodbye the first time since it was so sudden, but this also felt sudden, even if I was able to say bye this time. And at what cost? I won’t ever get to speak with her again, at least not for a whole lifetime still.” Sam sniffs, rubs her nose. “It’s not the same anymore, the whole ‘speaking to her’ thing. Now I know for sure it would only be going into a void. Right?”

Hetty parts her lips, but only a short rush of air comes out. Not even she knows what comes next, what’s up there. She’s at a momentary loss for words, with nary a complaint or critique to offer. She can’t imagine a universe where a situation like Sam’s would not be frustrating. What an odd melancholy— to have after not having for so long, only for it to be taken away again. How many times can the same wound be reopened?

Sam sighs. “Be honest with me. Is it a bad idea to conduct a séance in a Mexican fusion restaurant?”

Hetty clicks her molars together. “It is... not not a bad idea.”

Sam’s frown deepens. She gazes absently for a minute, picking at a loose thread on the bedspread. “It’s not fair,” she murmurs. “Our relationship was never perfect, but... I always thought it would get better the older I got. And now I feel that gap so much, Hetty, it’s so sore. I want her to know all of the important people in my life. I want her to know all of you. She got to meet Jay, sort of. But she didn’t really meet him, you know?”

“I have an idea,” Hetty blurts. Sam’s hopeful stare flashes to her expectantly, and good god, no pressure there. “You... you might try speaking to me,” Hetty continues carefully, “as if I am your mother. I don’t suppose I could transmit the message, but the metaphysical presence may be enough of a void filler. I- I know it’s a less than desirable replacement, but—”

“I wrote a book, Mom.” To her great shock, Sam cashes in on her offer without a second thought. “It’s not the New York Times, but... I’m proud of it.” Sam’s knuckles flash white where she grips her knees. “Jay and I are having a baby. A girl. I wish she could meet you.”

Silence falls. The two women stare at the wall, blinking dazedly. Then Hetty goes, “Is this weird?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “It’s a little weird. Thank you, though. It was worth a shot. You’re more like... like my aunt than my mom, if that makes sense.”

“I should hope I am the fun aunt, then.”

Macaroni roams into the room, acting as if he could waste away the entire day before rewarding Hetty with a dose of his semi-unconditional love. She can see right through his act, of course. She gives her lap an impatient pat, emits an instinctive pss-pss-pss. The cat accepts her invitation after only a second’s hesitation. He curls up into a fluffy orange ball; she scratches her fingers along his spine.

Sam pipes up again. “I’m really glad you found me. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, anyway. I mean... you were a mom. How did you cope with leaving your kids before they were ready? Before you were ready?” She hugs her middle. “It’s one of my worst fears. I love you guys, but... you do make me think about death a lot.”

“Understandable.”

“Like, a lot, a lot.”

“Alright, I said I understood.” Hetty thinks on it, then begins, “My sons were all terrors, Samantha. Well, those who lived to adulthood were, at least. One became a murderer, as we now all know. Though I presume that the others would have been equally as horrid, had they been given the chance to be.” She tips her head; Sam still listens attentively. “Perhaps it had something to do with their father being my second cousin.”

Sam opens her mouth, but Hetty goes on: “If only he had been my first cousin. It would have been a much purer bloodline.”

“Sometimes I wish you remembered less,” Sam mutters.

“Or it was that damn nanny. I discovered she was a common whor* when—” Hetty stops herself, returns to the same page. “I... I realize now that I had a minimal hand in raising my children. It was the norm in those days. I feel as if I never had the chance to be a mother. I would not even be sure where to start, really. And by the time I might have wished to start caring, I was gone. It was not easy, but I survived... for lack of a better word.”

Together, both their gazes settle on the purring cat under her stroking hand. Hetty adds, “I am loath to admit this, but I dare say I have taken this feline as my surrogate son. I accept this arrogant creature as my child, and think of him as mine more often than I remember my legitimate issue. What does that say about me?”

“You were a mom, Hetty,” Sam tells her. “You are a mom. Maybe not a perfect one, but nobody is.”

“Hm. That is not dissimilar to what my abominable mother-in-law said to me at my second youngest son’s funeral,” Hetty replies. “Only her assessment was of a less forgiving nature.”

“You’ve never spoken much about that,” Sam says softly. “How you had to bury some of your own children. That’s terrible. I can’t even imagine. Did you have any sort of support system for that?”

Hetty stares at her calmly. “Of course not. Such a thing would be unnecessary. Death was far less unexpected then. You could say consumption was quite the bitch.” She continues to stare, and Sam continues to stare back, still bothersome with her palpable sadness. Hetty sighs. “How vulnerable do you desire me to be here?” she asks, sounding less irritable than intended. “I can only dial it up to a six. Seven, at the absolute most.”

Sam only grins at her, a teary grin, which is somehow worse than full-blown tears and sniffles. A smile is an enigma; it means a million different things, all while the wearer of it can claim it means nothing at all.

As the years pass and Samantha Arondekar weaves herself closer and tighter into Hetty’s already adequate fabric of existence— a stray neon-bright stitch in a sea of indigo— Hetty finds herself increasingly unable to resist Sam’s smile and the bait behind it.

“What on earth do you want me to say, Samantha? That I always wished I had a daughter of my own? That I wish I had been a different person and not such a product of my time? That I had not bowed to Elias’s demands and prioritized myself for a change?”

Sam keeps grinning at her. Ugh, must Hetty do all the work herself to reach her own conclusions? How utterly infuriating!

Well, she won’t give her the satisfaction. Arms crossed, Hetty whips her cheek away from that open, hopeful, bewitching face.

“Good talk, Hetty,” Sam says.

The tiniest shot of warmth and affection winds its way around Hetty’s bones. Glancing back to her living companion, she says, “Rest assured that if I should ever encounter your dearly departed mother, I will provide her with every last detail of your life that I possess in my arsenal. I will speak until she is tired of me, and then I will speak some more. How’s that?”

Sam’s eyes glisten. “That would be really, really great.”

“None of you are going to believe what I found at...” Sam stops short, blinking around the deserted foyer. Frowning, she sets down her purse and keys and inches further inside. “Um, is anyone home?”

But Jay, along with Hetty and several other main-floor ghosts— plus Nancy, that walking talking result of a grave robbery gone wrong— are all gathered at a window in the library. Sam finds them quickly enough, brow furrowed as she takes in the scene being presented to her.

“What are you—”

At the same time, Jay and Hetty vehemently shush her. “It’s happening,” Jay whispers. His voice is barely audible, so Sam’s wide, animated eyes scan his lips instead. He beckons her over, motions for her to crouch down like he is so their vision is level with the windowsill. Then he points up to where the ghosts are already gazing through the sun-brightened glass.

“He’s about to fall,” Pete murmurs, providing some context. “We’ve been watching him for an hour.”

“Any second now...” Jay says, scarcely breathing. They all watch and wait, lungs suspended and blood frozen— not that the ghosts can really help those factors, but regardless, it should be mentioned.

Hetty squints outside at one of the bird feeders in the garden. Everyone has been aware for some time now that Woodstone’s bird feeders are primarily populated by squirrels, and stubborn ones at that. Jay has nearly gone bankrupt trying to find new ways to scare them away, which has been quite entertaining to witness because even Hetty knows that nothing will deter a squirrel. The things multiply like rats, and it never changes— even in the late nineteenth century, she could hardly take a step outside without tripping over five of them. They are one underdog that just won’t quit.

And now, for the past hour, the group has been entranced by one squirrel in particular. Clearly the furry nuisance has had more than its fair share of helpings, and the bird feeder teeters precariously under its hefty weight. “Come on,” Hetty hisses. “I want to see you paralyzed, you plump pest.”

Sam, Pete, and a few others shoot her a look of alarm, to which she pays no attention.

“Chubby guy is finally gonna get what he deserves,” says Jay. “One more wobble from that bird feeder, and down he’ll go like a boulder.”

“A delightful culmination,” adds Isaac.

“Is it, though?” questions Sam. “Who says he deserves to fall to his death?”

“I do. I say it,” answers Hetty.

“What if... what if he becomes a ghost?” Sam asks. “I mean, be careful what you wish for.”

“Squirrel cannot become ghost,” Thor replies solemnly, and Hetty swears she can almost pinpoint the memory of Oskar in his eyes. “Spirit too restless.”

“Ugh, must you have a heart all the time, Samantha?” Hetty complains. “Let the rotund rodent fall and sustain a fatal injury. It affects us in no way other than to provide amusem*nt.”

“Amusem*nt?” Sam whimpers.

“As your husband stated, the critter quite deserves it,” Nigel pipes up. “Look at him. He consumes enough to feed thirty goldfinches. Once, when Jenkins ate my share of rations on the battlefield, I put him on musket-cleaning duty for three weeks. Not a slight punishment.”

“You could say it is an undeclared eleventh commandment,” Isaac says. “‘Thou shalt not ingest another’s hardtack.’”

Sam considers for a moment. “Maybe it’s not a he,” she suggests. “Maybe it’s a she. Maybe she’s expecting. Eating for two or three or... however many babies squirrels have.”

“A lady never assumes,” Hetty retorts.

“Well, you... you can’t assume I was assuming,” Sam hits back. Her response is as lame as a child worker with a bum leg.

Suddenly, there’s a soft thump from outside. “Man down!” Pete shouts. Isaac gasps. Hetty goes, “Damn, I missed it!” They all lean forward, faces pressed to the glass, staring down at the unmoving thief of the hour.

Pete’s shoulders drop. “He’s dead,” he whispers. “Oh, no. All the good ones go young. Sam, I think a funeral is in order.”

“Already ahead of you,” she replies. “I’m picturing a shoebox lined with tissue paper. Digging a little hole, planting daisies around it...” She’s cut off by her own sniffles, which are punctuated by Pete’s. Hetty provides a dry sniff to juxtapose their grossly wet ones. Now, Sam has every reason for this melodrama— thanks to pregnancy, her hormones are on a daily roller coaster. Peter, however, has no excuse other than inherent kind-heartedness or the like. And that is no excuse in Hetty’s book.

“Oh! He’s up!” Jay cheers. “He was just stunned for a minute.” All eyes are flung back outside where, sure enough, the squirrel straightens and staggers away, still a bit dizzy but otherwise unharmed.

“He’ll be back,” Nigel warns. “Just you watch.”

“Indeed,” agrees Isaac. “Like a redcoat on a rainy day. Incapable of staying put.” This earns him a glare from his betrothed.

“Crafty little bugger,” says Nancy. “I could take some notes from his performance.”

As you should, thinks Hetty with scorn, in case I should accidentally trip you and you take a tumble down the basem*nt stairs.

“Okay,” Jay says, turning away from the window. “I’m sorry, babe. What was it you were saying?”

“Right. So,” says Sam, wiping away a tear and leading him outside, “I spent my morning off perusing a few local yard sales. And you’re not going to believe what I found at one of them. Or should I say... who I found.”

Hetty had been inclined to retire to the television room and watch some reruns of Bodices and Barons, but this snags her attention, so she follows Sam and Jay out to the car instead.

“She barely fit in the back of Vinny, but I just had to bring her home,” Sam informs them. This is an unneeded statement, considering that the vehicle’s hatch is literally being held shut with a bungee cord. Jay winces as he helps her untie the cord and let the door pop open. Then, with somewhat conscientious care, they unload a giant tarp-covered object from the cargo area. It slides rather clumsily to the ground, whereupon Sam spins it around and tugs away the tarp to reveal a portrait in an ornate frame.

Instantly Hetty’s hand is slapped to her chest. “By god,” she murmurs, horrified. “It’s me.”

“Oh,” says Trevor, who just so happens to waltz up at that moment, sly as a suited fox. “Oh, that is not flattering.”

“I told Elias to get rid of it!” Hetty exclaims. She is paralyzed by terror, as if the crudely-depicted image of her living self, which is slightly distorted by dabs of graceless, inelegant, saturated oil paints, will jump out and strangle her with its ugliness. And to think an artist had been her first love! “I told him to burn it, to drown it, to destroy it by any means possible! How the devil does it still exist all this time later?”

“‘Cause he hated you,” Trevor explains stupidly. And it is only so stupid because Hetty knows he is correct. “And you hated him. Of course he’d take the opportunity to get in a little dig at you by not following your wishes.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Sam peers from the portrait to Hetty, then back at the wretched portrait. “I think it’s very”— she struggles to find an adjective— “er, dignified.” She glances at Jay. “Hetty hates it.”

“And how much did you shell out for this garbage?” Hetty demands. “I have little doubt my husband must have sold it for a pretty penny. And pocketed the profit for himself, of course.”

Sam blinks sheepishly at her feet. “Ten bucks,” she mumbles.

“Ten dollars! How mortifying,” Hetty moans. “How utterly humiliating! I had woken up that day forgetting the portrait was to be painted, and I never cared much for portraits anyhow, what with the advent of photography, which was so much better at capturing my stern frown lines, but Elias gifted it to me for my forty— er, thirty-ninth birthday, so how could I not sit for it? Oh, but the artist was atrocious. Not an ounce of talent contained in even a single thread of his sloppy smock! I never imagined I would lay my eyes on it again, and now...”

While she speaks, Sam and Jay busy themselves by carrying the abomination inside.

“Wait a moment now! What are you doing? Don’t— don’t bring it into the house! Come back here and trash it this instant, Samantha, or else I’ll—”

Trevor mimes tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth as he follows the party back indoors. “Now this,” he says, “is gonna be fun. Hey, Sas! Where you at, bro? You’ll love this.”

War is not declared at Woodstone Mansion as often as it once was. Before the house was bequeathed to Sam and Jay, there would be the occasional smattering of it: arguments over room placement; over the sun ray; over who got to enjoy the steam in the washroom after a resident’s bath; over who got stuck showing around a new ghost. The last was a matter that was, at least, resolved once one Peter Martino came along and died here.

And, of course, there are still the annual Revolutionary War reenactments that are hosted on the property. These events are a blizzard of offenses and inaccuracies in Isaac and Nigel’s eyes, and authentic to a troubling extent in Thorfinn’s eyes, but are also the equivalent of a king’s ransom in Sam and Jay’s eyes, so indefinitely they shall continue. Even if Samantha’s “friendly advice” to the reenactors about “some minor corrections” from “a very reliable source” falls upon deaf ears every single time.

But this war is different. Bloodless, yet vicious. Blatant, yet clever. Behind-the-back skirmishes. A whisper-down-the-lane of rumors spread like disease. A battle of wits more than of violence. It is precisely the style of guerrilla warfare that the resident ghosts have honed their skills on for decades.

It all begins when Sam, in an egregious error of judgment, one day decides to wear denim overalls and a bandana to hold back her hair, like some sort of peasant wench. Her second error of judgment arrives when she rolls the first coat of fresh paint on the walls of what is to be the nursery.

Hetty prances into the room and almost loses the lunch she ate one hundred and thirty years ago. When she musters up the will to speak, her voice sags in a low tone of displeasure. “Canary yellow,” she mutters.

Sam frowns over at her, eyebrows gently lifted as she pauses the paint roller over one remaining patch of perfectly prim white. “Yeah, that’s the color,” she says. “What about it?”

Immediately her gaze darkens as she recognizes her mistake in posing this question to Hetty.

“What isn’t wrong with such a ghastly color?” Hetty spits, circling the room like a lioness in a cage. A gust of wind from the cracked window gives the curtains a toss, bolstering her dramatics.

“Please don’t start,” Sam begs, dipping the brush back in the drip tray. “I’ve already had the earth tones debate with Jay for the eightieth time. But we had plenty of this yellow left over. I think it’s sweet for the baby’s room.”

“Do you want her to sleep,” demands Hetty, “or do you want her to be awake all the night long, tossing and turning with malcontent over the dishonorable choice made by her parents on her behalf?”

Sam blinks at her, unruffled. “What color would you suggest, Hetty?” she asks in a manner that suggests she cares little about Hetty’s suggestion. At the same time, they both state, “White.”

“Yes!” Hetty exclaims. “White. Is it not a suitable color for every occasion?”

“It worked great for my wedding dress,” Sam tells her. “But ideally I’d like to splash a little personality into my daughter’s room.” Abruptly her eyes soften and her shoulders slump. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve said that yet. My daughter.”

“Oh, brother,” says Hetty, eyes rolling.

Jay swings his head in from the hallway. “Hey, sweetie. Where was it you wanted this?” And he scoots in half of Hetty’s god-awful portrait, leaning her forward like she’s also just popping her head in for a visit. Good Lord, the thing is already the protagonist of her nightmares. Can it not confront her in the waking world as well?

Wordlessly, Sam tips her head in Hetty’s direction, as if to say, She’s here in the room now, you dingus. Have some respect. Although it is rather difficult to imagine that in Samantha’s voice. Oh, well. Hetty can imagine it in her own.

“Ah, right. Er, where do you want... her?” Jay rephrases awkwardly.

Sam shrugs, considers the garish yellow walls. “Hm. I don’t know. Would it be wild to put her in here?”

“In here,” he repeats. “In— in this room? In the baby’s room?”

She pins him under that oh-so-innocent eyebrow lift. “Mm-hmm.”

“Do you want her to be able to sleep?” Jay asks.

“Excuse you!” Hetty snaps. She isn’t even sure why she is offended; it’s not as if that monstrosity ever lets her sleep.

Sam sets down the paint roller, wipes her brow. “Well, we need some sort of theme in here,” she insists.

Now Jay shrugs. “I dunno. Birds?” She looks at him. “What? It would really put the ‘canary’ in canary yellow. And the ‘owl’ in owl need you to pick something soon!” He grins. “Dad joke.”

“Peter is rubbing off on him, I see,” Hetty comments.

Sam shakes her head, looking let down like Jay just served her divorce papers. Either that, or she’s now contemplating divorce as a consequence of that abhorrent joke.

“Perhaps it would be of assistance to decide on the child’s name,” Hetty says, “and then base your silly theme around that.”

Sam sighs. “Hetty says knowing her name might help,” she explains to Jay. “Easier said than done.”

He throws his head back to groan at the ceiling. “I have spent so, so many hours doom-scrolling on baby name websites. It’s officially turned my algorithm from nerd stuff to baby stuff, and my algorithm has never changed. I am getting Gerber and BabyBjörn ads out the wazoo.”

“I do not know what any of that means,” Hetty says, flicking a concerned glance at Sam. “Please tell me that this ‘algorithm’ he speaks of is not in the pool of potential names. I have had my fill of your bizarre modern monikers— did you know there are children out there being named Logan and Olive? I am not normally a merciful woman, but I must insist on it in this case.”

“Maybe we could name her after Great Aunt Sophie?” Sam tries. “If it wasn’t for her dying when she did, we probably wouldn’t be here now.”

Hetty tuts at the reminder. “That woman sure took her time to kick the bucket. She was like a blind dog stumbling about, repeatedly stepping over or around the bucket, yet not ever kicking the damn thing.”

Sam’s eyes slide from her to Jay, waiting for his input.

“It’s a solid name,” he says.

She leans forward, clearly expecting more. Jay also appears to be expecting more from himself, but in the end he only lifts his shoulders and concludes, “That’s all I got.”

“Okay, so not that, then.” Sam chews her lip, turns back to the paint. “Back to square one. Again.”

Jay and Oil Hetty bid them adieu, and Hetty watches Sam for another couple of minutes. Then an idea strikes her. “You know who else has influenced your life in recent memory?” she asks.

An evasive glance jumps over Sam’s shoulder. “Who...?” she prompts.

“Ghosts!” Hetty replies like it’s obvious, which it is. “You cannot tell me that ghosts have not made an indelible mark on your life, Samantha. Why not honor us in your daughter’s name? And by us, I mean myself.”

Sam begins to laugh, but covers her mouth when she sees Hetty’s face. “I hate to break it to you, Hetty, but your name would not exactly run smoothly in today’s classrooms.”

“What are you saying? Speak plainly.”

Sam grimaces. Then whispers, “I think she might get bullied for it.”

Before Hetty can express even a flicker of dissent, several eavesdropping faces poke into the room. “Then allow us to offer some alternatives!” Pete chimes in.

And so the tug of war begins.

“Sam, you and Jay will always be the hottest parents I know,” Trevor announces the following afternoon, never one to shy away from rude interruptions. “And that is important to me, so let me have this.”

“Flattery isn’t gonna work, Trevor,” Sam tells him without looking up from the book that she has finally carved a respectable dent into. At this point she and Hetty are nearly at the climax of the story, when Pippa and her beau engage in a delectable quarrel dripping with sexual tension. Doesn’t sound familiar at all.

“But my name idea is really good!” he insists. “Just imagine it, okay? Sonia.” Trevor spreads his hands to form an invisible arc as he enunciates the name, seemingly tasting every letter in it.

Sam shuts the novel. Hetty pouts, shifting her concentrated scowl onto him for cutting into her reading time. Why must Trevor Lefkowitz be the man she loves? Is purgatory not punishment enough? She’d take Pippa’s loathsome ex-fiancé over him any day.

Well. Some days, perhaps.

“We’re not naming our baby after your ex-girlfriend, Trevor,” Sam says, her tone dipping into a firm note of finality.

He replies, “FYI, Sonia was special. She was my last official girlfriend before I died. Last one on the roster. She dumped me for... reasons not not related to my partying habits... but anyway, she was hot. And whip-smart. Honestly, you guys should be so flattered.”

“Yet somehow, I am only grossed out,” Sam replies. “Who put you onto this? Everybody’s been hounding me about names lately.”

“I’m not saying there’s a contest going for whoever will suggest a winning name, buuut...” Trevor tips back, then bows forward. “There’s a contest. All the ghosts are in it, even the zombies downstairs. Stuart is really vying for Edwina, so uh. Watch out for when he comes slithering up here. He’d present a PowerPoint on it if he could.”

“No offense, but what could you guys possibly be competing for?” Sam asks. “Total sovereignty over the TV? Because there’s no way this is just for fun.”

Trevor mumbles something that can vaguely be translated into “... none of your business.”

Hetty puts on her most intimidating forewoman face, the one that was always sure to frighten those pesky seven-year-olds who loved to go on strike. “Trevor,” she warns.

He groans, tosses his head back. Then he confesses, “We’re calling it Sam Day. It’s a day where one of us has you all to ourselves, and everyone else has to screw off, no buts about it. Undisputed one-on-one time between ghost and whisperer. So, whichever of us wins this competition will get a week’s worth of Sam Days that they can spread out however they wish over the span of a year. I think it should’ve been called Sam-apalooza, but I’ve already filibustered on that point long enough. Oh, or Sam-stravaganza! Damn.”

“And why hasn’t she been consulted about this?” Hetty demands.

Sam peers between her and Trevor. “Yeah, what she said.”

Hetty looks at her. “By ‘she,’ I meant myself.”

Sam sighs softly. “Of course you did.” Then she tips her head, considering. “You know, this whole concept actually doesn’t sound that bad. Even if you all orchestrated it without my knowledge, and are sort of treating me like an object... I really like the idea of only having to deal with a single ghost some days.”

Hetty says, “In that case, allow me to throw my hat into the ring once more. Samantha, you cannot beat a name that proudly flaunts your family legacy! Even if the relation between myself and you is about as significant as a single drop of blood.”

“Don’t do it, Sam,” Trevor argues, like the painfully attractive ass he is— and has. “Henrietta is not the name you want. Nor is it the name your daughter wants.”

“Oh, really?” Sam teases with a new and improved poker face. “Why, have you two talked recently?”

He scoffs and, after another back-off glare from Hetty, retreats from the room with his tail befittingly between his legs.

Only the torture does not end there. Just when Sam dares to crack open her novel again— if it were a pet, Pippa’s subpar love story would be quite malnourished from lack of attention— Discount Hercules and Age of Aquarius enter the room.

“Thorfinn. Flower,” Hetty growls, like she’s announcing their entrance for the Queen of England. There’s still one of those, is there not?

“You should lower your hackles, Hetty,” Sam says pleasantly. “You haven’t won the Sam-stravaganza yet.” A frown. “Or should it be Sam-vaganza?”

Hetty whips toward her, appalled. “So you are signing off on this ludicrous plot?”

Sam’s eyes glance off of her like an oddly agreeable uppercut. “I still haven’t decided.” Then she fixes her gaze on the new arrivals. “What’s up, guys?”

“Thor,” Flower says, eyes set firm on Sam, and without so much as a twitch in her neat smile, “say something nice.”

Oh, this will be good. Hetty settles back in her chair, legs crossed.

Thor clears his throat. “Been long time,” he begins, hands raised, a wistful squint in his eye, “since Thor see children run around house. Got to watch many grow up over the years. Now halls have been empty of small feet for many more years. Thor is excited to meet offspring of Sam and Jay. If she is anything like you, will be an honor to know her.”

“Aw.” Sam presses a hand to her heart. “That’s really sweet.”

Hetty wilts. Damn. That was good. But not in the way she’d hoped it would be.

“On that note,” Flower chirps, “we’re really rooting for Moon as a name.”

Sam nods, offers them a concise “Mm-hmm. Noted.” Then she nudges her nose back into her book.

Thor and Flower stand there for a moment longer, clearly hungry for more feedback, for some sort of sign that they are in the lead. But when Hetty shoos them away, off they go to stick like treacle in someone else’s teeth.

“That cannot be fair,” she complains once they’re gone. “No one should be permitted to work in teams.”

Sam says nothing, only reads her book. And by god, she’s turning a page! Hetty hurries to stand over her shoulder again, eyes flying across the words in an effort to catch up on anything she missed.

For a minute Hetty is concerned that she is losing her leg to stand on in this war of wits. But then, as she remains alone in the library with Samantha while the two of them read in quiet contentment, another thing occurs to Hetty— she might currently be partaking in a Sam Day of her own.

Ha! No wonder the others are so worried. Clearly she is the favorite. And so what if there is an outcry from the other ghosts? Nepotism this, nepotism that. Ho, hum! Hetty won’t hear of it.

Despite the concrete conclusion Hetty had reached in her own mind, the battle rages on.

Pete, sneaky scoundrel he is, tries to wriggle his way into not only Sam’s favor— which, let’s face it, when is he not there?— but into Jay’s good graces as well. His method is to frame his sneaky maneuvers as dispensing heartwarming advice. Hmph! The only aspect of this charade that warms Hetty’s heart is witnessing how quickly he embarrasses himself.

“Allow me to put a little bug in your ear,” he’s saying when Hetty passes through the living room a few days later. “Mia. Simple name. Classic, practical. It was a close runner-up to Laura. But, as I always used to state before the scouts began a three-legged race, they don’t call it a runner- up for nothing, so pick yourself up and flip that frown upside down, because everyone’s a winner if you ignore the rules!”

“Nice try, Pete,” Sam says. “But you’re gonna need to think a little more outside the box if you want a chance at a week of Sam Days.” Her main focus is still with Jay’s on the television, where that abrasive personality Gordon Ramsay is in the middle of reaming out a young chef for serving him a plate of raw something or other. Hetty had never cared much for the Brits until she laid her eyes on that man. Now that is a brand of anger to stir the loins.

Jay flicks a thoughtful glance at his wife. “I’m worried you’re enjoying this Sam Day contest a little too much, babe,” he says.

A small kink bends the corner of Sam’s mouth, but she says nothing.

“Dagnabbit,” Pete mutters. He stands for a moment, rubbing his chin, stumped. “Eureka! I got it. New plan. Tell Jay I can really help him refine his dad jokes. You could say that I’m a... seasoned expert, myself.”

Sam looks him over with a critical eye. “Hmm, I’m not sure I believe you. None of that sounded very punny to me.”

“Punny?” Pete echoes with a frown. Then the stale punchline hits him, and the fact that Hetty realized the punchline before he did speaks volumes. “Oh, I get it! Punny. Like, funny, but punny, so it’s a pun, and— oh, that was good, Sam. Wow! Butter my bread. Here you are putting me out of business before I’ve even set up shop.”

Hetty hangs her head. “Somebody please get him out. I for one would like to hear this Ramsay fellow verbally disembowel this young lady with his patented string of profanities.”

Right on cue, Sas enters the room and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “You’re out, dude. Better luck next time. Maybe you should watch a few more family sitcoms before claiming to be a dad joke maestro.”

Pete tosses his arms in the air as he leaves. “It’s not my fault that I died before all the best jokes were used and reused!”

“Yeah, you really didn’t, though,” Sas calls after him. Then he slots himself into place behind the sofa, propping his elbows on the back of it with his arms hanging down casually. He angles his head toward Sam. “‘Sup?”

“Please,” Sam sighs. “Just five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

Jay looks at the blank space around them. “Who is it now?”

“Sasappis,” she tells him.

Immediately Jay brightens. “Ooh, make sure you let him know that I am still blown away by that sick three-pointer he scored last night. For a guy who bit the dust centuries before basketball was invented, he really knows how to let the ball and rim make sweet, sweet love together.”

“Okay, I’ll tell him, as long as you promise to never use that turn of phrase again.”

“Heard and appreciated,” says Sas, still draped between the couple. “Now, I’m not trying to be picky or anything here, but if I could put in a request that we take a break from shooting dream hoops, and go back to the alien-fighting one, that would be ideal.”

Sam glances at him curiously. “Why don’t you ever enter my dreams? I know I should be careful what I wish for, but...”

“You remember what happened the one time I did,” Sas replies. “I spent eight hours trapped with you in a dark cubicle where you kept answering angry phone calls. Not exactly as fun as splitting a Borg’s atoms with my laser gun, now is it?” He puts up a hand for a fist-bump.

Reluctantly, Sam lifts Jay’s arm and directs it to the appropriate spot. “He wants to fist-bump you,” she explains. So Jay does, his knuckles “meeting” those of Sasappis with fairly decent accuracy. Then Sam adds, “And just for future reference, that was a nightmare, Sas. Not all of my dreams are that...”— she shudders— “... horrible.”

“Right. Well, here’s my deal: tell Jay that I’ll be his bitch in dreamland for however long it takes you two to decide on a nice Lenape-inspired name for your kid. And buckle up, because my list of names is about as thick as a Manhattan phone book.”

“How do you know what— never mind.” Sam shakes her head and speaks with gentle poise. “As... good and pure as I’m sure your intentions are... I don’t think we’ll be giving her a Lenape name.”

“Why not?” he asks. “You people name your cars with Native words all the time. And there are way cooler, way more meaningful ones where those came from.”

She tips her head, winces slightly. “You’re not wrong there.”

Sas nods gravely. “The day I saw some ugly, mud-splattered hunk of metal with the word ‘Cherokee’ on it really shifted my perspective on things.”

Hetty watches the methodical ripples of Sam’s thought process. Then she says with delicacy, “How about this— we’ll think about it. I promise.”

This exchange had distracted Hetty from the Gordon Ramsay program, but she can’t say she is mad about it. It has, after all, given her some delicious food for thought— more than that Gordon could ever offer her, anyway.

“I must admit, I’m surprised that neither you or Nigel are interested in the ongoing Name Game,” Hetty says to Isaac. They stroll along the trail that carves roughly through Woodstone’s woods, a ribbon of pebbles and leaf litter underfoot.

“Perchance we would be participants, if we were not otherwise occupied by wedding planning,” he replies.

Hetty lifts her eyebrows. “Does the big day loom at last?”

Isaac lets a giddy grin tug at the corners of his lips. “Indeed. I would predict that within a fortnight, two will become one.”

They amble along thoughtfully for a few minutes, both pairs of hands folded primly behind backs, two chins raised in the air just so. Then Hetty pipes up, “Is it not strange for you, doing it all over again so many years later?”

Isaac chuckles. “Strange is one word for it. But I am only excited, more than anything else. This time it feels so much more... sincere, you know? Finally I understand what they mean by ‘joined in holy matrimony.’ There really is some holiness to it. Joy so vast it is otherworldly. Surreal as our own existence as ghosts.”

“Hm. How poetic.” Hetty peers at him closely, then flicks away her gaze to entangle it with the leafy green canopy above them. “I can relate to you, to some degree,” she reveals at length. “Distantly, of course. Very distantly.”

Isaac’s persistent grin is far too in-the-know for her comfort. “You and Trevor, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” she snaps. There’s a pause. Then, so quietly it rides out on a wafer-thin whisper, “Perhaps Trevor and I have exchanged the...” Now she undergoes a full-body shudder that resembles Sam’s reaction to her nightmare. “... the L-word.”

“I am aware,” Isaac says. “I was present at the time.”

“Now, we’ve only said it just the once, but—”

“That does not mean you need to marry him, Hetty. It is not a statement of your permanent intentions. It is merely a statement of your feelings.”

“‘Merely,’” Hetty quotes, looking faint.

“Merely.” Isaac keeps on grinning at her like a buffoon. “And I am glad for you both. Though the pickings may be slim here, I believe in my heart you have chosen your other half with wisdom and discretion.”

Now she can only stare at him, taken aback. “You do?”

At last, his unsettling composure splinters. “No,” he admits with a sigh. “Not in the slightest. But that’s alright. You could do a whole lot worse than Trevor.”

“He is... he is modern. And terrifying. And maddening. But he does not try to hurt me the way Elias would. Where he strikes, it does not cut through to the bone— all in a metaphorical sense, of course. I suppose I am simply wondering when I will ever become used to it.”

“It takes some time,” Isaac says. “But fret not. No longer than a pocketful of centuries.”

Hetty rolls her eyes.

“May I let you in on a little secret?” Isaac murmurs then, gaze sideways and sly.

“That is not even a question,” she says. “Of course you may.”

“The way in which you feel about Trevor is not dissimilar to my sentiments at the time I was engaged to Beatrice.”

Hetty sniffs. “Not the finest comparison so far, but carry on.”

“You should feel it in the pit of your stomach,” Isaac continues, “if it is right or wrong. And with her, I could never pass that small stone of doubt. It sat and sat in my stomach, reminding me that there was something off. That stone is part of the reason I am grateful Beatrice and I never had any progeny of our own. I would never have been the model father, even for the laissez-faire paternal standards of the time. And I confess, I never could have balanced my prolific political career with child-rearing as well as Hamilton evidently did. The bastard.”

“It always traces back to Hamilton,” Hetty mutters at a volume only she can hear.

Isaac concludes his thoughts. “In any case— yes, you may be uncertain. Disturbed. Questioning everything. But that is what good love can do, my friend. I only learned it recently myself, connecting the dots across millennia. If the stone remains, then this heated period of infatuation may fade. But, if the stone dissolves, and the thrill remains... well, you’re in luck.”

The Name Game is finally, blessedly put to rest after a long week of war. And, as is customary for Pete and Samantha’s pitiful “Everyone’s A Winner!” attitude, nobody ends up being named a winner.

At the end of it, Hetty finds herself with Sam back at the starting line where the war was first waged— in the canary yellow nursery.

“Still a fan of the color?” Hetty wonders, peeking in rather than passing by as she once might have.

No longer alone in the room to ponder freely, Sam turns to her. “Yes.” Her eyes give the walls another broad sweep, then return to Hetty with a sparkle of indecision. “... I think.”

“White is still a fine color,” Hetty comments innocently.

“Is it?”

“It is.”

“Not too hospital-like?”

“Oh! Speaking of hospitals,” Hetty says, “are you still sure that you do not want a home birth? You know, there tends to be a surplus of dead people in hospitals.”

Now Sam looks exceptionally troubled. “Thanks for that lovely reminder,” she says after a minute. “My mind’s made up, though. I might have to see a few trauma victims along the way, but... if I close my eyes a lot, maybe it won’t be so bad.”

“Hm. Maybe,” Hetty repeats.

Sam stares at her, gaze even, still hard at work reassuring herself on the matter.

“I am only looking out for your best interests, Samantha,” Hetty tells her.

Sam blinks away her troubles, giving way to a petite smile. “I know.”

Hetty prepares to leave, but right as her foot crosses over the threshold, she swears she hears an added mumble at the end of Sam’s reply: “— Mom.”

I know, Mom.

She whirls around, mouth ajar. “Did you say something else?”

Sam shakes her head quickly. Too quickly. “Nope.”

Hetty hesitates a moment longer. Then she leaves, and takes her doubt with her. Most of it.

Oddly enough, when Hetty passes by the same room a few days later, it is now painted a mellow blue-gray— a happy compromise between the happy couple.

Some time later, Hetty enters the kitchen after a brief tussle with Trevor in the filthy brothel they’ve made out of the laundry room. Subtly straightening her bodice, she finds Jay seated alone at the table. Still alone, to his knowledge. Though not anymore.

One of those foldable screens sits in front of him, and he gazes at it, appearing ill at ease. Hetty roams over to stand behind his shoulder. She bends forward, squinting at the words on the screen. Oh, how she loathes reading words on a screen. She always loathed reading in general, really, until Sam got her hands on that meet-cute novel. And considering most of the novels in Hetty’s time yielded a solid block of Dickensian word vomit, can she really be blamed?

Anyhow. Words, words on screen...

Hetty frowns. This seems to be a correspondence of some sort between Jay and another party. Electronic mail, they call it. No pretty stamps or handsome wax seals to speak of. She once had the finest rubber stamp for envelopes, a wonderful Woodstone W insignia centered on it. And fine, pooh-pooh the nineteenth century for its lapse of human rights, but those historians can never take away her lovely rubber stamps!

“He answered,” Jay breathes to himself, startling Hetty back to his situation. “He really answered.”

Hungering for information, she finally gives in and scans the entire email. And perhaps it is for the best that society has done away with fancy seals and envelopes. After all, here lie the sensitive contents, exposed for her unwelcome eyes to pilfer. Precisely as she likes it.

Jay,

I did get the invitation. Thanks. Assumed I wouldn’t be welcome.

“— that’s the entire point of an invite,” Jay interjects, as he reads along with her. “An invite means you’re invited, dude.”

Give Sam my best. Sorry to hear she still misses me. I wish she wouldn’t.

“Jesus,” Jay mutters, shaking his head. Palpable heat waves of anger effuse from his skin. So affronted on his wife’s behalf. Adorable— not.

Fine. A little.

I’d be more than happy to send a check if you want. My travels currently have me holed up somewhere in Montana (or Idaho), but I have no qualms about hunting down a mailbox.

“Glad you have no qualms about that,” Jay says darkly. “Send money to shut us up. Yeah, right.”

In any case, let me know. Don’t feel any need to rush a response my way. I may be out of Wi-Fi range for a while.

Steve

“Well, Steve,” Jay proclaims through gritted teeth. He begins to type furiously. Hetty devours the words with relish.

Hey there, Steve!

I just reached out because I wanted to give you a harmless little nudge. A reminder that you have a daughter. Sam is my wife— in case you misplaced that tidbit like you must’ve misplaced our address— and I love her a whole lot. As a result of that, I don’t like seeing her hurt. And as her father, you should love her too. I simply cannot fathom, Steve, why you can’t be bothered to come visit your only child once in a friggin’ while. You don’t have to pretend you like me, or even care about me.

But H-O-L-Y sh*t, Steve. Please care about her.

We don’t need your money. What we would like is your presence, even for half a day. It’ll be weird. It’ll be awkward. But ultimately, it will mean more than any of us will be able to express.

Allow me to spell it out again: VISIT US, Steve. To help you out, I’ve attached a super handy handout to this email that provides easy driving directions to Woodstone from all major highways.

I hope we’ll see you soon.

Wishing you a bright, sunshiny day,

Jay Arondekar

By the time he finishes rattling out that manifesto, he’s nearly out of breath and Hetty’s eyes are wide as saucers. Goodness, she thinks. Sam’s husband may brew up some exotic dishes like pepperoni pizza and pumpkin pie, but damn if that man will not defend her tooth and nail. Hetty could never dislike him, anyway, for it was Jay’s idea to stow away her horrid portrait in the attic where it can only bother Stephanie from this point forward.

Now his finger hovers over the mousepad. “Do I send it?” he whispers.

“Send it,” Hetty says immediately.

As if he heard her, Jay heeds her order and hits send. Then he collapses against the chair and blows out a breath.

“Oh, god,” he murmurs. “What did I just do?”

“Hetty!” Alberta’s hearty voice wails through the house from somewhere outside. “You don’t wanna miss this!”

Hetty trots outside, primarily to remind Alberta that she can’t tell Hetty what she does or does not want to miss. She stumbles, blinking in the harsh glare of sunlight, and struggles to narrow down what it is she’s meant to not be missing. It is well into June now, and one thing she does notice is how the sky is an obnoxious shade of candy blue that makes her feel ornery as a vampire.

At last, Hetty manages to join Alberta and the rest of the ghosts where they stand in a buzzing cluster in the driveway. Jay stands a bit ahead of them, hand cupped over his eyes like a visor.

“What’s all this hubbub?” Hetty asks.

“Earlier, Sam drove off in Vinny the MINI,” Trevor explains, directing her gaze with the aim of his index and middle fingers, “and now she’s pulling up in something else.”

Hetty watches as an unfamiliar carriage rolls to a perky halt over the gravel. Sam hops out a moment later, looking as proud of herself as she’ll ever allow.

“Wh- what’s this?” Jay sputters. “I thought we were going to—”

“Surprise?” Sam says, spreading her arms tentatively, looking from him to the car. “Thought I’d go ahead and pick it up today. Consider it a belated Father’s Day present. Which isn’t totally fair, since you did most of the work setting this up, but... well, I did manage to flex that sweet talk and get a few extra perks thrown in. Did someone say complimentary oil changes for three years? This gal did!”

Hetty bristles at her unseemly enthusiasm, but admires the fruit of her labor nonetheless. What a shiny green color that is. Superior to canary yellow, for what it’s worth.

All of a sudden, a stomach-turning smell crops up beside her, riper than an armpit the last day before a good old-fashioned lukewarm basin rinse.

“Whoa, sweet wheels,” says Nancy, her beady eyes also feasting on the new-to-them vehicle. “Is that a Subaru Forester in autumn green metallic with standard symmetrical all-wheel drive?”

“A Suba-who?” Alberta mumbles, puzzled.

“Lookee here,” remarks Pete cheerfully. “Are you responsible for Woodstone’s new product placement, Nancy?” His gaze flits up with a reminiscent shimmer, and Hetty braces herself. “Ah, I remember when they tried to promote this powdered fruit drink on Laura’s favorite Saturday morning cartoon. Sneaky, but not too sneaky for this Pete!” His smile drops slightly. “Of course, they stopped promoting it when it fatally poisoned a few people. Never did hear if that one settled out of court or not.”

Nancy addresses the question he posed eons ago. “No,” she says. “I just know my cars. Unlike some of you, I don’t live under a rock.” Then she ambles off.

“Nope, not under a rock,” Hetty says. “It only lives in a dungeon with no lock on the door.”

“How?” Jay asks meanwhile, shaking his head in awe. “They weren’t budging an inch for me!”

“Dialed up the charm to a generous eleven,” Sam tells him, only partly facetious. “So what do you say, wanna take it on a joy ride?”

“You’re a wizard, babe. You did all the dirty work, and claimed our prize while you were at it.” He rushes forward, a peculiar jumpiness in his demeanor as he gives her a hug. “Have I ever mentioned how much I love you?”

“Only a couple of times. You could say it more often,” Sam teases. She hugs him back with matching snugness. When she tries to pull away, it takes a few attempts to detach his arms from around her. Her expression crumples somewhat, eyes searching his with frantic back-and-forth movements. “Are you okay? Look, I know it’s a lot, but I didn’t agree to anything we didn’t discuss—”

“Fine! I’m fine. All good in the neighborhood.” Jay smacks his lips, shoves his hands in his pockets, and patrols around the car. “So... you know I gotta ask. Any ghosts at the dealership? As an amateur self-taught expert, I got a distinct eerie vibe from that place.”

“Technically, no,” Sam answers, still eyeing him curiously. “Not unless you count a ghost from our not-so-distant past.”

Now Jay and everyone else return her curious stare. “Was it Jessica?” Sasappis shouts over. “Don’t tell me she got traded in again.”

Sam mostly ignores him and says, “Turns out our old pal Freddie’s latest gig is at the Subaru dealership in town. He’s a salesman there. Junior salesman, though it looked like he tried to cover up that part of his name tag when I saw him.”

“No way,” says Jay with a grimace. “Does he still hate us?”

“For the most part. He’s rightfully pissed that we’re now leaning into the whole haunted thing when we’d called him crazy for even suggesting it before.”

“Fair enough.”

“And I sort of got worried he might sabotage our deal there, so... there’s a chance I extended an open invite for him to stay with us sometime soon,” she admits. “With a steep employee discount.”

Jay opens his mouth, then closes it, then out comes “Okay” in a squeaky voice.

“Jay, what is with you?” Sam wonders. In a comedy of errors, she tries circling around the car to approach him, only for Jay to wrap around the other side. They both turn at the same time, still unable to reach each other in the shortest way possible. A painless endeavor for them, perhaps, though not painless to witness. At long last, the tail-chasing ends and they collide, with Sam holding on to him as if he might make a break for it.

“So, I... I also extended an invite,” Jay says.

She blinks. “To Freddie? Um, okay. I thought you would’ve mentioned seeing him, but—”

“No. I—” He digs his teeth into his lower lip before taking the plunge. “Sam, your dad’s here.”

It occurs to Hetty to express some sort of outcry at this, but her mouth is too dry to speak. She had known this might be coming, of course, but she hadn’t thought it would come up so soon.

Sas’s jaw is held on loose hinges. “How,” he mutters, “did he stir this up without any of us noticing?”

Hetty lifts a hand with pronounced hesitance. “I noticed,” she says. “I happened upon him in the kitchen one day recently, writing out a livid letter to the man. Not how I would have spoken to my own father-in-law, had my uncle not died when I was still in adolescence.”

“Holy cannoli,” Pete says, focused on something behind them. “There he is.”

“Look,” Jay is blabbering to a frozen Sam, “all I know is that he’s a part of you, and I’ll always want to know more of you, Sam. And you said you wished he could be here, so—”

But Sam’s eyes are beyond him. “Dad,” she says flatly. Letting go of Jay, she seems to move forward as if on a conveyor belt. Passing the ghosts without seeing them, she walks until she is face-to-face with the person Hetty has heard mentioned only in heres and theres.

Steve Ahearne appears rather uncomfortable that he can no longer hide behind his formerly enigmatic status. Thumbs hooked in his pockets, he lifts his shoulders and says, “Hey, pumpkin.”

Behind her, Jay mouths to himself, “‘Pumpkin’?”

“Dad,” Sam says again, harder this time. Dumbfounded. “Why... how—”

“Y’know what,” Steve interrupts. He tips his head in a way that Hetty figures is meant to exude playfulness, but only accentuates the awkwardness of the situation. “It’s funny to think that this little mansion you got here might’ve gone to me if your mom and I hadn’t divorced.”

Silence. They all stare at him.

“— bad joke?”

“It wasn’t a good one,” Sam tells him. Her voice is a dangerous sort of quiet. Hetty knows what that quiet means. Batten down the hatches. Prepare the waterworks, she thinks. We’re in for another deluge.

But then Sam’s vacant gaze catches on something else. Hetty sees it at the same time, and one by one, so do the other ghosts. Hetty can’t prevent herself from asking out loud, “Who is she?”

From behind Steve Ahearne, a girl of about twelve or thirteen materializes, her chin set in a defiant jut as she brazenly refuses to identify herself. Fortunately for her, she doesn’t have to.

Because that’s when Sam whispers, astonishment written in deep lines on her face— “Aunt Evelyn?”

Chapter 7: isaac-normal activity

Chapter Text

“So... just to be clear, you’re telling me that you’re not pissed?”

All ghost eyes switch from Jay over to Sam.

“Oh,” she tells him, “I was pissed.”

The tense rope of silence snaps.

“But now...” She shakes her head. “I just can’t believe you thought contacting him without telling me was a good idea.”

“To be fair, I never thought it was a fantastic idea,” Jay says. “But I got so worked up about it. I was so mad for you, and I— I needed to vent it somehow. I needed him to do the right thing for you, even if it was just this once.”

“You don’t have to be mad for me, Jay,” Sam says softly. “I can be mad for myself.”

“I understand that. But you’re my wife.” Silence again, only a stroke of it, and then Jay adds, “I wanted to stand up for you. My methods were not ideal, I admit that. And I’m sorry. But now he’s here.”

“Now he’s here,” Sam echoes. “So let’s make the most of it.” She turns away from him, mumbling under her breath a string of words that only Isaac catches: “... and with this guy, it’ll be like squeezing juice from a rock.”

Jay remains rooted to the spot for several seconds. About half of the spectating ghosts stick with him, glancing among each other uneasily. A co*cktail of emotions has been stirred in Isaac’s gut, and much like his final moments as a member of the Living world, it seems that what rumbles in his gut does not want to stay down where it belongs.

Isaac will always be loyal to Samantha above all, so he follows her to where she left her father waiting at the kitchen table. Well, her father and the mute preteen he unknowingly has as a companion. And, yes, perhaps Isaac’s curiosity about her is another reason he decided to join the party here rather than stay back there and comfort a man who cannot see or hear him. That endeavor would be utterly pointless.

“It’s odd,” Nigel murmurs in his ear as they watch. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“A ghost tethered to a Living?” Isaac says. “Indeed, neither have I.”

“Imagine the places she has gone,” Nigel says. “The things she has seen.”

“Some less savory than others, I would assume.”

“Yes, yes. But still— the freedom! Can you even conceptualize it? Freedom superior to that of a car ghost.”

Meanwhile, Steve speaks to Sam. “... last time I saw you, you were what, a newlywed trying to make it in the Big Apple? And now look at you. Really putting down roots.”

Sam’s responding nod is curt; her lips are sealed tight. She’s letting him do most of the talking. And trying exceptionally hard not to stare at her father’s small scowling shadow.

“Isn’t this the part where he tells Sam he’s proud of her?” Pete whispers to the others. “Where he tells her he loves what she’s done with the place? With her life?”

Trevor clicks his teeth together. “Hate to break it to you, but I don’t think he’s that kind of dad, Pete.”

“We should have heard such praise before now,” Hetty points out, her eyes embedded like knives on Sam’s father.

“And he should have visited here by now,” Alberta adds. Her voice is aptly sharpened in Sam’s defense. And yet there lurks an additional layer to her and Hetty’s keen ogling.

“I would detest him more if he were not so...” Hetty trails off.

“Handsome?” Alberta says.

Hetty’s knees wobble a little, and she admits with reluctance, “Yes.” Trevor glares at her, but fails to find any argument worth giving voice to.

“Dashing?” Alberta goes on. “A red-hot hunk of—”

“Alright,” Pete sighs. “We get it. Sam’s dad is... not a bad-looking man. But that’s about all he has going for him.”

Alberta’s eyes drop low for a heartbeat before they revert to a regular level. “Mm-hmm.”

Now it is Sam’s turn to send a glare their way. She disguises it well by casually passing a hand over her face to slowly tuck a lock of hair behind one ear.

While that tedious talk drones on, Flower is focused on getting the young ghost to speak. Isaac’s heart breaks for her; they haven’t often encountered child spirits here at Woodstone, but whenever one comes along, it is monumentally tragic. Sure, all of the core eight still boasted youth at the time they died, but to be captured in the reaper’s snare before even getting a chance to grow up? It is a most cruel fate. Especially since this ghost child in particular— unlike all the others Isaac has ever met— still has yet to be sucked off. What could have kept her here for so many years, to the point that her grown niece is now looking her in the eyes?

“Hi there,” Flower says gently, her dazed and confused grin serving as a friendly invitation. “What’s your name?”

The girl stares at her.

“Okay, you appreciate formalities. I understand.” Flower sticks out her hand and tries again. “I’m Flower. I can’t recall my lame name at the moment, so Flower is what we’re going with. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

But the girl only stares back with stormy eyes.

“Dad,” Sam says suddenly. “Can I get you anything? Water, coffee, tea? Jay just put together a nice sangria, if it’s not too early for you.”

“Eh, it’s five o’clock somewhere,” Steve says. “Sangria sounds fantastic.”

Pete chuckles. “I got Carol a dish towel with that phrase. It had a little parrot wearing a sombrero, with a teeny-tiny margarita glass.”

“Cultural appropriator, thy name is Pete,” says Sas. Pete’s grin slips.

“Coming right up,” Sam tells her dad. Then she turns tail and flees to the kitchen. She doesn’t even need a subtle head motion to beckon the ghosts after her; they already know where to go.

“I don’t get it,” she says the second the door is closed. “I’d love to speak to her alone, but it’s like— she’s stuck to him.”

“Remind us again, Sam,” says Isaac. “Who is she? What do you know about her?”

“Yes, telling us all you know might help us reach her,” Alberta adds, glancing back through the wall to the other room. “Because Flower’s getting nowhere fast with that girl.”

Sam looks pensive as she takes a pitcher from the fridge and pours some of its contents into a glass. “My Aunt Evelyn. Dad’s sister. I saw her in a photo album once, ages ago. I remember her face so well, because I always felt really terrible thinking about how she died. I couldn’t get her out of my head for the longest time. I even dreamed about her. There was this... this sense of guilt, like I had done something to wrong her, even though she died way before I was born. The guilt wasn’t mine to carry, but... I have a feeling it belongs to someone.”

“Thor have good idea who that someone is,” Thor says. The other ghosts nod, murmur their consensus. The Continental Congress couldn’t hold one of their dusty taper candles to Woodstone’s unity!

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Sam insists, replacing the pitcher in the fridge. “I was told she died in a car accident. A dreadful case of wrong place, wrong time. What about that would tie her to my dad for eternity?”

Before any of the ghosts can attempt musing aloud, she returns to the dining room and sets the glass in front of her father. “There you go.” She lowers herself into the chair across from him. “I’m jealous you get to have some. I love Jay’s sangria.”

Steve takes a testing sip, then tilts his head, setting down the glass with an air of disinterest. “Mm. Not bad.”

Sam’s eyes linger on his hand as it recedes from the glass. She opens her mouth, only to become stuck on what to say next.

He manages to find his words first. “So,” he begins, clearing his throat with a harsh rumble, “now are you going to tell me why the first thing you said to me today was—”

“Aunt Evelyn,” Sam mumbles. Her gaze remains downcast for just a moment before she flicks it up to his face. The excuse she digs up is weak, but an excuse nonetheless. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been thinking about her lately, now that I’m having my own daughter.”

Steve blinks a few times, his eyebrows raised in a carbon copy of the surprised expression Sam often wears. “Do you think about her often?”

Sam lifts her shoulders slightly. “She passed away so young, and... well, Jay and I have been struggling to find names we agree on...”

So now the excuse has been stretched into a minor lie. That is, an insinuation of a lie. Though Isaac can’t blame her; it was within easy reach.

Steve visibly gulps. “You... you want to name her after...”

Finally, Evelyn rewards Sam with eye contact. She stares inquisitively between father and daughter, paying rapt attention to their discussion. But something about Evelyn looking directly at her seems to cripple Sam’s conviction.

Shaking her head, she dismisses the subject by abruptly getting to her feet. “Hey, we don’t have to talk about that right this second. You just got here! Don’t you want a tour?”

The tension in Steve’s spine melts away as he lifts his glass in question. “May I bring Jay’s sangria along?”

“You certainly may,” Sam answers, pasting on a haphazard smile. While she leads him out of the room, her gaze snags desperately on the ghosts— most of all on Evelyn, who walks in step with her grown brother, resigned to go wherever he goes.

Isaac and the others stay back for a minute. “And to think we feel so trapped on this gargantuan property,” Nigel remarks. “I take back everything I said earlier about her so-called freedom. How could we ever feel that way again, now that we know of her?”

Sasappis frowns, gazing after where the Livings disappeared off to. “Total shot in the dark here, but... what if Sam’s dad is a murderer?”

“A murderer?” Alberta demands. “Sam said the girl died in a car wreck.”

“Yeah,” Sas says. “That’s what Sam was told.”

“Aw, come on,” says Pete, stepping in as the skeptic. “You can’t expect us to believe a young boy would be capable of—” They all look at him as the realization sets in. “Oh. Kids can kill.” He gestures lamely at himself. “And I’m Exhibit A.”

Isaac steps in and makes a deft pivot in the proper direction. “Let us venture forth, troops!” he declares, leading the charge out of the room. “We will get to the bottom of this even if it is the last thing we do.”

“Why would it be the last thing we do?” Hetty asks as they walk.

“Do not question my rationale, Henrietta,” Isaac says lightly. Dropping his voice, he mutters only to her, “It sounded noble and dramatic, and so I said it.” Then, voice raised again: “Now move along! We have a limited amount of time, people!” He drops his voice, adds to Hetty, “Time is very unlimited. But it simply isn’t as much fun that way, now is it?”

By the time Sam concludes her father’s tour of Woodstone, the ghosts are not any closer to solving the mystery. Frustrated by the roadblock Evelyn’s stubborn muteness presents, Isaac barely hears when Sam lets it slip to Steve that they’ll be hosting another wedding in a few weeks.

“She means us,” Nigel whispers to him.

“Hm?” Isaac says, distracted. “Oh, yes. Us. Us getting married! A delight. A revelry.”

Nigel’s eyes roll, but he remains as good-natured as a redcoat can be, which is why Isaac loves him.

That is when Sam’s father decides to utter something that takes them all by surprise, as if this something is news to them— “The house is haunted, right?”

She looks at him, looks at the ghosts, then back at him. Gadzooks, Samantha is really untalented at hiding the whole I’ve just seen a ghost expression. One would think a few years of seeing dead people would have nipped that in the bud; but then again, being around her father seems to have made Sam regress somewhat. And Isaac can see why. The man is, as Ben Franklin would have put it, an odd grouse. A grouse with a nice throaty tenor in his voice, and admirably symmetrical facial features, but a grouse nonetheless.

“What... what makes you say that?” Sam asks.

Without speaking, Steve points at a sign by the front desk which, emblazoned with large serif letters, broadcasts NEXT GHOST TOUR AT 1 PM TOMORROW!

“Oh, right. That’s there.” Sam swallows. “Yes. Woodstone is haunted. Haunted as a... haunted house.”

“Sometimes I will read an excerpt written by Samantha and I will be amazed by how much language has developed since my time,” Isaac comments. “But then she speaks.”

“So does that mean there might be a ghost or two listening in on us now?” Steve asks.

Sam nods. “You could say that.”

For the first time, Steve shows her a smile. Evelyn peeks out from behind him, her eyes still striking with that finely-honed observance. Isaac can practically see the pearls of sweat emerge on Sam’s forehead as she forces herself not to look at the girl.

“Well, it’s a neat place you’ve got here,” Steve says. “Appreciate you showing me around.”

“No problem,” Sam replies stiffly. “It was my... pleasure?” Gritting her teeth, she spins to the ghosts and feverishly motions for help while her dad’s back is turned.

“Ditch the ABCs of customer service, first of all,” Alberta tells her. “You don’t owe that man so much as a ‘How do you do?’”

“Then what do I say?” Sam mouths at them. Her gaze continuously flashes to Steve to ensure he isn’t watching her consult empty air. “How can I ask about her?”

Somehow, Jay comes to the rescue. “Hey,” he says, treading carefully as he leans in from the entryway. “It’s getting dark outside. I was thinking of starting up one of the fire pits, maybe get some s’mores going.”

Right away Sam’s eyes light up, as if her face is already awash in the fire’s caressing glow. “Yes!” she blurts out. Everyone blinks at her. Unashamed of her relief for the transition to a new setting, she ushers her father outdoors after Jay. “Sorry. The baby wants s’mores. I can’t say no to her.”

The three Livings sit on the benches encircling a fire pit that was installed during one of many phases of the Great Renovation Revolution. Sam and Jay huddle close on one bench, with her father and Evelyn on the other.

Thorfinn is hypnotized by the fire pit, as he usually is. Isaac has wandered out here before to find hotel guests unknowingly accompanied by a hulking, thousand-year-old Viking man, hunched on one of the low wooden benches with his knees awkwardly bent alongside his ears, gazing into the flames as if they are tea leaves cradling some arcane fortune.

Sas shakes his head while they watch Jay toss some kindling into the pit’s open mouth. “Wow. Truly contained fire. It’s wild to imagine the technology we were capable of when I was alive, and we just didn’t know it. Like frozen pizza. And pizza ovens. And pizza in rectangular shapes. And white pizza.”

“Knew he was bound to weave that in somewhere,” Nigel mutters.

“But not cauliflower pizza,” Sas adds with a shudder. “Never that.”

Sam pops open a bag of marshmallows and, as if in a trance, stuffs several in her mouth before surrendering it to her husband. Jay grins, stabs one on a roasting stick, then passes the bag to Steve. The manner in which he impales the marshmallow and casts it into the fire with his eyes on his father-in-law the entire time is perhaps a touch too violent. Sam’s elbow finds its way into his side, so Jay shakes off the act.

“Oh, how I adored a good s’more,” Pete sighs. He helps himself to a spot next to Sam on the bench. “It is such a fun challenge trying to achieve the proper ratio of chocolate to graham cracker. You don’t want too much chocolate, because you want to avoid a melty mess, and the folks at Hershey are so helpful by splitting it into little squares ahead of time, but boy howdy, is it tempting to take more than your share of—”

“I like s’mores,” a small voice says.

The ghosts all whirl toward the source. Sam nearly drops the cracker and chocolate pair she’d been assembling. Jay glances at her, curious, but keeps his lips zipped.

“My girl scout troop used to make them all the time,” Evelyn continues quietly, “whenever we went camping. My friend Amelia liked to spread peanut butter on hers, too. I said she was nuts, but then I tried one, and...” She falters as she recognizes the large audience she has. “... it was good.”

Thor is the first to speak in the stunned, fidgety silence. “Small child,” he says, “why do you guard your voice?”

Evelyn’s jaw works furiously. Sam’s eyes land on her, soft like— well, marshmallows. “I’m not a baby,” she mumbles then, after a minute. “I’m— I was... almost thirteen.” Then she catches Sam’s gaze. “How can she see me?”

“Something I ask myself every day,” Sam replies before she can stop herself. Steve frowns over at her, so she quickly adds, “— is... is why I never asked you... about—”

“It’s fine,” Steve interrupts. “Ask away.”

Sam hesitates. “Ask—?”

“You can ask about her. Your aunt. My sister. I don’t mind.”

“He still looks pretty bothered about it to me,” Pete remarks.

“Hm,” says Alberta. “More like can’t be bothered. But you heard the man, Sam. Ask away. In fact, I say you should give him a full-fledged Oprah interview.”

Steve retrieves his marshmallow from the fire. At the same moment, Sam and Jay remember their own marshmallows. Both save their desserts in the nick of time, chasing away the flames with rapid blows of air.

“Oh, yeah. Aunt Evelyn. Um...” Sam draws in a breath. “What— what happened, really? Because... it seems like her memory still weighs on you a lot.”

“Huh. Getting right into it, then. I guess I owe you that much, after everything.” Her father sits without speaking for a while, massaging a stubbled cheek as he loses his focus to the flames. The sky surrounds them like a tie-dyed cloak, dusk accumulating in clots of orange and streaks of pink. Far off by the barn, a group of lively and merry restaurant patrons make their way across the lawn.

Sometimes Isaac has to ponder the emotional enormity of a place that has captured so many deaths in a big bottle also being the site of immense joy for so many others— his own included, he thinks, as he slips a hand into Nigel’s. How lovely it is to do that openly.

At length, Steve finishes building his s’more and stares down at it in his hands. “She does still weigh on me a lot,” he admits. “She was my little sister. We did everything together. Considering our parents, it kind of felt like an us against the world situation.”

He chooses a rather poor moment to glance at Sam and Jay, both of whom have their mouths crammed full of s’more. Jay flashes an encouraging thumbs-up, while Sam nods rapidly for him to go on.

“It was my fault she died,” Steve says. “Plain and simple.” Evelyn considers him coolly. Her eyes brim with something bordering on resentment. Then her quiet bubble bursts.

“It wasn’t simple, Stevie!” she says harshly, her words like a broken mirror. Everyone who can hear her goes still, Sam most notably as she’s mid-chew. “I told you to be careful. I told you to slow down.” Her foot stomps with each statement. The fire roars, seemingly fed by her anguish. “I told you. I told you!”

“But—” Sam starts, gulping down her ill-timed bite. “But you told me you weren’t—”

“I was driving the car,” Steve tells her. “I had just gotten my license, or my permit, whichever it was. And I was a teenage hothead. I went too fast around a bend. It’s a tale as old as time.”

“It was an accident,” Sam says. “An awful accident.”

“Awful doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Steve replies. “And when you were her age, Samantha, all I could see was her. An innocent girl who I utterly failed. And once you set a precedent, it’s easy to make it a pattern.”

“Then why not let the pattern end here?” Sam asks him softly. “Turn over a new leaf?”

“Because I know,” he croaks, “I know she doesn’t forgive me. Our parents sure never did.”

“You really know that?” Sam counters. “Have you ever asked her yourself?”

He sighs, shakes his head, toys with the congealed s’more. “I can’t just—”

“Ask her, Dad.” Sam scoots forward on the bench, eyes drilling into his. “Acknowledge her. This is a spiritual place. You never know, she might be sitting right next to you.”

Evelyn’s red-rimmed eyes flash from her niece to her brother. Breaths are held. Lips are gnawed. Fingernails bite into palms.

Steve hangs his head, staring hard at the ground. Then he perks up a little. “Evelyn?” he murmurs. “You— you here?”

“Yes,” the girl answers. “I don’t have much of a choice. You always keep me with you, always.”

Steve lifts his gaze to his daughter, firmly distraught in the silence he perceives. Isaac watches as Sam squares her shoulders and settles on a decision.

“I think Aunt Evelyn is here,” she tells him calmly. “And not because she chooses to be. You’re still holding on to her.”

Sam and Evelyn’s voices overlap:

“Let her go.”

“Let me go.”

Again Evelyn stares at her niece in shock, the blue in her eyes so washed-out they may as well be colored clear. Then she whispers, “Thank you.”

Sam mouths back, “Don’t mention it.”

Head still bowed slightly, Steve mumbles something to himself like a prayer. Louder, he states, “Evie, I have to let you go. I’m sorry.”

The longest minute ever recorded trickles by. Then— “Something feels different,” Evelyn says. She leaps up from the bench, stumbles into a sprint across the lawn, legs pumping up and down as she lifts herself from the grass with glee. “This is awesome!” She runs back and, to nobody’s great surprise, squeezes Pete into a fierce hug. His eyebrows jump, but he gives her a pleasant pat on the back in return.

“I haven’t been far from Stevie since I died,” Evelyn explains. “I- I could never go far from him, not unless he let me. There were times I could wander, until his sad thoughts would call me back. But now...” Her eyes trail to Sam in time with the sobering of her expression. “I think with me being away, he can make room for someone else.”

As inexplicable as magic, that telltale yawn of light appears above her. Isaac wants to envy it, but he finds envy difficult to come by when entering that light would entail leaving behind the man he desires to have by his side for eternity. So while Evelyn at long last rises to her final destination, Sam leans against Jay with muted sniffles, and Isaac leans against Nigel just the same.

Thor cups his hands around his mouth and shouts after her, “Farewell, small child!” His eyes reflect the light, as do all of theirs. “Your star will always shine brightest.”

Unaware of all of this, Sam’s dad shoves his long-cold s’more into his mouth and, in an amusing resemblance of his daughter, awkwardly angles a hand under his mouth to catch the crumbs.

It takes more than a week for everyone to properly recover from Steve’s visit. He departs with the promise of more frequent phone calls and future visits to come. The dull glaze in Sam’s eyes hints that she doesn’t fully believe him— but she voices nothing to that effect. Either way, father and daughter officially part ways with a hug that is a little less stilted than the one they initially reunited with.

By the time everyone’s lives— and deaths— feel nearly the same as they had been before he showed up, Isaac and Nigel’s nuptials are visible on the horizon.

Several days later Isaac is relaxing in his favorite room, the office, ruminating behind a great majestic desk as a good thinker should. He isn’t hard to find when he is in here, so sure enough, Sam finds him.

“Isaac,” she says, standing in the doorway with her hands conspicuously tucked behind her back.

“Samantha,” he greets her, rising from his chair, smoothing the fabric of his uniform. “You look rather serious. Please tell me it is not because Nigel’s chosen music fell through. As you know, we have only waited so long for this ceremony because we want it to be absolutely perfect. Perfection, a year in the making.”

“Mm-hmm, no worries there. The surprisingly in-demand Mozart-inspired classical orchestra, who wanted a two-thousand-dollar deposit to travel up here all the way from... Yonkers,” she confirms, “is still booked.”

“Then what is the matter?” Isaac asks. He moves around the desk, motions toward her. “The elusive placement of your hands worries me.”

Sam’s tell-nothing expression splits into a wide smile, and she brings her hands forward to display what they’ve been hiding: a book. But wait— not just any book! His book.

Fine— their book.

“Hot off the press!” she cheers, rushing over to flip through it for him. “I received this today. It’s the very first copy printed. Finally, it’s going to be on shelves this week.”

“As I live and breathe,” Isaac gasps. “And yes, I do see the irony there.”

His eyes hungrily rake over each page as she holds it in front of them. He absorbs every detail from the front cover— which has Isaac’s lone surviving portrait— to the back cover, which has Sam’s cute grinning photo in the corner beside a brief biography, a thin paragraph that humbly narrows her down to far too little, in Isaac’s opinion. Then she turns it back over slowly, skimming a hand over the dust jacket. Oh, how it gleams! And the title, in bold typeface:

THE TRUTH ABOUT ISAAC HIGGINTOOT (AS WE KNOW IT):

A semi-fictionalized narrative about the Revolutionary icon who everyone forgot.

“It looks wonderful,” he tells her, meeting her eyes with an earnest touch. Eye contact is, after all, the only contact that really can be made between them. “Even more splendid than I could have imagined.”

“Well, you’re the best ghostwriter anyone could ask for, Isaac,” Sam replies. “You gave me more than enough to work with.”

“And I do confess I may have been somewhat— what is that word you use?— pushy about this project at first. But I also confess that it has led to quite a lovely result.”

“It was a labor of love,” Sam agrees. “And a couple of sleepless nights. And spiraling panic from wondering if staring at a computer screen for ten hours straight can cause temporary blindness.”

“Oh, and don’t forget lying to an editor or two.”

“Right. The most important piece to the puzzle,” Sam laughs.

“White lies,” he adds quickly.

“Yes. Very minor lies in the grand scheme of things.”

He grins at her. “Worth it in the end, I wager?”

“You can put all your chips on the table, Isaac. Because it was definitely worth it.”

They spend another hour— or multiple— admiring the work that, Isaac would only admit in private, should mostly be credited to Sam. Still, in spite of the awe uplifting his cold dead heart, Isaac cannot resist one tiny nitpick:

“Is it not a bit... thinner than you might have imagined?”

“Are you positive we want to go with the vanilla buttercream?”

Isaac stares at his fiancé. “Quite positive, yes. Are you not?”

Nigel hums doubtfully, gazing at the floor the way he does when he ponders. “I must admit I’m having second thoughts. Is vanilla not too... vanilla?”

“But Jay is making the cake with Madagascar vanilla bean,” Isaac argues, “so it is not simply vanilla, dear. It is... it is fancy vanilla. With a sophisticated flav— er, scent profile.”

“Look, I do sympathize that we are paying for this celebration with your share of book royalties— hm.” Nigel stops himself all of a sudden, wearing a queer expression on his face that Isaac loves to be annoyed by. “Amusing that the money is called ‘royalties,’ is it not? Such a lovely word, royalty. Flows off the tongue.”

Isaac nods, grins tightly. “Mm-hmm. You know what else does? Independence.”

In the next room over, Sam finishes convincing someone to enroll in the Woodstone Rewards Program. After that guest leaves, all is well for only a minute before Isaac and Nigel receive a semi-alarmed summons.

“I just got this message,” she tells them, indicating the computer on the front desk. “Thought you two might want to see it.”

To the owners of Woodstone Bed & Breakfast:

I write to you with a humble request. My name is Bradley Pearson, and I am engaged to be married next month. My fiancé and I have long held an interest in visiting your establishment ever since we heard of its opening. It has never seemed like a holiday within our reaches, as we live quite a distance away.

However, I must confess to you that we are now desperate for a wedding venue. I understand that this request is very last-minute, but our previous venue unfortunately burned down and we have been left without a place to celebrate with our friends and family. We would be overjoyed if you could host us in any shape or form. I’d be happy to iron out details about food and decor with you at your earliest convenience. Please know that Patrick and I are willing to pay anything within reason for you to accommodate our small party. It would not be any more than 30 people.

I should also mention the reason Patrick and I have been so interested in your property. During the American Revolution, a relative of Patrick’s set up camp in the vicinity— an army officer, I believe. From what we can gather, he passed away there, and Patrick has always wondered if there is any more to his story. It would make a lovely start to the rest of our lives together if my fiancé could get a chance to connect with an ancestor he has been so curious about for so long.

I hope you will consider our proposition, as far-fetched as it may be. Please do reach out soon if there is even a sliver of a chance this event could be pulled together in the next few weeks.

My deepest regards,

Bradley

“A confirmed descendant!” Nigel exclaims. “But who might he be related to?”

“Well...” Sam says slowly. “He did say ‘holiday’ instead of ‘vacation’ or ‘trip,’ so that leans toward him being British.”

A haughty grin of triumph spreads on Nigel’s face. Isaac squints at him. “I would not be so hasty to assume, Samantha,” he points out. “Just because the composer of the letter is British, it does not mean his betrothed is the same. And it is Patrick who is the descendant, after all.”

“Yes, that is all very good,” says Nigel, “but odds are—”

“Do I sense a quibble coming on?” Isaac demands.

“Perhaps you do,” Nigel returns, “if your truth detector isn’t too impaired at the moment.”

“You do know I had just as many nieces and nephews as you did, my love!”

“I am plenty aware of that, dearest!”

Sam lifts her eyebrows and murmurs, “Oh, no.” But on the computer, she is already drafting a response: How does July 20th sound?

Jay shakes his head as he gazes at the menu-in-progress on the laptop screen. “Okay, so we’re feeding thirty-five people, and you’re sure none of them have food allergies?”

Sam stands over his shoulder, idly stroking her baby bump as she also scans over the menu. “Yes. I double- and triple-checked with Bradley. They’re all in the clear.”

“Unless someone discovers they do have an allergy after all, and dies after indulging in Jay's magnificent chicken piccata,” Sasappis helpfully points out from where he stands over Jay’s other shoulder.

“Or there’s that,” Sam replies.

Jay’s head pops up. “Or there’s what?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

To his credit, Jay rolls with it. “Right, so, before I waste my breath asking this, are Isaac and/or Nigel in the room?”

“You got both of them here,” Sam affirms. “They—”

“As if we would miss a single second of this planning,” Isaac says.

“Who would have ever thought we would get to have our own family at our wedding?” Nigel gushes. “Surely the chances must have been next to none.”

“Let alone them tracking us down and not the other way around!” Isaac adds. “I am still at a loss for what to say when I meet my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grand-nephew for the first time.”

Nigel’s eyes are shaved down into slits. “Don’t you mean my great-great-great-great-great-great-grand-nephew?”

“Hm. You wish,” Isaac answers. “Also, you missed a ‘great.’”

“How many times must I state that the odds are in my favor? I am telling you, that man is more British than King George himself!”

“— yep, they are extremely here,” Sam repeats.

“Cool beans,” says Jay. “Okay, gentlemen, what are we feeling as far as cake? Still all systems go on the devil’s food with chocolate ganache?”

Nigel clicks his tongue, tips his head. “Well...”

Alberta cups a hand around her mouth and speaks through pinched lips, “Goldilocks strikes again.”

Sam settles in a chair next to her husband, preemptively shaking her head; Jay hangs his own in dismay.

“Guys,” he reminds them with whisker-thin patience, “we are now on the fourth iteration of your wedding cake. Might I remind you that there are no other options? Oh, yeah, and the big day is in T-minus”— Jay makes a show of checking his watch— “forty-eight hours!”

“I don’t know,” Isaac sighs. “It just doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like... us.”

Sam relays this to Jay, who says, “Well, maybe not everything is gonna be exactly you. You know where Sam and I had our wedding reception? It was in this super narrow Irish pub place. Neither of us are Irish. Both of us are pretty claustrophobic. But, we both love fish and chips. It was an experience.”

Hetty recoils at this.

“And the sheet cake we custom-ordered from the grocery store?” Jay continues. “When we picked it up, the figurine on top was of two grooms, because they assumed ‘Jay’ and ‘Sam’ were a couple of dudes getting hitched. So yeah, our cake didn’t exactly represent us, either.

“But you know what? I will always treasure any random Irish pub I come across in the city— not only because we had our reception in one, but because our reception could have been in any of them. They really do all look the same, and I cannot for the life of me remember which one we were in. It’s like walking through the Matrix. Once you’ve been in one, you’ve been in them all.”

Sam, who looks at him fondly as she runs a hand along his arm, chimes in, “Wasn’t it on 49th?”

“Nope, that was the sketchy bodega that made the most incredible pizza bagel breakfast sandwiches,” Jay replies. “God, I still taste that sandwich in my dreams.”

“I can verify that is true,” Sas says.

“Circling back to cake,” Jay continues, “that Whole Foods masterpiece for that fictional gay couple had the best buttercream roses I have ever seen in my life. I’m still trying to recreate ones as good as those.”

Sam nods. “And when we picked up the cake that day, I accidentally dropped the box—”

“— that sucker slid at least fifty feet down the subway platform—”

“— but those roses survived without a smudge.” Sam grins, flicks Jay’s earlobe. “It was fate.”

“Aw,” says Pete at the same time Alberta says it. They both glance at each other, then quickly look away.

All at once, Isaac’s shoulders drop, and he meets Nigel’s equally softened gaze. It really is Samantha and Jay’s romantic comedy world, and they are all dead in it.

“I do declare,” Nigel finally says, turning back to the loving Livings, “that the vanilla buttercream will be just right, after all.”

Those final two days really do add up into a perfect storm of events.

Isaac and Nigel had agreed to embrace the chaos of several last-minute additional wedding guests in return for meeting a descendant— every old ghost’s dream come true. And the descendant and his fiancé, of course, remain none the wiser that the abruptly canceled wedding whose time slot their own is taking is, in reality, a ghost wedding that was being planned regardless and is very much not canceled.

The important lesson here? Sharing is caring. If only John Adams had understood that philosophy when he got all huffy because Isaac had to borrow his horse one time. The fact that he then proceeded to crash said horse into a tree is irrelevant. The horse was fine, only mildly concussed. But nobody thought to ask how Isaac was, no, it was all about John Adams’ horse.

Anyhow, the storm begins its rumblings when Sam and Jay trip and fall into their own marital squabble. Isaac doesn’t appreciate them pulling this when he is about to enter into his own matrimonial agreement. But, then again, all things that travel up must also dip down at certain junctures. A brutal reminder of what is in store for any relationship, Isaac supposes.

Their strife is sparked over flowers, of all things. It is only one day before the wedding party is due to arrive— that is, the party for the Living wedding. The ghosts are following Jay, who is following Sam, who is marching outside to the car with her emotions all askew— and, Isaac observes, her hair.

“Sam, the flowers we have are fine!” Jay insists. She ignores him. He watches, at a loss, as she flings open the door and squeezes in behind the steering wheel. “You can’t always bend to the ghosts’ every whim,” he presses, now joining her at the car. “It’s just not realistic. You need to relax.”

“Well, what if I want to bend to their every whim, Jay?” Sam snaps. She tries to close the door, but his preventative hand clamps down on it. “Isaac and Nigel requested gardenias. They delivered the wrong flowers, so I’m going to get the right ones.”

“And where do you expect to find a dozen bouquets of gardenias, in the right color scheme, this late in the game?” Jay asks her. “Come on, babe. The flowers we have will work. And Bradley and Patrick, I’m sure they’ll be glad to have anyth—”

“It’s like you don’t care about the ghosts at all,” Sam says darkly.

“What?” Jay demands. Exasperation loosens the threads that bind his vocal cords together, making the word come out in a breathy rasp.

An unsettling shiver snakes through Isaac’s bones. The others look equally as uncomfortable. “Uh-oh, Spaghetti-Os,” Pete mutters. “This is officially worse than the TV Placement Tizzy of ‘23.”

“Here I am, trying to make things right for the grooms whose wedding this was first,” Sam growls, “and there you are, prioritizing the living people. Again.”

“That’s because they. Are. Alive! And I have gone along with everything Isaac and Nigel asked for, baked so many cakes just to be smelled and not eaten, strung up tens of thousands of strands of fairy lights every which way until they were satisfied, but really, something's gotta give here. I think they will survive having different flowers than the ones they wanted.”

Sam looks at him for a while. There is a strange cloudiness to her gaze that is on the precipice of irrationality. “You did not just say that word,” she murmurs.

“What word?”

“‘Survive,’” she quotes him. “Isaac and Nigel will survive having the wrong flowers. Seriously? Are you even hearing yourself?”

Jay’s jaw is below his feet. “Are you hearing yourself?” He whirls around, eyes scraping over the vacant space he sees. “I know you’re all here watching this, ghosts. Tell her! Tell her the flowers are fine. Tell her there’s no need to panic!”

“I believe the ship has sailed quite past the point of panic,” Nigel says to Issac, who hums his agreement.

Giving up, Jay swings his head back to his wife. “Sam,” he says softly. “I love the ghosts just as much as you do. I know you know that. But they can’t expect you to keep them pleased every waking second. That’s too much to ask of any sane person! There’s... so many of them, and only two of us. Two of us, soon to be three, and— and that’s what I’m getting at here. There are bigger things at hand now.”

“The ghosts are part of our family, Jay,” Sam replies, now eerily calm even as her eyes continue to blaze.

“So is our kid!” Jay exclaims, arms tossed in the air. “And what is she going to think when—”

Lucky for him, he doesn’t get a chance to complete that sentence. When he lifts his hand from the door, Sam snatches the opportunity and slams it shut. Her muffled voice comes through: “It was Isaac and Nigel’s wedding first. I’m gonna try to find some flowers that they can actually smell.”

In a flash, she starts the engine and the car bumps away along the path. Jay is left stranded in a sea of gravel and confusion, with only himself and the ghosts to commiserate with.

“How will she feel,” he whispers, “when her mom talks to invisible people?”

Defeated, Jay turns and withdraws into the house.

“No, no!” Isaac sighs, stamping his boot as he leads the miserable procession after him. “This isn’t right. Love is supposed to be in the air, not war.”

Flower’s nod is vigorous. “That’s what I’ve been saying all this time, man!”

“And this,” says Isaac, “is the one time I would rather not be associated with war.”

“For heaven’s sake,” agrees Nigel. “How can Samantha and Jay of all people be the ones who ruin everything now?”

“Then why didn’t you speak up?” Alberta asks, her glare an accusatory arrow. “You could’ve told Sam the flowers were fine! Then she would still be here.”

Isaac grimaces. “Well, we... do really like the idea of gardenias...”

“Ugh!” Alberta groans, swatting a hand in his face as she turns away. “Y’all are beyond help.” Suddenly she pivots on her heel, shoving herself into Isaac’s face again. “And for your sake, if you’re gonna spend eternity in this house with me, you better hope Sam and Jay’s relationship isn’t beyond help, because I would never forgive you both for dismantling what we have here.”

Off she storms, matching the day’s overarching theme; as Trevor lets out a low whistle through his teeth, Isaac feels an overwhelming urge to open an umbrella over his and Nigel’s heads to protect them from any further downpouring of feelings.

A few minutes later, when Isaac is brooding by his lonesome at his favorite desk, he glances up in time to catch Jay walking by with a pair of gardening gloves and a determined look on his face, set firm as concrete.

Hm. How curious.

When everyone awakens the next morning, the icy chill of conflict has seeped into the air and stained the ground like bloodshed. A bit dramatic to think that way, perhaps, but Isaac also thinks that now is an appropriate time for dramatics. He is getting married tomorrow! The festivities begin today! And even if all is well between himself and Nigel, nothing can truly be well until everything is right between Sam and Jay, too.

“Wooof,” Pete remarks, rubbing his bare arms while the ghosts loosely assemble in the living room. “It is frosty in here. And I don’t mean us. The whole ‘cold spot’ thing is a myth, I guess. And that’s a shame. It sure would be a nice, easy shortcut to low-effort haunting.”

“Shut up, Peter!” Hetty cries. “I cannot go on like this. I fear Jay might have been a sofa dweller last night.” She indicates the rumpled pillow and sheets on the couch.

“Ooh.” Trevor winces. “That is never a good sign.”

“And that is a very uncomfortable couch,” Sas adds.

“No way,” Pete murmurs. “Could Sam really be that mean?”

“Dude, the tension in here could be cut with a sledgehammer,” Trevor says. “Right now, she might be that mean.”

All at once, unrest grips the room with its sharp talons.

“Do you think they may dissolve their union?” Hetty wonders. “Since these days, marriage apparently comes at the paltry cost of love.”

“‘Paltry’?” Trevor repeats.

“I may be deep in it with you, but that does not mean I have to like love,” Hetty retorts. “Clearly being in love does despicable things to one’s health.”

“Right,” says Sas, “‘cause our health is already top-notch, being dead and all.”

“Emotional health,” Hetty clarifies. “If my brain is a bomb, then all its wires have been cut.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Pete asks.

“No.” Thor frowns. “Bomb meant to go off.”

“Why do you think Sam and Jay will divorce?” Flower asks, diverting them from their diversion.

“As of yesterday, they don’t appear to love each other anymore,” Hetty replies simply.

“Au contraire,” says Isaac. “They still love each other. I will eat my left boot if they do not. Well... I will nibble it, perhaps.”

“I agree with Isaac,” adds Pete. “Marriage isn’t that simple. I think they’re only so upset because they love each other so much. When you’re in that deep with someone, it hurts when you don’t see eye-to-eye with them.”

Hetty’s head is tilted at a dubious angle. “I’m not so sure. We better plan ahead, just to be safe.”

“Plan ahead for what?” Alberta questions.

“For one, if Samantha and Jay do indeed formally part ways, who will get custody?”

Pete frowns. “Custody of the baby?”

“Custody of the house, obviously, and by extension, custody of us!” hisses Hetty.

Isaac feels a light sheen of sweat forming on his forehead, which is not at all flattering for his complexion. He also feels a good old-fashioned swoon coming over him. Where is a good fainting couch when he needs one?

Nigel reads his mind, bless him. “Must we discuss such unpleasant personal matters of matrimony on the eve of our wedding?”

Alberta’s stare flashes sharply over to them, a startling illustration of indignation. Does she really blame Isaac for this entire debacle? “Not everything revolves around you two,” she snaps. “Haven’t you learned that by now?”

Nigel’s eyes pop, but he remains silent and shows his palms in surrender, stepping away from the heat.

A refreshingly calm, refreshingly Living voice cuts into the worried knot of ghosts: “We’re not getting divorced.”

They glance over to see Sam, who looks a bit worn out but otherwise her normal chipper self, clad in a fuzzy bathrobe that Isaac wishes he could change into himself. He has always wanted to visit a modern spa, do the cucumber slices over the eyes thing. It sure beats the pampering methods of his day, which ranged from bloodletting to manure mud baths to getting lightly run over by a wagon wheel. Pleasant times.

Sam shuffles further into the room, cupping her hands over her mouth to capture a yawn.

“Oh. You... heard all that, huh?” Trevor says.

“Yeah. You guys are loud. Exceedingly loud.” She frowns over at the sofa, her eyes skimming the evidence left behind. “Wait. Did Jay sleep down here last night?”

“You didn’t notice?” Alberta asks.

“No!” Now Sam’s voice rises to a volume not far from where the ghosts’ voices were a second ago. “I- I’ve been tossing and turning a little lately, and it doesn’t help that Macaroni plays the plumbing like a xylophone in the middle of the night, but... oh, I had no idea I was that bad.”

Isaac brightens. “Ah! So you mean to tell us that Jay was not banished to the nether-couch as punishment for his sins?”

Sam’s nose wrinkles as she shifts her stare onto him. “His sins?”

“For how he wronged you,” Hetty explains impatiently. “How he wronged all of us. Failed to care about us. The list goes on.”

Sam crosses her arms over her chest, brows falling heavy over her eyes. “Uh, I don’t think that’s really fair. Jay has been working his ass off to get this double wedding together. What happened yesterday was just...” She sighs, shoulders pinching into a limp shrug. “A small spat. That happens sometimes, when we both get stressed out. But it’s over now.” She clears her throat, glances elsewhere. “Probably.”

Isaac had been assured that they all perceived incorrectly the, as Flower would put it, “vibe” in the air— but is there some truth to it after all? The ghosts are just about to disperse to track down wherever Jay has gotten off to, but that’s when the man in question returns from outdoors, wiping his own gleam of sweat from his brow.

Everybody crowds into the foyer to greet him, Sam at the front. And there, piled in Jay’s arms, is an enormous bundle of freshly-cut pale pink roses.

Without preamble, Sam rushes forward and kisses him— though she is careful not to hug him, what with the thorns and all.

“But your rose bushes,” she murmurs, searching his face. Recognition hits Isaac— these are the roses from Jay’s garden. He mainly grows fruits and vegetables in it, but ornamental plants have worked their way in as well, namely the shrub roses he has been so proud of.

“I know you came back empty-handed yesterday,” Jay explains, “and I figured the bushes needed a good pruning, anyway.”

Sam helps offload several of the flowers, and only then does it become apparent how scratched-up his arms are. With her own limbs protected by her sleeves, Sam tucks the stems under her arm and feverishly examines his abrasions. “Don’t tell me you worked overnight on this,” she says.

“Nah. Just worked a little late and got up a little early.” He grins at her, then lifts his gaze to any spectral viewers, of which there are many. “I know they’re not the right color. Or flower. But hopefully these will work?”

Sam’s grateful grin broadens into a smile, but right when she is about to reply, her face instead scrunches into a cute peep of a sneeze. “Right,” she mumbles. “Roses. Allergic. Great.” Another sneeze.

“They are beautiful!” Nigel calls over. “Thank you.”

Isaac clutches his hands under his chin, wishing so much that he could perch a rose stem between his teeth and coax his lover into a sultry dance, and he says, “I second that proclamation! I extend our deepest gratitude.”

And so they pass on into the eye of the storm. Though not without a third sneeze from Sam to push them there.

“They’re here!” Sam yells.

Isaac and Nigel are, of course, already close by her side as she runs to the door. Neither one can resist being the first to lay his eyes on this long-awaited descendant. Jay and any of the ghosts who aren’t shadowing the activity outside also gather in the foyer.

“Here we go,” says Jay, rubbing his hands together. While Sam grabs one door, he takes hold of the other, and in perfect sync they yank them open to reveal a whole cluster of antsy Livings.

Antsy English Livings.

At the front of the group is who Isaac can only assume must be Bradley and Patrick. Before Sam and Jay can so much as trumpet a single off-key note of their trademarked “Welcome to Woodstone!” greeting, one half of the engaged couple rushes forward with his arms spread.

“Oh, you are lifesavers! Truly, truly lifesavers. Can I hug you both? I’m hugging you.”

“Whoa,” Jay grunts. He looks plenty shocked to find that his chin has been perched on a near stranger’s shoulder. “And I thought we Americans were the outgoing, touch-happy ones.”

The other half steps forward, a dashing gentleman with dark hair and a shadow of skillfully-shaved stubble on his jaw. In another life, he would have rocked magnificent sideburns.

“I do apologize,” he says, offering his hand for Sam then Jay to shake. “Bradley is just like that.”

“That must make you Patrick!” Sam says brightly.

“Huh. Also British,” adds Jay as he shakes his hand. “I mean, hi. Welcome.”

“Yes, that’s correct. Also British.” Patrick offers them a good-natured chuckle, pats his chest with lighthearted humbleness. “We’ve traveled such a long way, and I do mean ‘travelled’ with two Ls. Elated to be here.”

The rest of the wedding party is ushered in, their voices layering in a pleasant harmony. Isaac half-expects that Henry Cavill fellow to walk in— wouldn’t be such a bad turn of events, honestly.

“Is it true this place is haunted?”

“Where exactly did Patrick say his ancestor died here?”

“Who cares? I only want to know where exactly the loo is. I haven’t had a piss since Piccadilly.”

Well. A mostly pleasant harmony.

So excessively English, Isaac thinks. He feels as if his bones and muscles might turn into bangers and mash. And he would be lying if he said his fight-or-flight instinct isn’t currently on high alert.

During this circus, Isaac catches Sam as she whispers to Jay with avidity, “So many accents! I wish I had one.”

Jay blinks down at her. “Seriously?”

“What? You know I love accents.”

“Mm-hmm. French accents,” Alberta calls over. Sam chooses not to hear that.

“Well,” Isaac sighs, finally addressing Nigel directly once they’ve taken in the first wave of commotion, “that shuts down the case for Patrick Button being my descendant, it seems.”

Nigel makes a not so fast clicking sound in his throat. “That is, unless your relatives gave up the pursuit of patriotism and returned to where their ancestors came from. England.” He tucks his hands behind his back and beams.

Isaac’s jaw drops amid a gasp. “How dare you even suggest—”

He’s interrupted by Patrick’s voice, which snags both of their attention spans, which are admittedly flitting about like flies today.

“... so from what I’ve learned, it appears he was killed by one of the American soldiers—”

“Captain,” mutters Isaac.

“— in that very spot,” Patrick goes on. He squints one eye and aims an index finger through the open front doors to somewhere vaguely past the fountain. Then he twists back toward Sam and Jay wearing a tantalizing smirk ripped straight from an Austen novel. “Cruel stroke of fate, innit?”

Okay, now that settles it.

Eyes following Patrick, Isaac tries to conceal the way his knees quake while the party is shown to their rooms upstairs. He doesn’t do a very stellar job of it, however, judging by the wicked side eye he receives from his betrothed.

Just ahead of them on the stairs, Sam nudges Jay and whispers, eyes a mile wide like her smile, “He said ‘innit’!”

Jay nods slowly, cool as a cucumber while she grips his arm. “Yeeeah. How very British of him.”

The July heat is stifling, but the giant tent Sam and Jay have set up in the yard helps take away from the worst of this twenty-first century, ozone-deprived sun’s scowl.

It is the following morning, the day of, and Isaac is dressed up in his uniform best— not just because he has no choice in the matter, but also because he wants to be dressed to impress. Good thing his standard attire accomplishes exactly that.

He and Nigel have agreed to stay in separate places for now, until the big moment arrives. And Isaac desires that big moment— to reunite after being deprived of each other for hours, so surprised by the other’s breathtaking appearance despite having every detail of each other’s bodies and outfits— death-fits, more like— already memorized. Oh, the romance of it! He may have to strain for it at times, but the romance is there, damn it.

Now he, Hetty, and Alberta stand aside and take in the action. Dishware is carried by, folding chairs are hurried past. Everybody has a role to play in this skeleton crew, wedding party included. All living hands on deck, as they say. Isaac feels monumentally helpless as a spectator. His fingers itch. He eyes a nearby flower arrangement that sits at the slightest crooked tilt, and yearns to correct it.

“That outfit is a choice,” Hetty says. Her stern eyes track a young woman as she scurries past them. “Would it be in poor taste to ask Samantha to ask her to change?”

“That’s one of the workers, Hetty,” Alberta tells her. “Not a guest.” She frowns. “I think.”

Meanwhile, Jay emerges from the restaurant and sprints across the lawn like a bullet, still wearing a stained apron and bandana over his hair. “W- w- wait!” he gasps, waving his arms at an employee. He comes to a stumbling stop, keeled over with his hands on his knees, then pants, “Under... the... tent. Under the tent. Chairs go. It’s too hot.” One of the wedding guests walks by, frowning at him, and he flashes a sweaty thumbs-up. “Hey there, sir. Don’t forget, an instant one thousand Woodstone Rewards Points in your account for”— he gulps in another lungful of air, straightens— “celebrating a wedding with us.”

The guest hums, unimpressed, and moves on.

Sam is on flower duty, which is probably not the wisest choice considering the double wad of tissues she currently has billowing out of either nostril. Despite her rather unsightly appearance at the moment, Isaac has to take a moment to admire her valiant efforts— and the woman behind them.

Samantha Arondekar is an unusual specimen. She spends so much of her time talking to the dead, yet manages to be so alive that she is bringing about new life. So imperfectly alive, plugging up and picking up flaws as she drops them all around herself, and violently allergic to roses, but still pausing to swat a strand of hair behind her ear as she gazes over everyone’s haphazard handiwork. Not to mention that she looks like a million pounds in that dress— wait, what is the currency used today called? Oh, yes. She looks like a million bucks in that dress, is what Isaac means. Oopsie-daisy!

“Okay,” she breathes. “Sort of looks like a wedding.”

Jay goes over to her. “I’m scared, sweetie. The little cloud symbol on the weather app just turned into a cloud with a lightning bolt.”

Close by, Thorfinn raises a mighty fist of appreciation.

“Odd duck he is,” Isaac remarks to his companions. “I cannot imagine ever giving a toast to dysentery.”

While Sam and Jay careen away to the next crisis, Alberta looks over at Isaac. “Are you not concerned about it raining?”

He flaps a flippant hand at her. “Oh, well, it’s no matter to us ghosts. We cannot get wet.” A content sigh eases through his chest. “I feel too frivolous to care anymore. My head is away with the clouds! And if there is friction now, then I say let there be friction. It is exfoliating for the skin, after all.”

Under the tent, which ripples violently in the clutches of a pre-storm wind, empty wine glasses in-wait start dropping like flies, and not because of the aforementioned wind; Macaroni is hard at work. Jay notices this and jogs over muttering, “No, no, no...”

Sam ends up next to Isaac, Hetty, and Alberta again, trying to find wherever she misplaced her breath. “So...” she says, words rendered puffy by all the allergic snot. “It’s imminent now. Less than two hours.”

“Mm,” says Isaac, wearing a spacey grin akin to Flower’s. “Imminent.”

“Like your death, Samantha,” Hetty reminds her.

Sam nods, stares ahead. “Mm-hmm.”

“And Jay’s.”

“Oookay. Going somewhere else now.”

Nancy trudges by, her nose lifted in the air in what at first glance appears to be a mockery of Hetty. “Don’t mind me,” she crackles. “Just here to smell the roses. And cake.”

Hetty spares her a fragment of a glance. “Oh, don’t worry,” she replies. “We won’t. We never do. We’re great at ignoring you. We love it, actually. See, I’m ignoring you now.” And just like that, she turns her cheek.

Later, as a gorgeous pink sunset spills across the landscape and redeems the world for a while, Bradley and Patrick’s wedding reception is in full swing following a successful ceremony. The storm, much like life, had been a mere blip on the radar. Now all is well and dry again.

While they live it up under the tent, Isaac and Nigel take their turn. A small distance away from the tent is the flower-crested altar where the two Living grooms had been wed earlier.

Relying on the fact that everyone under the tent is too tipsy to notice, Sam and Jay take their positions at the altar, both dressed to the nines— to the tens, rather. The blushing disc of sun slides lower in the sky. They seem to be surrounded by two-dimensional cutouts— every distant object made of negative space, utterly meaningless in the face of a mutual love between two men who were once on the opposite sides of a war that transformed history.

Oh, that is good. Isaac momentarily longs to have Sam write that down, but the urge passes. There are more important things at the front of his mind.

“Okay,” Jay says, clapping his hands together. “Shall we get this show on the road? Time’s running short, guys. My marriage officiant license is only valid for one day, and those cinnamon sugar doughnut holes Rayan made for the dessert table are singing my name.”

Sam shoots him a sidelong glance, then adds more delicately, “And just to be clear, Jay got that officiant license not because he had to, but because he wanted to.”

“That is correct,” he says. “Super correct. It was a very fun and quick form to fill out. Didn’t take more than three hours.”

All he gets from Sam is a honeyed smile. “Thanks, babe.”

The music from the orchestra starts right on cue, taking the place of the temporary playlist set up for the reception in the interim. Although the band is situated several yards away, their rhythm is still powerful enough to thrum along the earth, through Isaac’s feet, and straight into his soul.

Jay opens his mouth to begin, only to falter when a group of stray Living wedding guests wander by. They cast puzzled looks at the two hosts who, in their eyes, are randomly standing in a now-empty ceremony space with their eyes all misty.

But as they’ve learned to do, Jay and Sam cook up a quick excuse. Pulling her close to him, Jay nods over at the guests. “Heeey there. We’re just, uh, practicing for our vow renewal. Which is coming up. Soon. Imminently.”

Sam follows his lead with grace. “We thought it would make sense to practice here, seeing as it’s all... set up, you know?”

The visitors buy it easily through a filter of good drink and celebration. “How cute!” one says, while another tips his half-full glass in their direction and adds, “Cheers!”

“Cheers!” Jay returns. “Enjoy your Declaration of Ascendance.”

“Huh?”

“It’s... that’s what the co*cktail is call— never mind.” Jay shakes his head, waves a hand. “Peace.”

Once the guests are back under the tent, Jay and Sam spin to each other with renewed wrinkles of thought in their brows.

“Now that’s something to chew on,” Sam says. “Have you ever... thought about renewing our vows? I know it hasn’t been that long, but...”

“No, I like that idea a lot,” he agrees. “I don’t care if it’s only been five seconds, I’d renew them in a heartbeat.”

“Oh, please,” Alberta groans from where the ghosts are gathered at the opposite end of the aisle. “Y’all renew your vows every damn day.”

“She’s not wrong,” Pete adds, cupping his hands around his mouth to throw his voice. “Your canoodling can get pret-ty intense. It’s like, whoaaa-kay, I only signed up for PG content here, folks!”

“Very funny,” says Sam. She lets go of her husband and steps aside.

“Excuse me,” Hetty pipes up. “But last I recall, this slot of time was reserved for Isaac and Nigel to be all ooey-gooey. You’d best not upstage them with your... whatever this is.”

Sam nods. “You’re right. Okay, let’s go.”

“Cool. Take two,” Jay says. He clears his throat, then begins, with the orchestra playing on below his voice, “May our ghostly grooms please approach the altar.”

The core eight spread like a fan from where they assembled, with Alberta and Trevor leading the charge. After them are Thor and Flower, followed by Sas and Pete. Then Nigel emerges from the bouquet of ghosts, arm in arm with one of his fellow redcoat soldiers. Only once Nigel is dropped off at the front do Hetty and Isaac begin their short trek, linked at the elbows. They take their time, savoring the moment even while Jay has an anxious bounce in his knees.

Hetty deposits Isaac at the altar after a quick exchange of cheek pecks. Sam catches his eye, then gives Jay the go nod. He glances at the paper in his hand; the desired speech had been dictated with precise clarity from Isaac to Sam. Just as Isaac feared, though, Jay’s speech consists of partial dedication to the script and partial improvisation.

“Dearly departed, we are gathered here today to witness the spiritual union of two very revolutionary gentlemen. The universe brought them together through tragedy and strife, and now they choose to stay together through love and perseverance. It is for this reason that we here at Woodstone admire them so deeply, and for any of us who do not, might I suggest you...” He trails off, frowns. “I’m sorry, but isn’t this getting a smidge holier-than-thou?”

Sam waves a hand. “Let’s just skip to the vows,” she mutters.

Jay bows his head and puts out a hand in invitation.

“Alright, then,” says Isaac at the same time Nigel goes, “Well.” They both blink at each other, an acute blush filling in the deathly pallor that typically colors their cheeks. Then they laugh, and Isaac holds out his own hand in a gesture of humble surrender.

“So! I shall go first.” Nigel clears his throat, squares his shoulders. Immediately, however, he deflates in the loveliest way. “Oh, Isaac. You are... my world. I never knew just how incomplete I was until I met you. And it was a most unusual way in which we collided, wasn't it? Strange, the way the universe draws you to certain people. You were my sworn enemy on the front lines, an overly proud Yankee with an undeniably attractive god complex. But there I was, an overly proud Briton with a complex of my own. One might say that you sniped me with your love.” He pats the place where the fatal bullet hole and spot of blood still remain on his otherwise impeccable uniform.

“Isaac Higgintoot, to you I vow my utmost sincerity in not only my affections, but also my loyalty. My love for you transcends life itself, and what a marvel that is. After a few hundred years, I cannot deny that I surely must be more of an American now than anything else. And I am proud to be here in this New World with you, my dear. I love you with my entire heart, not a piece apart.”

Isaac truly wonders for a minute if he will be able to speak. His tongue is a sloth. His mouth has gone entirely dry, all the moisture escaped up to his eyes, which shed tears that have dampened his cheeks considerably. Sam’s face is at a matching degree of dampness, and she not so quietly honks into a tissue, still unfortunately allergic to the roses that surround them.

Isaac rapidly waves a hand in front of his face, blinking away tears until his eyes are near to numb. “Okay,” he whispers. “Oh, god. Um... Nigel.” A deep breath. “Normally I am not a man with little to say, but I am almost at a loss here. No words are good enough to describe you, but because you are you, I am going to try and find the best ones. You are devastatingly dashing. A gentleman of the finest caliber. You may have been my sworn enemy once upon a time, but as they like to say, it is a good idea to keep your enemies closer than your friends. And as I like to say... keep your enemy close, and then fall in love with him. Because how could I not?

“I am sorry for killing you. It is a worst mistake that miraculously paved the way to bring me closer to you. And because the universe knew we could not be on separate planes for long, I died soon after. Finally being with you, I... I gather it’s quite like when the sun waits to reveal itself on a cloudy day until the moment it is ready to set. We had to wait so long, ages and ages, but now here we are, and— and we are beautiful. I cannot wait to spend forever watching ants with you, my love. I am yours,” he concludes, voice breaking.

By now Sam’s face is entirely hidden in the single tissue, which clearly cannot contain all that she is emotionally expelling into it. Isaac has half a mind to offer her his handkerchief, until he recalls that it would pass right through her nose. Without looking up, she pats her hand on Jay’s shoulder, a signal for him to continue.

“So it is decided that these two gentlemen are completely devoted to each other. Not parted by death, but staying together far beyond it,” Jay says, fully committed to a kindly serious composure. “By the power vested in me by the State of New York’s very glitchy website, and by the power vested in my wonderful wife by unknown entities, we now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss—”

“Oh.” Sam gives his arm an eager shake. “No need to say it, Jay. They’re already doing it.”

The ghosts all cheer and clap, forming a lively tunnel for Isaac and Nigel to pass through on their way back down the aisle. Nancy is perhaps the loudest hollerer of all, whooping and smacking their backs as they pass. The newlyweds exchange a stunned glance, then shrug it off immediately. Nancy will be Nancy.

From there, their party mixes in with the Livings’ reception below the tent. String lights line the edges, twinkling bright as stars against the inky sky. Isaac and Nigel blend themselves in with the Living dancers on the floor— bopping exuberantly when the song calls for it, and moving with unhurried attention to detail when the song turns slow. And if Isaac suffers through the pain of allowing people to pass through him, so that the dance floor is cleared because of some wicked stench, then so be it.

During one slow dance, Isaac notices over Nigel’s shoulder how the Living grooms cling to each other. They are so at ease, so unbothered by prejudice and unburdened by any status as outcasts. Simply free to be themselves, just like Isaac and Nigel are. Isaac only wishes— briefly— that he and Nigel could be afforded the same privilege, to be alive and free in that way, to put rings on each other’s fingers and not apologize for it.

But then that moment of wishing and wanting passes, because Isaac has everything right here in his arms. If death couldn’t take that away from him, then what possibly could?

When Isaac happens upon the listening party outside Sam and Jay’s bedroom, he doesn’t question it; he joins it.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Four Funerals and a Wedding,” says Pete, sending a jovial wink in his direction.

“Aren’t you and your other half supposed to be honeymooning?” Alberta asks him.

“And where exactly might we travel to?” Isaac responds. “The furthermost edge of the property? The bottom of the lake? Pretend we are at the shore, breathing in the seaside air?”

Trevor rolls his eyes. “Okay, chill, Noxious Fumes.”

“More like Obnoxious Fumes,” Sas mutters. Then he raises his hands. “Kidding! We love you. You’re our friend. Except when you’re not.”

Isaac puffs out his chest. “You will have to try harder, men. Your taunting does not ruffle my feathers. And for your information, Nigel and I had the entire weekend for ourselves. We are now simply spending a healthy amount of time apart, and I am choosing to spend my time by catching up with all of you.” He tips his head at the wall. “So what goes on in there?”

Flower’s head pops out of the wall right next to him, grinning brightly. “Jay just brought Sam breakfast in bed!” she updates him, voice lowered to a mindful whisper-shout.

Pete nudges his elbow at Isaac. “And this time he actually made the frittata, if you know what I mean.”

Isaac stiffens, tilts away. “Please tell me that is not a thinly-veiled innuendo of some sort.”

“Gosh, no!” Pete’s face screws up into a grimace. “I literally said what I literally meant. Why would you—”

Alberta mimes a lip-zipping motion. Together they all lean close to the wall again, with Flower disappearing completely inside it.

“... anyway, what I said was wrong, and I never apologized for it,” Sam is saying. “You do care about them, Jay. So much. And maybe there are times when I should care... less.”

“It’s okay,” Jay tells her. “Sorta hard not to care when they’re so needy.”

“True. Oh my god, this frittata is good. What did you put in this?”

“Oh, not much. Just some eggs, some garlic, a little drop of love potion. And feta.”

The ghosts roll their eyes.

“Mm, yeah,” says Sam, her fork audibly scraping the plate. “That’s what it is. Feta.”

“You know, officiating a ghost wedding got me thinking... I hope we also get to go beyond the whole ‘til death do us part’ thing.” Jay allows a thoughtful pause. “You’re really special, babe. Because of you, we’re lucky enough to have an idea of what comes after this. And maybe I’m romanticizing it too much, but I don’t care. I want it with you, all of it. All the death stuff. It’s so much more than being buried next to each other in some lame cemetery. It’s— it’s an infinity of lifetimes! It’s death-times. Goodbye life, hello eternity.”

There is a flurry of joy-laced laughter from Samantha, which then becomes muffled by, presumably, Jay’s mouth. The ghosts avoid each other’s glances.

A minute later Sam murmurs, “Do you ever wonder how many ghosts must have been watching us in the past, before we could communicate with them? Imagine all the missed opportunities we didn’t even know about.”

“Ghosts probably not care much,” Thor says. “Sam and small man lead very uninspired life.”

Not hearing his input, Jay responds, “I bet there was at least one ghost who judged you for putting ice cubes in your wine. That was almost a dealbreaker for me.”

Sam chuckles again. “So I like a few ice cubes in my rosé! So what? It dilutes it so I don’t get a headache, Mr. Wine Connoisseur.” Isaac pictures her cuffing Jay’s arm, or pushing a hand into his chest, and Jay simply admiring her all the while. At last Isaac knows how it feels to be loved like that.

“Ugh. Ice cubes in wine,” Alberta mutters with a headshake. “Don’t even get me started on the whole Zoom yoga habit. And Zoom book club.”

“And how she dabs the grease off her pizza with a napkin,” Sas adds. “I would drink pizza grease if I had a chance.”

“And the way she lets her hair touch her shoulders like a who—” Hetty stops when she catches sharp looks from the others. “Never mind. Not my place. Or time.”

Meanwhile, Jay has adopted a teasing tone of voice. “I knew what I was signing up for,” he says. “The perils of marrying white.”

There’s another gasp from Sam, but it’s soon taken down by a fresh wave of laughter. That is when Isaac chooses to step away.

“Mind you, there are times when married couples should be left alone,” he reminds the other ghosts. “I suggest you all exercise that prudence now and let those two be. Either way, off I go to my spouse.” With a polite dip of his head, Isaac begins to walk away— only to pause when he realizes he has a few followers. “Can you not take a hint? Nigel and I also desire to be left alone. Again. So I ask that you kindly”— he bats a hand— “shoo. All of you. Shoo. Now.”

And, thankfully, they do.

Chapter 8: the sass-ening

Chapter Text

Being dead for several centuries means that, just going by the laws of probability, there are going to be some sleepless nights every now and then. And sleepless nights suck.

One of the few things Sasappis can still do as a ghost that he could also do as a Living is sleep, so if he can’t do that, then it only highlights his own entrapment in eternity. He knows how to kill time, but sometimes it really doesn’t go down without a fight. Who knows— maybe this has something to do with the fact that one night some five hundred years ago, he went to sleep and then never woke up.

To make matters worse, his roommate Pete’s sleep apnea is raging tonight. Flipping over on the bed, Sasappis covers one ear and inhales the strong tropical scent of the laundry detergent Sam uses to wash the ghosts’ bedsheets. The only point of these false breaths, these days, is to smell stuff. Like pizza. God, could he go for a spicy Sicilian right about now. He wants the hair in his nostrils to stand on end from a single whiff of it.

He rests for a while, admiring a shaft of moonlight as it slices through the window. But there are only so many imaginary sheep and deer and squirrels he can count before he goes insane. Rolling to his feet, his jaws split into a vast yawn. He wanders out of the room and away from the graveyard of snores. It’s tough to think like Pete and “keep the sunny side up!” when Pete’s face sunny side up peels open a bottomless pit’s worth of stale snoring.

For a guy who values his mostly independent existence, Sasappis is suffering from a strange bout of loneliness. He moves along the hallway, passing all the other slumbering ghosts. Hetty mutters her way through a dream argument; Thor sleep-strangles an unseen Dane. Flower hums pleasantly, thrashing arms stretched above her as if she’s trying to poke even more holes in her Swiss cheese memory. Then Sasappis stops outside Sam and Jay’s room.

Of course, he is plenty aware of the mandate against nighttime entry into this room. It’s not an ill-advised mandate, either— nearly every ghost here has been scarred for eternity by stepping through that wall unannounced after the so-called lord and lady of the manor went in there some time earlier, all giggly and handsy with each other. But when he takes a swift peek inside the room now, Sasappis spies no cause for running away. Both Sam and Jay are sound asleep, cuddled close with arms and hair spilled across the pillows at random.

Standing at the foot of their bed, Sasappis deliberates. Whose dream should he visit first? It’s going to be one of those nights, he thinks, where he’ll have time for both. Not that he’s particularly enthusiastic to take a nose-dive into another one of Sam’s being-chased-by-a-rabid-beagle scenarios, but it’s only fair to split his time.

“Might as well deal with the bad news first,” Sasappis mutters. With that decision settled, he goes over to Sam’s side of the bed and hovers a hand over her serene face.

As he soon finds out, the serene mask Sam wears in the real world is a thin cover for the actual mood in her dreamscape. When Sasappis walks into the scene playing out in her head, this distinct feeling seizes him of being out of place. An unwelcome feeling prickles up his spine. As the images come into view, bleeding slightly at the edges like fresh paint, he finds Sam standing with her back to him, gazing up at Woodstone Mansion. It’s a nice, sunny day, and the house itself seems calm. Yet something is very, very wrong.

He can’t say he enjoys the concept of all this idyllic prettiness being a facade for something sinister. What is with Sam and her convert inclination for bad omens? If Flower’s brain is a Roomba that could pass through walls, and Trevor’s is like a Roomba bumping into the same corner over and over again, then Sam’s is on par with a Roomba gone wild, circling to and fro and imparting urgent messages to its owner. And yeah, maybe Sasappis has watched every minute of Roomba mischief available on YouTube. So? They’re cool.

He stands beside Sam, arms crossed as he surveys the view in front of them. Same old boring house, same old picturesque day in the Hudson (cough, Lenape, cough) Valley. “So,” he greets her. “What’s this about? Is a shower of homicidal hedgehogs gonna drop down from the sky?”

Sam doesn’t seem to hear him, though. She continues blinking up at the house, eyes crinkled at the corners. Then she turns away from it, stifling a sob in her hand. Sasappis frowns and follows her as she shuffles over to a car that has formed itself out of dream putty. “Sam,” he says. “Hey, what’s going on? Why—”

Still she ignores him. He stops a few paces behind her, watching as she hesitates next to the idling car. And here is what’s wrong with this scene.

Sam can no longer speak with him.

This isn’t just her worst nightmare. This is everyone’s worst nightmare, sketched into vivid un-reality.

He watches, powerless, as a Dream Jay materializes to give Sam a comforting hug. She all but crumbles into it. “I can’t believe I can’t see them anymore,” she sniffles into his chest. “I just woke up, and... they were gone. They were all gone.”

“It’s okay,” Jay tells her. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“No, it’s not!” Sam insists, her tear-swollen eyes sharpened with a defiant gleam. “We’re losing the house, Jay. Our bank account is drier than the Sahara. And I can’t even give the ghosts a proper goodbye. Everything is ruined.”

Sasappis backs away slowly. He could write a dissertation on all the things he doesn’t like about this. To imagine such a normal, beautiful day being the worst day of their lives... Sam’s anxiety really does work in funny ways.

He can’t get out of there fast enough. Once he’s conscious of being ejected back into the dark bedroom, Sasappis takes a few moments to gather himself. Then, with a renewed sense of caution, he tiptoes over to Jay’s side of the bed and wades into his dream.

Rather than the court at Madison Square Garden or a starship in a galaxy far, far, away, this time Jay is boredly slaying dragons in a kingdom of olden times. Sasappis joins him right as his sword passes through a dragon’s gut, dispelling the beast with an underwhelming puff of smoke. “Boom,” Jay mumbles, unaware he has company. “Too easy.”

“Hey,” Sasappis says.

“Ah!” Jay jumps, armor clanging as he whirls around. Then he lowers his shield with a grin. “Hey, man. Been a while since you joined me in here.”

Sasappis grabs his own sword, slicing it cleanly through another fire-breather when it gets a bit too close. He drops the weapon back in its scabbard without so much as a speck of blood on it. “Bet I can kill more dragons in a dream-minute than you can,” he dares him.

“Oh, it’s on!” Jay laughs. Then he pauses. “Wait, how long is a dream-minute, exactly?”

“An hour or five seconds. No in-between.” Sasappis shrugs. “So. Am I beating you, or what?”

Jay jabs a challenging finger at him. “In your dreams, sucker!” He clenches his hands together, jubilant. “See what I did there? Oh, that was so good.”

“It wasn’t,” Sasappis replies pleasantly. “But it’s alright. While you were saying that, I just killed, like, ten of them.” He gestures in a wide arc at the bodies of several dragons heaped one over the other, right before they disappear in another ashen burst of dream-logic.

“So,” Jay pipes up after a few minutes of beginner-level slaying. “What’s your ulterior motive?”

“None,” Sasappis tells him. “Honestly. I’m... I want to spend time with you. I can’t sleep, and...” He trails off with a thought-clogged sigh. These days, sighs are only useful for rumination and emphasis rather than exhalation, and Sasappis can admit he takes full advantage of those dramatic attributes. “Look, I’m glad you’re having a grand time here in the Kingdom of Paper Dragons, but things are not so rosy over in Sam’s neck of the woods.”

Jay’s sword and shield clatter to the ground instantly. A dragon growls next to his ear, plumes of sooty smoke unfurling from its nostrils, but he puts up a hand to keep it at bay. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Sasappis twirls his sword on its tip. “It’s rough, dude. It’s like, while you express all of your anxiety openly, she bottles hers up and saves it for her dreams. I just took a peek in there, and... she was in some universe where she could no longer speak to ghosts. And you guys lost the house, and had to leave.” He swallows, staring hard at his spinning sword as its menacing metal flashes glints like winks. “You had to leave us.”

Jay hangs his head. “Aw, no. I don’t wanna imagine a universe like that! And she shouldn’t have to experience it for even a second.” He raises his eyes to his companion’s. “Please tell me my wife has good dreams at least sometimes.”

“Well, there was this one dream where she was walking down a street and every stranger she passed took her by the hands, looked deeply into her eyes, and told her they weren’t mad at her.”

Jay blinks at him for a minute. “Oh. Yikes.”

“Yeah.”

Sasappis takes the opportunity to swipe his sword through another cluster of dragons patiently waiting to have their fire-breathing asses handed to them. One by one, they emulate Crash as their heads go flying off in various directions. Sasappis appreciates nonviolence as much as the next guy, but sometimes violence can be cathartic. Thanks for the tip, Thorfinn.

“Maybe I should wake up,” Jay muses. “Check on her.”

“Maybe.” Sasappis looks closely at him. “But I feel like there’s more you want to share first.”

Jay plunks himself down on a convenient boulder, arms hanging loosely between his knees. “I’m just trying to figure her out,” he replies. “I mean, we’ve made a lot of big decisions lately. Lots of life changes. She might be overwhelmed.” A guarded grin slips onto his face. “We finally decided on a name recently.”

“Whaaat?” Sasappis sits down nearby, gaze fixed on him attentively. “Okay, who already knows?” When Jay merely continues to grin at him, he adds with desperation underlining his words, “There’s no way no one was listening around the corner.”

“A logical assumption,” Jay replies. “Which is why we had the conversation at the grocery store. Everyone in the bread aisle clapped for us. I’m lying. It was one lady.”

Sasappis leans in close, taking Jay by the wrist. “Dude. You gotta tell me what it is. I want— no, I need to be the first one to know. The other ghosts will never get over it.”

Jay’s grin is filed down into an irritating smirk.

Sasappis droops. “Come on. Please?”

“Nope!” Jay chirps.

Sasappis groans, but drops the subject. Well, he mostly drops it. His eyes subtly flit around their fairytale environment, sniffing for any potential name clues from the details in the flora and fauna. But alas, no dice— all he can see are weary dragons and rocks and purple flowers under a fictional night sky.

Still gloating over knowing something Sasappis doesn’t, Jay perches his chin on a fist and speaks through a haze of amazement. “I’m already in love with someone I’ve never even met. Is that crazy?”

“Look,” says Sasappis, “neither of us can be a fair judge about crazy. I’m a ghost, and you’re talking to a ghost while surrounded by friendly dragons that let us kill them.”

“And pet them!” Jay clarifies quickly. He shoots a glance at one of the beasts in question, whose head he has indeed been petting for the past few minutes.

“But,” Sasappis continues, “I do know a thing or two about loving someone you barely know.”

It takes Jay a moment to catch on. “— oh. The ghost at the newspaper office, what’s her na— Shiki!”

Sasappis jumps his eyebrows in confirmation. “I think the human brain is sort of frenemies with rationality. You don’t have to know someone super well to feel love for them. Sometimes it’s nice to love first and ask questions later. And in your case, I would say that is... definitely fine and healthy. My case, not so much. But that’s okay. Someday we’ll get past the ‘Sup, girl’ stage. Maybe within the next century or so.”

“I’m rooting for you two,” Jay tells him earnestly. “I mean it. No take-backsies.”

“No take-backsies,” Sasappis agrees. “I’m rooting for you and Sam just the same. And for this new person who will be part you, part her, and part something all her own.” Pause. “I’m also rooting for pizza. I’m hypnotizing you now. You like pizza. You love pizza. You should get a pizza oven in the restaurant—”

Jay starts pinching his own arm. “Wake up, wake up, wake up...”

He gets what he wishes for, because he does wake up, and boots Sasappis out of his head in the process. He stands by, watching as Jay drowsily scoots across the bed, closing the gap that he and Sam had unconsciously formed between each other. Without rousing, she snuggles close to him while hugging a spare pillow to her chest.

Too intrigued to resist, Sasappis allows himself a final glimpse into Sam’s mind— but all there is to see is sleepy, peaceful darkness. A well-deserved dreamless slumber. He bows out, lowering his hand and heading for the door. Though not before he casts one more admiring glance over his shoulder.

Jay makes a pretty decent big spoon. Good for them.

“Okay, I know we can’t exactly put a blindfold on you, Sas, but could you at least close your eyes and pretend not to peek?” Alberta begs.

“Sorry if I wanna be able to watch my step while Thor manhandles me across half the property,” Sasappis says. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Is surprise,” answers Thor. As Sasappis slows to a resistant halt, he fastens his hands on his shoulders and resumes marching him along. “And will stay surprise.”

“Ow, ow. Watch it with the ironclad grip,” Sasappis mutters. “I’m going.”

Roughly a minute later, they seem to arrive at the intended destination, because that’s when Sasappis is shoved through a wall— he can register the way its solid form separates into gas that shimmers over his skin. Instantly he recognizes the toasty, fragrant atmosphere of Jay’s restaurant. But there is one scent in particular that stands out to him above all else. It punches him like the most pleasant smack of a tree branch to the nose.

Pizza.

“Open your eyes!” Alberta whispers in his ear.

He’s already opened them, of course. And for once in his death, Sasappis’s mind is wiped blank when he tries to think of a way to skillfully conceal his surprise. He simply can’t. He is floored, and everyone deserves to know that. Because holy crap on a cracker— as Pete would so politely put it— there is a real, live pizza oven in the restaurant!

“Nooooo. Way,” Sasappis says. He immediately launches himself forward so he can stand in front of the handsome apparatus and shove his face through the opening. The heat is intense, but so worth the imaginary blisters and burns. The sweet, sweet scent of victory! This is awesome.

Sam laughs. “Way,” she confirms. “I finally convinced him.”

“It helped that Rayan also likes the idea of experimenting with a curry-inspired pizza,” Jay says. “Still fine-tuning that one, but yeah! Say hello to Woodstone’s very own wood-fired pizza oven, patent pending. Just kidding, there’s no patent. Don’t wanna get sued.” He leans over to Sam. “Does he like it?”

She smiles. “He loves it.”

Without warning, the rest of the core eight all squeeze together and begin belting out the dreaded “Happy birthday” song. Sasappis stands stiff as a board and suffers through it, only relaxing when they clap at the end and wisely omit the “... and many more!” addendum since, well, he both will and will not be getting many more of these.

“Thank you, everyone,” he says, bowing slightly. “Though I do not know the exact date of my birthday, I do know the time of year was in the late summer, which is also around the same time I died, so hey, maybe I got a two-for-one special and my death day is on the same day as my birthday. One of the world’s greatest mysteries.” He takes in another self-indulgent front-seat view of the brick pizza oven, then blinks over at Sam. “So, uh. Is he gonna pop anything in there, or—?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Sam says. Right at that moment, Rayan emerges from the kitchen with a freshly-prepared pepperoni flatbread. Oh, glory. It is beautiful. Everyone shuffles aside to watch him slide it into the oven.

“Her maiden voyage,” Jay murmurs, clasping his hands together as the first shreds of mozzarella start to melt into delicious gooeyness.

Pete squeezes in next to Sasappis, their faces framed perfectly in the gaping mouth of the oven. “Happy birthday-ish, roomie,” he tells him.

“It’s even better than I imagined,” Sasappis sighs. The blissful aroma of pepperoni— turning crispy, curling up at the edges— wafts over them. These are the moments that make death worth living.

There is one detail Sasappis will never forget from his lifetime, and that is the taste of impending autumn on the air. Sensing the change of the seasons was not exactly his strong suit; storytellers-in-training were more focused on the description of weather, rather than actually noticing what the weather was up to. But still, he could recognize the signs way before the people living here in the so-called Hudson Valley started carrying around recorded calendars.

There’s a shift in the way the wind blows, for one thing. The temperature dip is an obvious one. The sun grows more eager to escape the sky on a daily basis. Oh, yeah, and the edges of leaves begin to crisp, curl, and turn brown. Like pepperoni.

Sasappis always liked autumn for two reasons. One, it marked him making it another year, the most imprecisely precise measurement of age he had back then. And two, he could finally stop pretending he enjoyed hunting with the other men. Instead he could hole up in the warm embrace of shelter, a rippling deerskin roof over his head, and be at peace sitting and passing the time with only the closest members of his tribe. That was the life.

But, well, times have changed. While some elements stagnate between life and death— the leaves still rust, people still spend most of their days working at something they don’t care for all that much— others are wildly different.

For example, the fact that Sam can sit in one place and summon desired loot from another place, and then a day or two later, the loot will arrive here on its own, right where it wasn’t only a day or two ago. That is nutty. And here Sasappis is, the ever-observant fly on the wall, gladly letting his death be defined by modern life’s eccentricities.

“I don’t see what’s so funny about these,” Pete protests, watching as Sam lifts the lid of the shoebox just to giggle at what’s inside... again. “These are the everyman’s sneakers. They are perfect in every situation. They can do no wrong!”

“These are white New Balance, my dude,” Trevor says. “They are the quintessential dorky dad shoes. And if Jay has even an ounce of self-respect, he will dump those abominations on the nearest Goodwill before they even have a chance to smear his image.”

Suddenly Sam startles upright, and she clumsily hides the box behind her back. “Shh, shh! He’s coming.”

“Uh, we can talk as loud as we want. Jay’s not gonna he—” But Trevor does, somehow, find a way to shut up once Thor’s fist is pressed into his mouth.

“Morning, babe,” Jay says, going to pour himself some coffee. He hesitates, swings his gaze around the room. “Morning, ghosts.”

Sam’s grin is damningly mischievous, yet somehow Jay overlooks the clue. “No ghosts,” she tells him.

He blinks, nearly losing the cream from his coffee as he sets down the mug with a surprised clink. “Really?”

“No, just kidding. They’re in here.”

Sasappis nods in appreciation at her. “I’ve taught you well in the art of messing around, apprentice.”

Jay steals a sip of coffee. Then he points at Sam. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“Nothing,” Sam says. She pulls out the orange shoebox. “Just a little something.”

“Something?” The coffee mug is nearly a casualty again as Jay drops everything and dashes over to where she sits at the table. His face is dead serious, his hands puppeteering with massive emphasis, which only makes the prank funnier. “Yeah, that is so much more than a nothing-something. I’ve been wanting these for ages! Sam... did you really get me the all-new Nike—”

“Take a look for yourself,” she says, keeping her tone flat and casual. But mere moments later, it’s disrupted by a revealing giggle-snort.

Jay sets the box on the table like it belongs to Pandora. He grips his hands together, mutters an uncharacteristic prayer, carefully lifts the lid, and— nothing. Blank face.

After nearly half a minute of this reaction, Sam’s amusem*nt shifts up a gear into mild concern. She leans forward, trying to catch his eye. “Jay? Are you okay?”

“Am I okay,” he mumbles. “You... how...” He swallows, points at the white New Balances that have nested where his prized Nikes were meant to be. “The box says Nike. How did you...”

“Whoa,” Trevor whispers. “Sam, I think you broke him.”

“What is on outside does not match inside,” Thor explains. “Is what makes joke so funny, and rare. Sam never plays pranks on small man.”

“Okay, somehow I did not realize you take your shoes that seriously,” Sam gives in. “Mark’s rubbed off on you too much, babe.” She scoots out the chair next to her, revealing a box that reads “New Balance” on the lid.

Any semblance of hope drains out of Jay’s face. “No,” he murmurs. “Please, no. Not another pair.”

“You sweet, stupid man.” Sasappis shakes his head.

“Jay,” Sam tells him, “think critically for a second. If I put the New Balance shoes in the Nike box, then what must be in the New Balance box?”

“Oh, I’m thinking critically,” Jay replies. “Thinking critically about you.” Sam just stares at him, so he accepts his second gift grudgingly and risks a peek inside. Instantly the box dives for the floor, and just as instantly he scrambles to retrieve it. “Yes. Yes. Yes! Oh, my god. I love you. I love you so much.”

Thor claps thunderously, very entertained. “Sam switch which shoe in which box! Thor enjoy trickery. Is great fun. One time, comrade of Thor drank too much mead, so Thor and others play prank by cutting off arm while he sleep. Was great fun when comrade woke up and everyone hear bloodcurdling screams!”

Trevor peers at Sam, arms crossed in his skeptic pose. “Is Jay saying he loves you, or that he loves the—?”

“What do you think?” Sam replies. Her gaze buzzes with high voltage, flicking to her husband as he cradles the sneakers close to his chest. “Wow, sweetie. I hope you’ll hold our baby with that much tender loving care.”

Finally Jay’s eyes flick back to her, and lucky for him, they ooze equal measures of tender loving care. “This is the third-best gift ever,” he tells her.

“Third-best?”

“After,” he says, kneeling down so their lips can briefly meet, “you and our baby.” Then he leaps up, lifting the shoebox high in the air like the scene in that Lion King movie. Reading Sasappis’s mind, Jay proclaims, “Beautiful Nikes, you are my Simba! God, I can’t wait to rub this in Mark’s face.” On his way out of the room, he wisely pauses to scoop up the other pair of sneakers. “And thanks for the dad shoes, babe.” With one last peck deposited on Sam’s forehead, he darts off to rub his new spoils in Mark’s face, coffee very much forgotten.

“Well, that was a cinematic experience,” Sasappis says.

Sam shrugs, sips her juice. “Just another day,” she replies.

“I’m sort of worried we haven’t thought this through,” Trevor says thoughtfully one day in mid-September. The ghosts are enjoying one of the final warm days the season has left to offer, huddled in the gazebo while the breeze passes through them.

Sasappis frowns, because Trevor thinking is rarely a positive development. Regardless, he takes the bait. He’s bored. “Thought what through?” he asks.

Trevor’s shoulders lift then drop limply. “I dunno. This whole baby thing.” Hunched over, he rubs his chin and stares at the lake. He once mentioned he wishes he could grow a scrub of facial hair à la Jay, and Sasappis can’t blame him. A spiffy appearance like that refines a guy. “I mean, think about it.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking,” interjects Sasappis. “Still don’t know what you’re getting at here.”

“Everything’s gonna be different from now on! Sam will hardly have time for us if she’s, like, nursing and rocking and burping a whiny newborn every minute of the day. Same for Jay. He’ll be way less available to check the iPad or breathe on the mirror.”

“This just in: babies are as needy as ghosts are,” Pete says.

Hetty appears more pensive, however. “I hesitate to say this, but he is right. How can Samantha pander to our demands like she usually does if she fails to hear us over the wailing of an infant?” She shudders. “We may have made a mistake by giving our approval on this matter.”

Alberta tilts her head at her. “Now, when the hell was that meeting? I must’ve missed it, because I don’t recall giving Sam and Jay our ‘approval’ to have a baby. It wasn’t ever our decision to make. They were gonna do it whether we wanted them to or not.”

“Heh. Do it,” Trevor mumbles, forever thirty-something and five years old.

“Well,” Hetty huffs, “that’s on Samantha for letting us believe we have the authority!”

“Hey, you can’t push her over as much as you used to,” Sasappis points out. “She’s developed a thicker skin over the years.”

“And good for her!” Flower chirps, arm bent in the We Can Do It! pose.

“We still haven’t been able to get their kid’s name from either of them. It is super frustrating,” Sasappis adds. “Those two are different now. They’ve graduated from doormat level to, like, doorbell. We keep on ringing, and they aren’t answering.”

“They are protecting that name with their ever-loving lives,” Alberta says. “I keep making the Alexa play that ‘na, na, what’s my name’ song at random times, and I’ve made both of them drop several drinks, but not a single name!”

“I spent an entire afternoon the other day repeatedly texting Jay ‘tell me,’” Trevor says. “When I gave up, I counted the number I sent, and the grand total was somewhere in the high hundreds. But it wasn’t annoying enough, apparently.”

“Thor offer to be Sam’s alarm clock, and she decline offer. Thor provide wake-up bellow anyway, every morning at dawn, but still not enough to change her mind. Efforts of all seem to be in vain.”

“Oh, I know what it is,” Flower pipes up.

Everyone stares at her.

Flower’s grin fades. “What?” she asks.

“Do you know the child’s name,” Alberta says, “or do you think you know it?”

“It— it couldn’t be any more than an educated guess on her part,” Pete sputters. “Because— I mean— no offense to you, Flower, but... why would they tell her and not me? I’m Jay’s best friend, for crying out loud!”

Hetty gives his shoulder an awkward pat, sharing a glance with Alberta that practically screams for help. All Alberta can manage for him is a pity-sweetened “Oh, honey.”

Epiphany swallows Sasappis in a sudden strike. “Duh!” he exclaims. “Of course Sam would be open to telling Flower. It kills two birds with one sneaky stone. On Sam’s end, she gets to take some weight off her conscience about not sharing with us, since telling Flower counts as telling a ghost. On Flower’s end, she’s glad to know it, even if she forgets it half the time. Sam is an evil genius, really.”

Flower contributes an emphatic nod. “He gets it.”

Isaac tosses his head back over the gazebo railing, only to correct himself when he nearly falls backward through it. “Blasted ghost logic,” he mumbles, before adding at a heightened volume, “It is remarkably unfair, but also viciously clever. Kind of wish I had thought of it first.”

Nigel leans forward to catch Flower’s eye. “Do check in with us whenever you happen to remember it,” he tells her with a tidy grin.

Silence only reigns for a moment.

“Do you... remember now?” Trevor asks.

Flower considers, her eyes rolling to the ceiling. Then she gives up, answering brightly, “Nope!”

“How about now?” Hetty demands. “I for one would love to know what name could possibly have been superior to mine.”

“Hmm... no.”

Pete allows maybe half a minute. “Any chance it’s come to you now?”

Flower shakes her head.

“Darling Flower,” Thor says. His sweet talk is as transparent as everyone’s diminished patience. “Try to remember. For Thor.”

Flower can only shrug at him. “Sorry, honeybunch. I can’t help that I have free-range thoughts. But maybe it’ll find me soon.”

“Maybe, my behind,” Alberta grumbles. “I say we cut our losses. We don’t have long to wait now as it is.”

“Alberta is right,” Isaac sighs. “I assume this will be much like a British surrender. Bound to happen sooner or later.”

“And for the sake of harmony, I will pretend I did not hear that remark,” Nigel replies.

“Jaaay?”

The man in question puts his video game on pause. Next to him on the couch, Sasappis hangs his head. Damn. Jay normally rocks at playing video games, but it is entertaining to watch him when he fails. And right now, his character is stuck in the middle of his own death scene. Sort of like Sasappis himself, in a way.

Jay throws his voice in the direction Sam’s came from. “Yes, babe?”

“You know those little pancake things from the place outside Stone Ridge?”

Now it’s Jay’s turn to hang his head. Sasappis smirks. They both know equally well what is being implied here. If only they were in a dream, then Sasappis could fully commiserate with him— and Jay could ignore his very pregnant wife with zero consequences, and keep losing at The Legend of Zelda. Alas, there are no pause buttons in life.

“I do know those little pancake things from the place outside Stone Ridge,” Jay replies. “But, uh, you also know that it’s after seven on a Thursday night, yeah?”

Silence.

Jay scoots forward, rubs at his beard. He shoots a glance at the blank space he sees to his left. “Whoever’s been sitting here,” he whispers, “Pray for me.”

Sasappis inclines his head. “Godspeed.”

Jay pushes to his feet and is joined by his unseen companion on his journey to the library, where Sam sits with an almost-finished novel and her achy feet propped on a chair. Her eyes dart to Sasappis in curt acknowledgement; then they return to the only person in this house who is physically able to fetch little pancake things from the place outside Stone Ridge.

“Sweetie,” Jay begins cautiously. “You married a chef. I have a whole arsenal of supplies and pure culinary talent at my disposal. Let me make something for you.”

“I know that, sweetie,” Sam answers. The edges of the term of endearment are sharpened to fine points. “But I’m craving those little pancake things. I haven’t been able to get them out of my head for an hour.”

“I can make you little pancake things!” Jay insists.

Sam tips her head. “Can you?”

“I can learn. Except I don’t even have to learn, because they are just pancakes,” he says, illustrating with his hands, “in a smaller form!”

A heated puff of air emerges from her nose. She puts down the book. “Jay.”

“... and I will be right back,” he announces, pivoting on his heel, “because I am a sucker for your cute butt.”

“Not so cute now,” Sam mumbles.

“Incorrect!” Jay calls over his shoulder.

Her eyes glisten, and she makes sure to yell back, “Love you!”

“Love you!”

Sasappis decides to follow him as far as he can go, because he is genuinely curious about how Jay plans to handle this.

On his way out, Jay stops by the living room again to swipe another handful of gummy bears from the one-pound bag he was chipping away at before. He somehow manages to juggle picking out the clear bears first— the best flavor, evidently— with grabbing his car keys and searching places that are still open at seven o’clock on a Thursday. He must find something, because before long he’s hopped in the car and disappeared down the driveway.

Sasappis toys with the idea of tracking down Trevor and blackmailing him into messing with Jay’s game, which still sits on the pause screen, ripe for sabotage. Ultimately he decides to return to Sam and bother her instead.

As soon as he’s back in the room, she tosses aside her book and pins him under heavy eyes. “I feel bad,” she admits. “Did he really go?”

“Yup. Dude took off like someone was chasing him.”

“Last week, I asked him to make me this Indian dish that I normally can’t stand because of how spicy it is. It gives me the worst heartburn, but suddenly I needed that vindaloo like I have never needed anything else before.” She considers him for a moment, then asks, “Permission to complain?”

Sasappis waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Granted.”

Her head drops back against the chair. “I’m so sick of this waiting game. I’m ready to meet her now. I was ready two weeks ago.”

A wicked sleight of hand tugs at him. “Uh, meet who?” he asks innocently. “Sorry, I’m not sure to whom you’re referring... is there a name, or—?”

But Sam is a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out the ghosts’ shenanigans. “Nice try, Sas,” she says. “You’re not getting a peep out of me.”

“Fine,” he responds. “Be more cryptic than the crypt keeper. But don’t come crying to me when you need a buddy to help you achieve world peace, because the dream-world leaders have inexplicably put it on your shoulders alone.”

She points at him. “Two can play at that game. Say goodbye to the gracious messenger of your little two-word exchanges with Shiki at the office. She will be retiring early.” Satisfied, Sam picks up her book again and flips a page— only for Sasappis to wedge a rebuttal right in between the pages.

“Now that is just mean. Shiki and I have really been working up to something, I just know it.”

“Sas, it’s been two years of ‘sup’ and ‘holla,’” Sam tells him. “If every Living person courted at the rate of you two, it wouldn’t take long for the entire planet to only consist of ghosts.”

“Two years is nothing. Two years is, like, a minute when you’re as old as I am.”

Sam squints, skeptical. “Mm. Okay.”

“Mm. Okay,” he mocks.

She glares. He glares back.

“Fine,” says Sasappis. “I rescind my threat. I’ll be your second-in-command on the super stressful imaginary world peace committee. I can’t give up my tenuous connection with Shiki. I swear I’m this close to giving her an ‘LMAO.’ One where I actually laugh my ass off.”

Sam shakes her head and looks back at her book. “Yeah, I definitely need to read something after hearing that,” she mutters. “Like a love poem. Or two. Or ten.” She sighs. “Or maybe I should prepare for my dream tonight and just read War and Peace.”

This year’s Halloween will be one to remember.

Okay, so technically it isn’t Halloween yet. It’s only October 30th. But as far as the ghosts are concerned, Halloweek is a thing. So yeah, they’re celebrating for the entire week. Tentatively.

The last time this holiday rolled around at Woodstone, Pete’s ex-wife succumbed to a donut hole, Sam and Jay accidentally implicated themselves as murderers, and— worst of all— an extremely cringeworthy séance and party were hosted. So, frankly, Halloween does not have the best track record around here. It is a harbinger of trouble. That must explain why, when the ghosts wake up this morning, they find a hastily-scrawled note from Jay left for them on the kitchen table:

Ghosts—

It’s game time! Baby A let us know she’s ready to make her debut. Don’t know how long we’ll be at hospital. Wish us luck.

Blah blah blah Celtics suck blah blah. Writing more because Sam is staring at me like I should be writing more. Or maybe less? K bye gotta go now.

Love, Jay

“Ooh, it’s happening!” Alberta gushes, hands clutched under her chin. “Finally!”

“About time,” Thor rumbles.

“Even I felt like I was starting to age again waiting for this day to come,” Pete remarks.

Sasappis can’t resist letting his sour mood knock them all down a notch. “They’re really gone,” he says, peering around the dark room. Then into the dark hallway, and the even darker room beyond that. “What if they never come back?”

Isaac gasps, and Flower admonishes, “Don’t say that,” but still Sasappis feels the need to defend himself.

“Look, all I’m saying is that every time those two leave the property together, I get a little worried that they’ll remember how good they had it before they came here. How nice the outside world is. And so they decide... why bother returning to that crusty old place?”

Hetty slaps a hand to her chest. “I’ll have you know, the worst of the crust has been thoroughly scrubbed away! The lead paint and the asbestos have been filed down to a bare minimum at best.”

“Also, newsflash, the ‘outside world’ ain’t exactly ghost-free,” Alberta adds. “Woodstone is their home now, Sas. I remember one of the first things out of Sam’s mouth the day they arrived was that she’d love to raise a family here. Nothing is gonna get between them and that dream when they’re so close to fulfilling it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sasappis mumbles, refusing to meet their gazes, focusing only on the uncertainty of the darkness. “I guess.” He tips his head, considering. “Not to mention, they’d have to be idiots to leave behind a perfectly good pizza oven when they just got that puppy installed.”

“Sure, champ,” says Pete. “And, first and foremost, Sam and Jay love us and would never abandon us. But yes, that’s a solid point, too.”

They all simmer for a minute, Trevor flicking the note absentmindedly. Then Thor comments, “Thor confess, house a little creepy when no Livings around.”

“A little?” Trevor asks. “It’s a lot-tle creepy. I hate this.” The others murmur their agreement.

In anticipation of a fussy baby taking up residence here, Sam and Jay had made the decision to temporarily shutter the bed and breakfast part of their business— just until their daughter is steadily sleeping through the night. It’s a big enough house, but the walls are famously paper thin, so nobody blamed them for prioritizing the restaurant for a while. But now, with their Livings gone and not a corporeal soul around, this place is admittedly a major dealer of the heebie-jeebies. Drafty rooms, endless hallways, cobwebs galore. Damn, how did the ghosts put up with this before? Sam and Jay have spoiled them rotten worse than becoming literal worm food did.

The ghosts are so... alone.

It stinks worse than Isaac.

“Okay, I know how to fix this,” Trevor announces.

“How?” Flower asks anxiously.

“Come on. Everyone’s familiar with this scenario. When the parents aren’t home, the kids come out to play.” Trevor jabs a thumb at his chest. “And, uh, by kids I mean us. We’re the kids.” When he receives a shower of blank stares in return, he tosses his arms in the air and shouts, “Have none of you ever seen a teen movie? And don’t lie to me, because I know you have. Let’s throw a rager. A Halloween rager! As you know too well, we’re already in costume.”

Pete groans. “And as a troop leader, I can’t endorse this,” he says, and removes himself from the situation.

“How are we supposed to ‘rage,’” Sasappis asks, taking full advantage of obnoxious air quotes, “if we don’t have anything to ‘rage’ with? We can’t drink. We can’t move anything”— he puts up a finger at Trevor’s incoming objection— “anything substantial, that is. We can’t make a giant mess for Sam and Jay to clean up. We’re powerless. The best we can do is get high off of Flower’s old weed, put on some music, and get some Arby’s delivered that we can only smell.”

Trevor rolls his eyes. “Dude, we’ve been over this. Nobody wants Arby’s.”

“Jessica did,” Sasappis hits back. “Maybe I want a taste of what she experienced. Or... a whiff of it.”

“This is one Halloween rager, alright,” Alberta complains. “So sad, it’s scary.”

“If Thor want scare, better to spend time in basem*nt.”

Just when the others are ready to walk away, however, Flower chimes in. “I know somebody who can mess things up.”

Pete pokes his head back in the room, of course having listened around the corner the entire time. FOMO’s a bitch. “But can this somebody clean things up?” he asks.

Flower mulls this over, then brightens. “Nope!”

Trevor’s eyes narrow into the danger zone. “I’m in.”

“Come on, Macaroni! Pss-pss-pss! Good boy. Knock over the vase. Come on, knock it over!”

The core eight— nine, with Nigel— squeeze in closer around the cat, but all Macaroni has to offer them in return is an obvious lack of interest and an idly-flicking tail. He lifts a paw as if he plans to give the targeted vase the tip-over it so deserves... but then decides to lick his paw and swipe it over his ear instead.

“That cat is ruthless,” Alberta mutters. “I swear he’s got a vendetta against us.”

Sasappis sighs. “This has to be the one time he doesn’t feel like flipping over everything he touches.”

“Well, this is dull,” Hetty declares. “We’re leaving.” With that, she picks up Macaroni and carries him elsewhere.

Trevor slumps down on the floor, back against the sofa, head on the cushion. “This blows,” he says. “How much longer are they gonna take? I’m so bored. This has been the longest day of my death.”

“It’s been two hours, Trev,” Alberta tells him.

“And having a baby isn’t as easy as one, two, three,” Pete adds. “When Laura was born, I was out in the waiting room for quite a while. And let me tell you, they were doing booming business that day. I wasted three cigars thinking the baby I heard crying was mine. By the time it was finally my turn, I was too busy coughing up my lungs to light a fourth!”

Isaac shakes his head. “Your ‘70s were something else compared to my ‘70s. Yet also the same. Tobacco really made us all her bitch, did she not?”

“I do say she did, my love,” Nigel replies.

“The 1970s were the best,” says Pete. “I even had long hair at one point. And I was in a polka band.”

“Of course you were,” says Alberta.

“In the history of things making sense,” says Sasappis, “nothing has ever made more sense than Pete being in a polka band.”

“It was a bittersweet day when I put my beloved accordion on the shelf in favor of a stable paycheck from the travel agency. But it was also—”

“Not even listening, and still bored!” Hetty interrupts as she troops past the room, Macaroni around her shoulders.

“Don’t mind her, Pete. I’ll listen to you talk about anything. Well, anything besides plague, fashion, or body wash. Not a big fan of those topics.”

They all jump at least a foot in the air— aside from Sasappis, who is way too chill to do that— and spin around to find Nancy has made herself at home on the sofa, her pestilent feet propped perilously near Trevor’s head. He shrieks and scoots away.

“What?” she asks. “I don’t know about you guys, but I for one am gonna enjoy my dwindling minutes of our version of peace and quiet. Once that adorable goblin gets here, she will be the new princess of this domain. And there will be nothing we can do to challenge her authority.”

“N- nothing?” Pete whimpers.

Nancy leans forward so she can spell it out clearly, with spittle and pizzazz. “Nuthin’. That little squirt is gonna be allowed to pee, poop, scream, and shout however much she pleases. You know why?”

Oh, come on, is Trevor’s lower lip seriously trembling? “Why?” he whispers.

“Because in Sam and Jay’s eyes, she is their perfect wee angel who can do no wrong. So I hope you all enjoyed our stint as top dogs, ‘cause those days are over. Livings will always have priority, especially brand-new ones. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles.”

Flower frowns. “But what if I don’t want the cookie to crumble that way? Or at all?”

“Oh, it’s already crumbling, sister. I can feel our carefree days slipping through my fingers as we speak.” With that cheerful monologue out of the way, Nancy folds her arms behind her head and says, “Now. Can someone wrangle that talkin’ box on or what? I need to catch up on Bridgerton. Me and Colin got a hot, steamy date and none of youse are invited.”

Isaac is more than amenable to the lack of invitation— as are all of them. “Oh, yes,” he replies, on the verge of gagging. “By all means. Don’t let us get in your way.”

“Anything, Thor?” Alberta yells up the stairs.

The ghosts all wait in tense silence for Thorfinn’s responding roar from his post at a window upstairs.

“No update! Road outside is desolate. Sky so gray, drowning in clouds. No sign of Sam or small man.” He laughs through the pain. “Life still meaningless!”

Trevor lets out a whistle. “Damn. Who knew the big guy could turn emo when he’s worried?”

“At this rate, we’re gonna have a Halloween birthday in the house,” remarks Sasappis. “Hate to say it, but I’m sort of jealous.”

“And I hate to say this, but now I’m getting more than a little worried,” Alberta says. “Doesn’t it seem odd there’s still no sign of anyone? I know we’ve all got our issues with telling time, but it’s been damn close to twenty-four hours without a peep. Ugh, I wish we could be there! The least Jay could do is send us a message of some sort.”

“Eureka!” Flower shouts all of a sudden.

“What?” Pete demands. “What is it?”

“I just remembered what my favorite color is,” Flower tells them matter-of-factly. Then her grin broadens. “Also, why doesn’t Trevor just text Jay on the pad thing?”

“Oh, my god! I never thought I’d say this, but Flower, you’re a genius.” Trevor darts over to the kitchen, the others hot on his heels. Thor stomps back downstairs to join them. Only the momentary genius is left behind in the foyer.

“... doesn’t anyone wanna know what my favorite color is?”

“It’s rainbow, honey!” Alberta answers, rushing past her.

“Or burnt sienna,” Thor adds, “when feeling creative.”

Flower’s shoulders drop. “Aw. You guys really do listen. Okay, okay, I’m moving,” she says as Thor just about headbutts her into the next room.

At the kitchen counter, Trevor focuses on waking up the iPad, which has mercifully been left with the screen facing upward. When he manages to push the tiny home button, they all erupt in cheers, which then turn into a chorus of “aw” and “boo” when he takes too long to swipe the screen, therefore making it go dark again. It takes a solid five minutes to retrace their progress.

“Okay, okay, here we go,” Trevor murmurs. “As we all know, unlike having a baby, Jay’s password is as easy as one-two-three... four.” Tongue poking between his teeth, he hits the final number, officially unlocking the device. More cheers abound. Next Trevor aims for the green speech bubble in the upper corner. “Alright, bro, I hope you are ready to receive a text...” He pauses, cracks his knuckles. “... from yourself.”

“Please, Trevor, make this even more theatrical than it already is,” Isaac snaps.

“Tough crowd,” Trevor mutters. He taps the narrow box that makes a keyboard pop up. All at once, a deafening clamor arises as every ghost tells him what he should type. “Ah-ah-ah!” Trevor puts up a hand. “I got the power. I get control over what’s said.”

Sasappis crosses his arms, a defeated “dude” perched on his lips, but this is one battle he knows not to pick. Besides, he can always think of something petty to strike back with later. Next time Trevor wants a turn in the sun patch upstairs, suddenly Sasappis will suffer from selective hearing.

It takes another ten minutes for Trevor to get his preferred message just right. “There,” he says, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “I said ‘wassup.’ All lowercase, of course.”

Pete, Alberta, and Hetty all bow their hands in shared shame. “Really? You took the extra two minutes to hit the lowercase button?” Sasappis asks.

“You gotta speak his language. Jay’s a modern man. Plus, I dunno, I don’t want him to freak out when he sees his own name pop up on his phone. A-ha!” Trevor gestures wildly at the screen as it wakes up with a responding bubble. “He already answered. Nice.”

They all crowd in to read the message: Hey, Trevor

“Hm. No period at the end of his salutation,” Isaac observes. “Is that good or bad?”

“He sounds mad,” Flower says. “Or... looks mad? His words are mad.”

“Small man not angry,” says Thor. “Is distracted. All he hears are pained howls of his woman, echoing into night.”

“Aw, jeez,” Pete says. “Thanks for painting that pleasant picture.”

“Can add more, if you like,” Thor replies.

“No, no,” Pete says faintly. “Would not like. Thank you.”

Trevor stares at the screen. “Okay, he’s giving me nothing. Guess I’ll broach the subject.” He concentrates again, and the result is:

how’s it hangin

“In what world is that broaching the subject?” Hetty asks.

“Am I not asking him how it’s going?” Trevor replies. “You have to be subtle with these things. This is sensitive. If I come in guns blazing, he’s gonna ignore us the way he has no choice but to ignore us when he’s here in person. So calm down. I’ll get to it.”

Sasappis shrugs. “There’s this weird lump in my throat when I try to say this, but... he’s not wrong.”

“Thank you,” Trevor says firmly.

“I spy an ellipsis!” Isaac announces. They all whirl back to the iPad and watch Jay type.

It’s hanging.

The ghosts moan and groan and stomp their feet, but then—

“Oh, look! Another elliptical!” says Flower.

“Ellipsis,” Isaac corrects her.

“I don’t care if it’s an elephant,” Alberta says. “Now hush up and read.”

Oh yeah. And we’re parents now :)

Sasappis has never heard anything in his death as loud as the ghosts’ ensuing whoops and hollers. In a flash— or, well, as quickly as his ability allows him to— Trevor shoots back a reply:

nice bro. pics or it didn’t happen

He straightens again with a smirk carved neatly between his cheeks. “That’s a slick way of asking—”

“No one cares,” Hetty interrupts. “Have you received photographs or not?”

“Huh. No, nothing yet,” Trevor says. “I don’t know if he— oh.”

More voices, more crowding. “What? What now?”

“Apparently he wants to... ‘FaceTime’ us. Okay...” Cautiously Trevor centers his finger over the green accept button, then presses on it.

Jay’s face blossoms onto the screen, ruddy-cheeked and sunny-eyed. When he speaks, it’s in a voice that couldn’t even disturb a feather.

“Hi, ghosts,” he whispers. “I’m gonna go with the plural, ‘cause I know there’s gotta be more than one of you there. I can’t see you, but I hope you can hear me. And I bet you wanna see this.” His head briefly ducks out of view, yielding to a distant image of Sam looking rather flattened in a hospital bed.

She waves at them, then says, “Jay, come on. I look like I lost a fight with not one, but two staircases this time.” Her palpable exhaustion leaks through the screen, but she’s never been more alive. Upon seeing her, Sasappis feels several ounces of tension that he felt clotting in his veins instantly dissolve. He can tell the other ghosts experience the same relief.

“Nuh-uh, you look radiant, babe. Take my word for it.” Jay’s face fills the screen again. “Okay, we’re gonna have to run. But just wanted to let you guys know that all are alive and well. We’ll see you soon-ish. And please stop texting me, because, uh, I won’t answer.” He grins, flashes a salute of farewell, then ends the call.

The ghosts aren’t quite ready for it to be over, though.

“Wait! Wait!”

“But what’s the name—”

“We’ve all seen Sam before. We know what she looks like. Where is the child?”

“Wow, not cool, dude. Way to tease.”

“If Sam wasn’t holding the baby,” Sasappis wonders, “then where could she be?”

“Sometimes they put all the babies in another room together,” Pete says. “Maybe she’s just spending time with the other kiddos. Giving Mom and Dad the first of many breaks they will need, trust me.”

“I am not satisfied with this,” Hetty complains. “I must have visual proof of the heir. Proof of an heir is proof that the Woodstone fortune is saved!”

“Woodstone fortune, my ass,” mutters Alberta. “If by ‘fortune’ you mean a pile of pennies and a prayer, then yeah, they’ve got fortune.”

“What if she is not in the baby room?” Isaac frets. “What if they are hiding her away? What if there is something wrong, and Samantha and Jay were only putting up a front so as not to worry us? A failure of a front, I must add, because here I am, worrying!”

“But they seemed really happy,” Flower says.

“Yeah, based on Jay’s I-got-to-die-and-go-to-heaven demeanor, I’m gonna say the kid’s fine,” adds Trevor.

“But—”

“Oh, would you quit being an ass and stop with the buts and the questions and the...” Pete’s chest heaves through a cycle of deep breaths. Everyone’s eyes bug out as they stare at him. “What?” he pants. “I can say a potty word or two when I feel like it. And I’m sorry, but I’m also not, because I am drawing the line at even the slightest suggestion of dead babies!”

“He’s right,” Alberta agrees. “We got to stop with the conspiracies. It’s not good for anyone’s health. And yes, Isaac, I know our health is a moot point, but points can still stand even if they’re moot!”

“Thor-muffin,” Flower says conversationally. They all cringe at the pet name. “Remember that curse thingy you did?”

Thor’s face shifts into an abrupt mask of grave sincerity. “Thor did place Norse curse on firstborn of Sam and small man.” He laughs, though it’s sorely half-hearted. “But— but was only joke. Thor never...” They stare and stare at him, and his massive hands start to quake, like, actually quake. “Thor never meant any harm. Was angry over Viking funeral, yes. Wanted to inflict harm initially, yes. But was never serious curse!”

“Mm. Was it, though?” Isaac asks.

“Oh. My. God!” Alberta blurts. “You killed their child, Thor!”

“How could you?” Pete demands.

“No, no. See, in Viking culture, was cliché to curse firstborn. Considered more effective to curse fifth born instead.”

“Dude, who has a fifth born anymore?” Trevor asks.

“Well, yes,” Thor replies with a shrug. “So... Thor curse firstborn. Augh!” His roar rips straight through the group, and he blindly swings at a nearby vase. Somehow, the instinct to flinch in anticipation of it crashing to the ground still seizes all of them— but of course, they’re let down as his arm passes through it smooth as butter. Flower grabs his other arm in a feeble attempt to calm him down.

“If your curse was legit, you’d better hope Sam and Jay don’t remember that little conflict,” Sasappis says. “Might be kinda tough for them to move past it.”

He can’t speak for the others, but he recalls when Sam herself viewed her newfound ability as a curse. Wasn’t that long ago, in the grand scheme of eternity. If Thorfinn’s curse curses her baby, she might go back to thinking her not-a-curse is indeed a curse-curse. And that is not a pleasant tongue twister to have twisting his brain. His treacherous memory flashes back to the Sam of more than three years ago, wearing a neck brace and firmly convinced that seeing ghosts was her one-way ticket to permanent insanity.

An unsettled feeling lances through his chest. They can’t go back to that. They can’t.

“... hello? Anybody home?”

Sasappis is the first one to explode into the entryway. If he still breathed, all the air would rush out of his body at what he sees: Jay, alone, gently shutting the door and kicking off his shoes in the darkness. If Sasappis still had blood— wait, does he?— it would be running as cold as the so-called “hot” water spout in the Spruce Suite. Where is Sam?

With a sigh, Jay flips on a light and tosses his keys into their designated antique dish. “Nope,” he mumbles, letting his jacket drop to the floor in a sad pile of Patagonia polyester. “I’m just talking to the wall.”

“No, you’re not,” Sasappis tells him. “We’re here!” Half-feverish, he calls out to the other ghosts, who have all fallen asleep in various positions on the first floor while waiting: draped over the couch, slumped on the rug, or, in Flower’s case, face down and snoring on the kitchen table. “Guys! Get out here! We have to communicate with Jay somehow.”

“It’s only him?” Alberta asks, emerging from the other room with a yawn.

“Ugh,” Hetty tuts, close behind. “Of course Samantha would get sucked off right away. And do it somewhere else, so that I couldn’t even ride her as it happened.”

“Why is Sam dead all of a sudden?” Pete pauses mid-step and turns pale as a— well, you get it. “Wait, is Sam dead?”

“No, it’s just— we only have Jay, for some reason,” Sasappis explains, gesturing to the Glum Gus in question. “And I can’t get to him, because obviously he isn’t asleep.”

“You sure? Kind of looks like he’s sleepwalking,” Alberta remarks.

“Well, yeah, dude’s probably been up for thirty-six hours straight, at least.” Sasappis fruitlessly claps his hands in front of Jay’s face. “Damn it,” he mutters. “Thor? Lights?” He turns around to find everyone but Thor blinking back at him. “Trevor?” Nope, no Trevor in sight, either.

Jay proceeds to the kitchen and starts the task of sleepwalking through making a pot of coffee. The ghosts push each other out of the way in their rush to follow him.

“Come on, somebody needs to—” Sasappis stops short as he notices Isaac loitering at the edge of the room, still waking up. Without a word, he seizes Isaac by the shoulders and shoves him at Jay. Isaac stumbles through him, wincing, while Jay doubles over with one hand slapped on his mouth.

“Ack! God. Okay, so I’m not alone,” Jay says once he’s got his gag reflex in check. “Thank you, Isaac.”

Next, the lights overhead start to flicker and falter. Jay glances up, then slowly swings his tired gaze around, as if one of them might spontaneously gain solid form. If only they could, Sasappis thinks. He knows how special it is to feel seen— and how lonely it is when you’re not.

Thorfinn, still wiping dreams of Dane massacre from his eyes, lumbers further into the kitchen. With Flower’s calm direction, he aims his focus on the iPad, which still rests on the table all these hours later. It takes a minute, maybe two, but then the screen glitches on, speeding through a violent slideshow of colors and images.

“Whoa, whoa, Thor, buddy,” Jay hisses, rushing over to the device. “Careful you don’t fry the thing.” The sore edges of his frown soften into something more thoughtful as he peers around again. “Okay, stinky breeze and creepy lights led me to the iPad... now what?”

“Stinky breeze, he calls me,” Isaac repeats scornfully.

“He has a name, you attractive nitwit,” Nigel scolds Jay. When Isaac looks at him, he says, “Indeed, both conditions can coexist.”

“Though not a fallible observation, I resent your remark anyhow,” Isaac replies.

“Trevor!” Sasappis yells. “Wake up! You’re our tech guy!”

Jay waits at the iPad for a few minutes. When nothing happens, he returns to trudging his way through coffee grounds and french vanilla creamer. Which is very bad, because he only uses french vanilla creamer when he’s truly upset. Upon seeing this, the ghosts begin calling out more desperately for the missing member of their core eight.

“Trevor!”

“Trevor, you imbecile!”

“Treeeeeev!”

Then Hetty whispers something in Alberta’s ear. Alberta makes a face, but scurries out of the room anyway. A moment later, the Alexa device in the neighboring room is nearly blown off its post from the force of its own output: Darude’s 1999 hit, “Sandstorm,” playing on full blast. Sasappis is hit with a distinct memory of this song being listened to quite liberally on the night a certain someone died.

Oh, Sasappis thinks. Yeah, that’ll get him going. Then he joins everyone else in slapping their hands over their ears.

“Jesus!” Jay exclaims, his voice dwarfed by the thundering beat. “Hell, no. It’s like my traumatic middle school dance all over again.” He rushes to turn off Alexa, and by that time, Trevor is finally awake. The other ghosts all but drag him over to the iPad, A.K.A. their substitute Sam, A.K.A. their singular direct channel to the Living world, no big deal.

“Okay, okay, I’m up! Ow— ow! You can let go of my ear now, Hetty.” Rubbing at the overtaxed body part, Trevor poises a hand over the screen, glances toward Jay, then goes, “Uh, what am I saying?”

Several voices compete for dominance, but somehow Pete manages to win: “Ask him to tell us the gosh-darn name, already! Oh, and ask if Sam is still with us. And by ‘with us,’ I mean with him. On the same plane of existence. Still ali—”

“I’ll stop you right there. I got your point about a hundred words ago,” Trevor says.

“Make sure you really underline the knowing-the-name part,” Pete presses. “Tell him we’re dying over here.” This earns him a Really? look from Sasappis and Alberta.

Jay finally turns back around to give them another chance, which coincides with Trevor finishing the final letter of his admittedly blunt message: name?

Jay leans over to scan the iPad screen. “Nuh-uh, I’m not falling for that trap,” he replies.

“Just tell him that Sam said she is fine with us knowing,” Isaac suggests. “How will he ever learn the truth?”

“Hm, I don’t know,” Sasappis responds. “Maybe by asking her?”

“Not if she’s dead!” Flower chirps, playing the role of delightful devil-on-the-shoulder. “Also, I’m confused what all the fuss is about. Don’t we already know what the baby’s name is?”

“Uh, no, Flower, that’s why we’re—” Trevor stops suddenly, jaw frozen as he processes through a realization. “Wait, do you remember what Sam told you? Are you remembering it right now?”

Flower shows off her best woozy grin. “Yeah, it’s right here,” she explains, groping the unoccupied air in front of her. “It’s small and purple. I can almost touch it. It’s—”

Every ghost groans.

Jay, meanwhile, decides now is the time to air his woes. “Look, I gotta vent to you, ghosts, because I don’t know who else I can vent to right now.” He yanks out a chair, collapses into it like a sack of miserable bones.

Flower squints. “So close... it’s on the tip of my tongue...”

“Jay,” the other ghosts plead, “shut up!”

Jay does not shut up. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity for his incoming rant. Then he begins, “So, the reason I’m here is because Sam sent me home. And first I thought she was trying to get rid of me, because I was smothering her and the baby, but now I feel bad for thinking that, because, ghosts, she told me we forgot a phone charger.”

The aforementioned ghosts all pass around a single glance that wonders, Are we supposed to understand the significance of this?

“And like, yeah, phone chargers are important and all, can’t go without ‘em, but the reason we even need a phone charger in the first place is what worries me. It means she and the baby have to stay at the hospital longer than we thought, long enough for Sam to need a phone charger, which is why I have to come back here and take a phone charger from our home and bring it back there, and—” Jay’s lungs give out on him. He dips his head, sucking in another shaky breath.

Flower shakes her head. “Yeah, the name’s gone again. Sorry.”

Jay hops right back on the freight train of fright. “Sam... she told me to go home and get a phone charger. So here I am, getting a phone charger, way too far away from them, and...” He sighs. “I’m making it all about myself, aren’t I? I’m not the one who just spent twenty-six hours in labor.”

Struck silent, the ghosts gather close around him. Pete squeezes into the chair next to Jay, looking so badly like he wants to rest a supporting hand on the Living man’s shoulder.

“All I wanna do is talk to her about it,” Jay murmurs.

Alberta frowns. “About what? What is ‘it’?”

“— but whenever she’s awake,” Jay says, “I’m asleep, and whenever I’m awake, she’s asleep, and then we were finally awake at the same time, and what does she want from me? No hugs or kisses or words of comfort. She wants her freaking phone charger.” He leans back, scrubs his hands over his face.

“She told me to go get some fresh air, but how can I when she can’t? How can I leave that room when all I want to do is breathe the same air our baby girl is breathing? I’m...” He shakes his head, perches his chin on his clasped hands, stares hard at the floor. His eyes glitter like the ocean— or, at least, how Sasappis envisions the ocean glitters. “The worst part is that Sam blames herself, as if— as if our daughter is anything other than perfect. And she is. She’s so perfect, ghosts. You have no idea.”

“Yes,” Hetty says. “We have no idea because you will not divulge any specific details!”

“Oh, god,” whispers Alberta. “What the hell happened?”

“Not even a day old, and she’s already got it just right,” Jay continues softly. “She’s got it all figured out. Has us wrapped around her teeny little finger. Have you ever met someone who just... captures you completely?”

“No,” answers Thor. “Was always Danes getting captured, not other way around.”

“But here I am anyway,” Jay says, unable to be regaled with a saga of Dane detainment. “Away from them. Grabbing a stupid phone charger.”

He takes a long sip of coffee, and Sasappis revels in the smell of it. Never has he so badly wanted to indulge in hot bean juice as much as he does right now. Its tempting tendrils of aroma snake through his nostrils and poke his brain in precisely the right way. He’d take even a drop if it would be enough to distract from the situation at hand.

But then something happens that makes him forget about the magic bean juice. Pete, who is still seated next to Jay on an adjacent chair, beholds his friend with a gaze that contains a thousand tender hugs— magnified into a million with the help of the geek glasses. Without a word, he leans in close and pulls Jay into a fierce bear hug.

Wait.

How?

Jay nearly jumps out of his skin, but manages to stay in it so he can stammer, “Wha— who— whoa, this is weird. I can feel you. I feel the sensation of being hugged, and yet... wait, why do I feel like it’s the best summer of my childhood, and I just got a firm pat on the back after playing a game of catch in the yard with my pops? I never once played catch with my dad or called him ‘pops.’ We had a basketball hoop in the driveway, and I called him ‘Dad,’ not... eugh... ‘my old man’?” He shudders. “Where are these instincts coming from? What in the white is this?”

Looking remarkably chilled-out for a ghost who just uncovered his power, Pete simply says, his chin miraculously solid on Jay’s shoulder, “Now that, slugger, is what I call the power of a dad hug.”

“Somehow I understand that I was just called ‘slugger,’” Jay replies. “And I love you, Pete, but if you call me that again, it’s back to ‘Arrow Guy’ for you. Capiche?”

“Okay,” Pete says, too busy exercising his power to show even a smidgen of shame.

“Thank you,” Jay adds. He exhales, lowers his hackles. “You ghosts have no idea how much I needed this.”

“Right,” Hetty responds, just a notch or two beyond exasperated. “No idea, because we really do have no idea! We have more life than we have ideas, no thanks to you.”

“Shhh,” Sasappis soothes her. “Let them have their bizarre moment. Then we’ll get back to badgering him.”

That’s when Flower lets out a yelp that catches (almost) everyone’s attention. “Wait. I remember it again!” she cries.

“What?”

“Her name,” Flower answers. “It’s Lila.”

Before anyone can react, Jay carefully removes his arms from around the invisible form he’s been hugging for nearly three whole minutes now. “Huh. That is some impressive stuff. The everlasting dad hug— pretty handy and not that weird in most contexts.” He focuses his gaze somewhere just slightly off from where Pete’s actual face is, and winks. “You’ll have to show me your ways, Pete.”

Only then is Trevor able to get another message typed on the iPad: what happened?

“Okay,” Jay sighs. “I’ll give you all a brief overview, then I’ll go deliver the phone charger.” He clears his throat. The ghosts all lean forward, tingly with apprehension. “So, let’s see, first bullet point... um, Sam may be undergoing a tiny little psych evaluation?”

“A tiny little what now?” Alberta asks.

Jay swings his head side to side. “Yeah, yep, I know what you’re all thinking. Allow me to explain. Oh, and none of you better walk out of this room while I’m speaking. I refuse to talk to myself in this house. I won’t have any way of knowing it, but I will find a way to be mad about it.”

Chapter 9: there's something about sam

Chapter Text

Before the sun is up, Sam already has her old Northwestern hoodie thrown on and the go-bag packed until its zippers are about to burst. (She can relate to that feeling.)

And, okay, the go-bag being packed and ready to go isn’t much of an achievement, considering it’s been packed and ready to go for about two weeks now. But Sam figures taking a minute to comb through its contents one last time couldn’t hurt. So she does exactly that, checking off items on her mental list as well as the list-list on her phone. Hours from now, she will only then realize that a charger to power said phone somehow never made it onto either list— ergo, never making it into the go-bag either.

Go figure.

With that done, Sam sits on the edge of the bed for a while and watches the sun’s slow motion ascent. She rubs her belly. She watches Jay sleep.

She loves the way he sleeps. Before meeting him, she never knew anyone who could actually slumber comfortably on their stomach, face mashed into the pillow. He doesn’t always do that, but when he does, it’s adorable and sort of forms the structure of her entire day.

A memory flickers across her haywired mind, of waking up in the same bed as him for the first time. Opening her eyes, watching him somehow suck in oxygen through a thick layer of pillow. Soaking in this unflattering picture of Jay Arondekar and thinking, He’s so beautiful. And then kicking her feet like an excited child, which disturbed the blanket and woke him and the first thing he did when he woke and saw her there was kiss her, morning breath be damned, and that was it.

Sam never saw him coming. Before, she used to be more of a planner. In high school and college, she was that student with the huge spiral Day-Timer, a strict color-coded system supplemented by countless sticky tabs and highlighters, and a rock-solid plan of where she was headed in life. Her answer to that dreaded “Where do you see yourself in ten years?” question was always a concise, resolute paragraph describing a positive career trajectory, a few books published, and a family somewhere along the line. A comfortable life.

When her mom died, Sam found that her work was an easy distraction. Distraction from their final conversation, which was more argument than conversation. It was also a distraction from the probable reality of never being able to set things right with her. But that’s the thing about distractions— they’re only meant to be temporary. Jay stumbled into her life, and even though he did sometimes distract her from things like work and pent-up grief, he was anything but a distraction.

One of their first projects together will always shine like treasure in her heart. Not long after they met, Jay helped support their mutual caffeine addiction by joining Sam’s quest to visit every coffee shop within a two-mile radius of Battery Park, where they would then spend hours aimlessly roaming and talking.

It was his brilliant idea to pit the lower Manhattan coffee shops against each other in March Madness-style brackets; her contribution was a detailed poster board map of the area. Each spot was marked and given a score out of five full, half-full, or empty coffee cups, along with any additional comments scribbled underneath. These included such clever Jay-sourced insights as:

“Boo. A Keurig machine’s grandma could make better espresso than this.”

Or “I could’ve put this $6.83 toward my $1,200 rent. What is wrong with me?”

Or, her personal favorite: “If I could be joined with this chai latte in holy matrimony, I would put a ring on it so hard. But I can’t, so, even better idea— I’ll give my girlfriend a ring instead!”

(And yes, the poster was color-coded.)

All those places they sampled, and still Sam believes that Daisy Coffee here upstate blows every single one out of the water. So much, in fact, that she seriously considered naming the baby Daisy. Well, only semi-seriously. (Okay, very seriously.)

Building a life together has been a labor and leisure of love. So many train and ferry rides in and out of Jersey City. So many goofy texts exchanged as they tried to figure each other out. So many late nights where she tirelessly crafted an article on deadline, seated in a booth in whatever bar or restaurant Jay had landed at while he climbed the ladder to head chef.

And later, all the lazy afternoons shared in their shoebox of an apartment. Drinking bitter homemade hot cocoa with his head in her lap, or hers in his. Filling every available space with held hands and time well spent. Then, finally, dancing in an ecstatic stumble to The Beatles’ “Here, There and Everywhere” in the confines of a narrow Irish pub, with a chai latte-inspired ring on her finger.

For a while, Sam had worried that their around-the-clock lifestyle in the city wouldn’t translate well to life up here. But all of it has been a dream— and a really good one, to boot. She and Jay have essentially created a whole new language to help them understand some unforeseen ghosts. And they have dived headfirst into the ongoing project— and gamble— of going into business together. How could they be any closer?

It’s been ten years since the last time she answered that “Where do you see yourself?” question. Ten years, and now Sam sees dead people, works in the hospitality business, lives in a seen-better-days, seen-worse-days mansion, and is so in love she can barely see straight. Though that last one might just be a symptom of labor pains.

Okay, she thinks. Long breath in, long breath out. Let’s do this thing.

She reaches out and shakes Jay’s shoulder. “Hey,” she whispers, letting her hand trace along his arm until it settles over his hand. “It’s time.”

He groans gently into wakefulness. The first indication of him stirring is the way his fingers twitch and enclose hers instinctively. Unfortunately, this coincides with another ripple of pain. It snaps and squeezes through her body like a giant rubber band with teeth. As if he feels this also, Jay flips over groggily and grabs her other hand. They sit there for a few minutes until it passes, her eyes screwed shut while Jay watches her with the careful concentration of a man who has nothing else to care about except this. No panic. Only care. Care is all she needs.

Cautious sunshine splashes over the room, bright for late October. Sam breathes heavy, exhales of air exiting her nose sharp as spears. Then the contraction fades away with one final twinge.

“You okay?” Jay murmurs. His eyes and hands haven’t left her.

She nods timidly at first, until it shifts into a stronger gesture, confidence boosted by acceptance of the inevitable. “I’m okay,” she tells him. “Let’s go.”

Knowing his top priority here is simply to support and exist with her, Jay pecks her forehead, helps her up, swings the overstuffed go-bag onto his shoulder (sans phone charger), and helps her down the stairs and out to the car.

Well... almost.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sam says. Arm in arm, the pair scurry back down the hallway they just passed through. “Have to pee first. Then I’m ready.”

“I’m not ready, Jay!”

“What? Of course you’re ready, babe. You’ve got this. And if anything goes wrong, which it won’t, we’re in the best place to handle it.”

Sam frowns, sets down her allotted cup of ice chips. “What are you talking about?” she asks. She holds up the long-suffering novel whose final page has, at last, seen the light of day. “I’m talking about my book. I’m not ready to finish it.”

Jay looks at her. Looks at her hospital bed, hospital gown getup, and the unflattering fluorescents that sharpen the entire scene. “Uh, yeah, sorry... my mind is less on the book and more on something else,” he replies. “Like, I don’t know, you giving birth, maybe?”

She shrugs. “Today’s a special occasion on several fronts. This marks the end of a months-long ordeal.” She strokes a hand over her belly and wonders to herself if she’s actually talking about the book or about this pregnancy. Totally worth it either way, she thinks.

Jay scoots his chair closer to the bed. He gazes at her almost imploringly even though he has not one iota of imploring to do. “I think now’s as good a time as any to state again for the record— thanks for doing this whole pregnancy thing for us,” he tells her. (And okay, maybe he should implore some more.) “I feel like you’ve contributed all the best ingredients to a tasty mulligatawny, and all I’ve done is give it a little stir.” (Oof, or not.)

Sam swipes a hand through his hair, giving it a purposeful tousle until it sits just the way she likes. “I’ll forgive you,” she teases, “as long as you stop throwing in food analogies in reference to our baby.”

“I mean, our kid’s gonna have to get used to being an inherited foodie, Sam. I will be making meals worthy of a Michelin Star for her all day, every day. Side note, how soon do you think she’ll be able to appreciate the godliness of garlic?”

“Not soon enough,” Sam says right as the doctor walks in.

“Alright, folks,” he announces, stopping at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips. He clears his throat, takes a gulp of air like he’s breathing into a gust of wind, then sculpts his square chin and steel blue eyes into an expression not far off from Michelangelo’s David. “Now, for the sake of candor, I should let you know that I’m a little rusty with this stuff. It’s been a minute. Well, more like forty years, but have no fear. You’re in good hands.” As if to demonstrate, he snaps at the nitrile gloves on his hands.

“Um, sorry, forty years?” Sam repeats. “Also, you’re not my doctor. You must be in the wrong—” Oh. The realization grips her as her eyes flash to Jay, only to find her husband paying not even a hint of attention to this doctor but, instead, to the Knicks playing on TV. (More specifically, the Knicks getting crushed on TV.)

Sam presses her head back into the mountain of pillows behind her. Somehow she had made it this far without seeing any ghosts yet today— or, more accurately, without noticing any ghosts. Though in hindsight, that woman in the crowded elevator who was yodeling an obnoxious cover of Creed’s “Higher” to only the consternation of Sam might have been another sighting.

“Ghost doc?” Jay asks without looking over.

She sighs. “Yeah.”

“Oh, actually, I’m not a doctor, but thanks for thinking I am!” The grinning stranger moves closer, blocking Sam’s view of the TV but not Jay’s. “I’m an actor. They used to film a medical drama here in the late ‘80s. It was more short-lived than I was. Ha!”

He flips his smile into a frown with impressive fluidity, his voice slipping back into a throaty stage-whisper. “Then one stormy night, we were shooting an episode where a man goes on a stabbing rampage for revenge. As it turned out, his stolen scalpel was not a prop, but was actually the real deal.” He spins around to show off a ragged splatter of crimson staining the back of his fake doctor’s coat. “Poor fellow flayed me like I was a flesh-and-blood banana. I heard he always kept his eyes peeled after that one. Ha!”

“Seems like your strengths lie more with comedy than drama,” Sam says politely.

“Be that as it may, there really was something special about Nurses to Hearses. Fun fact, we were the precursor to ER. But noooo, all everyone talks about is ER this, ER that. They didn’t invent the medical drama, we did!” Shaking his head, he gives her another once-over. “Anyway, my name’s Hal. When I squeeze this,” he says, holding up the imitation stethoscope around his neck, “I set off all the heart rate monitors on the entire floor. It can create quite a beat. Ha!” He lets go of the prop. “So, what brings you in today, um...?”

“Sam,” she fills in the blank he draws. She glances down at herself, then back at him. “Uh... I’m having a baby?”

“Aside from the obvious,” Hal clarifies.

Is there an aside? Sam thinks for a moment. “You... don’t seem that surprised I can see you,” she points out. “Does that mean you’ve already met another Living person who can talk to dead people?”

Hal shakes his head again. She can’t help but feel somewhat let down, though it’s her own fault she let her hopes perk up. “I’ve seen a lot in my time here,” he replies. “After just a few hours of haunting a hospital, nothing will surprise you anymore.”

“So I really am an anomaly.”

“Pretty much. But golly, this is surreal.”

Says the literal ghost, Sam thinks. Then she’s caught on a pang of longing for her regular ghost crew. Golly is high on Pete’s list of personal vocabulary; he and this guy could be kindred spirits.

Until Hal adds, “Do you mind if I grab a few of my friends to come meet you?”

“Wait, I don’t think that’s such a good...” But Sam doesn’t get a chance to finish her thought, because Hal has already passed through the wall. She slumps even deeper into the pillow pile and mumbles, “Oh, no.”

“More ghosts?” Jay asks. He is, understandably, more fascinated by an antidepressant commercial on the TV than by the prospect of ghosts he can’t see.

“On their way as we speak,” she says, resigned.

Now Jay turns his focus onto her, reinforcing the bond of their joined hands. “Don’t worry,” he tells her. “Just remember, you can tell who’s a living medical professional if...” He searches the room, frowning. “... oh, I got it! Look, babe, if they put on hand sanitizer when they walk in the room, that’s how you’ll know they’re real. Ghosts don’t use hand sanitizer. At least, I don’t think they do?”

“Right, good thinking,” says Sam. “And, um, maybe you could react to the living people, too? That’ll help me out a lot.”

“Pshh,” Jay replies. “Easy. I’ll have you know that I am the oracle of all oracles. I can detect an invisible faker from a real—”

“A real what?”

They both jump as a nurse enters the room, squirting a healthy dollop of hand sanitizer foam on her hands. She stops short when she notices them staring at her. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m a Curious Cathy by nature. Probably not helped by the fact that my name is Cathy.” She walks over, wraps a blood pressure cuff around Sam’s arm. “The other nurses also like to call me Chatty Cathy, so you two better buckle up.” She laughs, and it might just be the almost-Halloween vibe in the air, but that laugh is borderline maniacal.

Sam knows she’s supposed to relax her arm. Her muscles won’t obey her brain, though, so her arm remains rigid with nerves. “Oh, that’s nice,” she answers faintly, eyes drifting to the door in preparation for imminent ghost arrival.

The cuff tightens, tightens, releases. “Whoa, mama,” says Cathy. “You’re creeping into the 120s here.” You think? “It’s okay. Calm down. Deep breaths.”

Sam flicks an ice chip at Jay.

Wiping the melty bite of cold off his knee, Jay throws all his effort into an excuse extravaganza. Plastering on a pretense of normality truly is an exercise in... well, exercise. “H- hi there, Cathy!” he shouts. “Too loud. Sorry. Um, we were just... er... talking about the difference between real and fake, um... babies.”

Sam looks at Jay. Jay looks at Sam. She mouths, “What are you doing?” and yet he rolls with it. The first domino has already fallen into the next.

“You know how it is with TV shows,” Jay rambles on, gaining more passion as he goes. “They have the characters hold those fake baby dolls and expect you to believe they’re real. It’s just— it’s pathetic, right? Like, gimme some real babies! I want all the ugly squished potato faces, no holding back. They don’t even have to do anything. All they have to do is lie there and be a crappy plotline. We need some more authenticity in Hollywood, don’t you agree, Cathy?”

While Cathy has her back turned to input data in the computer, Jay practically hangs on Sam’s arm for dear life. “Sweetie, you gotta save this ship from sinking,” he whispers in her ear. “We’re about to spend several hours with these people. This is getting desperate. I can’t stomach the awkwardness.”

“Mm-hmm,” she replies, “I noticed.” Easy for him to say, she thinks. All Jay has to worry about is building rapport with the army of living nurses who will be trooping through this room. Meanwhile, Sam also has to worry about a whole new gaggle of ghosts who likely all died in varying stages of trauma. Maybe she should have heeded Hetty’s advice and gone the home birth route.

“Alright, you weirdos,” says Cathy pleasantly. “Dr. Crowe will stop by in a jiff to discuss your... very real baby.” With that, she steals another squirt of hand sanitizer and walks out, making no bones about her exit also being an escape— from them.

The pair exchange another glance. They actually scared off a Chatty Cathy. “Huh,” says Jay. “So we may have overreacted to that situation.”

Sam’s glance turns into a hard stare. “‘We’?”

“Look alive, people!” Dr. Crowe strides into the room and takes a squirt of hand sanitizer with a flourish.

Sam grabs Jay’s arm. “You see her, too?” she whispers.

“Yep,” Jay whispers back patiently. “She’s been our OB-GYN for six months now, so I’d hope she’s still here with us on this side of the rainbow bridge. Also, remember the hand sanitizer thing. You’re good.”

Not privy to their absurd side conversation, the doctor sits on her stool, wheels closer, and meets their gazes with a stroke of sincerity that sets Sam right on edge again. “Well, mom and dad, I got to be straight with you,” Dr. Crowe tells them. “I’m afraid it’s only Braxton-Hicks.”

“What?” Jay asks.

“Why were we admitted?” Sam wonders.

Dr. Crowe only maintains the facade for a moment longer— then the serious bricks and mortar crumble away to reveal well-meaning laughter. “I’m only kidding,” she says. “Just like Braxton-Hicks. Which, let me be clear, you do not have. This is the real deal.” (How many times must Sam have to hear “the real deal” in a single day? Is she in a hidden-camera game show? Is this hell?)

“Wow,” says Jay. “Who knew doctors had a funny bone?”

Now Dr. Crowe decides to favor a stony-faced bedside manner. “Trust me, there is nothing ‘humerus’ about the ulnar nerve. That’s because they’re two different things.” Clearing her throat, she adds, “I apologize. My colleague bet me his weekend Tesla that I couldn’t joke with a patient, and I love to prove men wrong. And, well, it is almost Halloween, strictly speaking.”

“Halloween is super different from April Fool’s, Doc,” says Jay. “But, um, thanks for lightening the mood?”

“Alright. Let’s see how long the road ahead is to the delivery room, yeah?” Five minutes of examination later, Dr. Crowe concludes that the road is, in fact, very long. “Settle in, you two. Baby’s taking her sweet time. Remember to breathe through your contractions, and that it’s still a little too early to worry about putting her through college.” Standing, the doctor strips off her gloves and gives the hand sanitizer another hit. “I’ll be back to check on you in a jiff!”

Once she’s gone, Jay shakes his head and mutters, “Do they all have to say ‘jiff’? Because now I hate that word. It makes me crave peanut butter. And you know what peanut butter does to my tum—” When his hand is abruptly trapped in another bone-crunching clutch, he squeaks out a feeble “Ow.” Met with Sam’s rare murder eyes, he adds, “Which is nothing compared to your ow.”

The invisible belt tightens. More squeezing. More pressure. “I don’t think I’m ever doing this again,” she groans.

With his uncompromised hand, Jay swipes hair off her forehead and tries to console. “Remember, the best part is just beginning. We got the whole rest of our lives to—”

“You don’t get to tell me what the best part is— oh, crap.”

“What?” He frowns. “What can I do?”

“You can’t do anything! It’s ghosts. So. Many. Ghosts.” Breathing laboriously, Sam’s eyes gradually widen in horror as more and more spirits flood into the room. It’s like they’re emerging from a clown car.

Jay worries at his lower lip. “I echo your ‘oh, crap’ sentiments, but— how many ghosts can there really be? Like, five?”

“Only five. Good guess, Jay. Because people seldom die in hospitals.” Sam draws in a breath, squeezes her eyes shut. If only she had a pair of ruby slippers, she could tap them and chant, “There’s no place like home” over and over until she’s back home with her ghosts, not these ghosts.

Suddenly, there’s a cacophony of heart monitors beeping, a raucous echo that travels up and down the hallway like bad music. “Sorry,” Hal says, squeezing into the room last. “I got excited.”

An scruffy older woman stands and observes Sam with her arms crossed. A ripped-off IV tube dangles out of one arm. Sam shudders.

“So you claim this one can talk to ghosts, huh?” the woman asks Hal. Her raspy voice is not unlike Nancy’s— now, that is an unexpected pang of longing. How can Sam even miss Nancy?

“That’s right,” he affirms. “You see? She’s a Living, and she’s looking at us.” He pulls out a prop mini flashlight, flicks it back and forth as if Sam’s eyes will follow the harsh beam. To his dismay, she doesn’t fall for the trick.

“Huh. Incredible,” the IV-ripper murmurs. “Forget about riding on the crazy train. She’s gotta be the conductor of it.”

A surgeon with a pair of scissors casually poking out of his chest like a doorknob speaks next: “I can safely diagnose this patient with a case of the gone-completely-bonkers.”

A ghost nurse boasting butterfly-patterned scrubs and a grisly gash in her forehead ogles Sam without shame. “You’re, like, so pretty,” she says. “Even with the sweat, and the...” Her hand thrashes indiscriminately midair, indicating many things that are apparently amiss in Sam’s appearance. “— well, everything else.”

“Thanks,” Sam says flatly. “That makes me feel much better.”

Another woman standing further back is dressed like a nun— and is probably a genuine nun, since ghosts can’t exactly celebrate Halloween the same way Livings do. She clutches the cross around her neck and whispers, eyes gleaming like jewels, “This must be a test from God. A test that will determine if we’ll finally get sucked off!”

Wow. Sam never thought there would be a day where she hears an actual nun say the words sucked off. She’d honestly hoped it was only a term coined by the Woodstone crew. Put a scratch through that tidbit of wishful thinking. Also, she feels like there must be some sort of clever irony woven into the mere existence of a ghost nun— but she’s too tired to mull it over.

“Sweetie, we got a live one,” Jay warns, speaking through gritted teeth. He tips his head toward Cathy, who has come scurrying back in to calm down the monitors Hal set off.

“Sorry about this,” she apologizes, fingers flying over various buttons. “These silly machines go on the fritz sometimes. Must be a power surge of some sort. Who knows, the building’s old.”

“You could say that,” Sam replies. Then adds, while scowling at the stadium-sized crowd that has assembled around her bed, “Maybe it’s haunted.”

“Or perhaps... we are in a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity,” Jay jokes. Sam would compliment his sexy Rod Serling voice if she wasn’t currently annoyed at everything.

“Well, aren’t you two in the Halloween spirit!” Cathy crows. “I love it.”

“Ooh, ooh, Sam!” Hal pipes up from where he stands dangerously close to Cathy. “You mind asking Cathy here to put on a fresh pot of coffee in the break room? All of us could really do with another sniff-boost, and the pot that’s in there now is colder than a bag of saline fresh out of the fridge.” He flashes a blinding movie-star smile that cannot be ignored.

Shying away from his floodlight-like enamel— seriously, what kind of tooth-whitening agents did they use in the ‘80s?— Sam retrieves her phone from the tray table and puts it up to her ear. Looking directly at Hal, she answers, “No, I can’t do that. Sorry.”

The IV-ripper scoffs. “How rude! Look at her, taking a call on her little space-age contraption right in front of us.” Sam tenses, hoping that this ghost’s power doesn’t extend to ripping out other people’s IVs as well.

“I’m talking like this,” Sam explains, sweeping her gaze across all those with front-row seats to the sh*t show, “so that people don’t think I’ve lost it.”

“Aw, you’re adorable,” says the nurse with the forehead gash. “You know it’s already too late for that.”

“What? No.” Sam clears her throat, flicks a sidelong glance toward Cathy, who is still wrestling with one of the machines. “This is a perfectly normal phone call. This is fine. I’m fine.”

“From what I’ve noticed,” the nurse enlightens her dead companions, “people these days will send texts instead of bothering with calls. When I was alive, it was all about cell phones that flip open, and minding your minutes. Now they just use emoticons to communicate— it’s like they’re reverting back to hieroglyphics.”

Sam, for one, would love to use hieroglyphics as her only mode of communication, if it meant that she wouldn’t have to hear words being spoken by other people for a while. Rather than share this opinion, she says, “Look, while I appreciate you guys are excited to meet someone li— er... to— to talk to me, I don’t have the energy to deal with this right now. As you can probably imagine, I’m extremely busy at the moment. So, is it beyond the realms of possibility that you all leave me alone?”

Over her head, Jay catches Cathy’s eye and mouths, “Parents, huh?”

“Uh, no way,” argues the IV-ripper. “We’re not going anywhere, miss. For some of us, it has been decades without Living contact. And they don’t call this a memorial hospital for nothing. Here, the past has meaning. We,” she says, gaining momentum with supportive nods from her fellow ghosts, “matter.”

Sam’s fingers strangle her phone. “Well, that’s great, but another thing that’s important is the limit on how many people can be in the delivery room. So how about we make a deal: you can be in here all you want, but do not, under any circ*mstances, follow me when I move rooms. I’m begging you.”

The hospital ghosts stare at her. Then, all at once, they burst into laughter. Even the nun.

Sam swallows, fidgeting with the oximeter on her finger. How quickly she has forgotten that it took years to build up the trust and respect she has with the ghosts at home— and even then, that trust and respect is still breached at times. If she wants to coexist with this group for the next several hours, she’ll have to pull some leverage.

“Fine,” she grumbles. “I’ll ask about the coffee pot.”

In perfect unison, the hospital ghosts burst into cheers. “You, my clammy friend, have got a deal,” Hal declares.

Sam pokes her arm, frowns, and looks at Jay. “I’m not really that sweaty, am I?”

Jay opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again only to say, “I... love you so much, babe.” But his rapid nodding, complete with scrunched apology eyebrows, says it all.

Hours pass in an endless roll, dripping like molasses. Or like the sludge that came out of the pipe in the Spruce Suite’s bathroom when they tried to remedy the cold-hot-water issue. Remedying the issue had evolved into Sam and Jay verbally reasoning with the house instead, as if it could consciously decide to unclog all its old plumbing and make hot water run hot.

Hetty and every ghost older than her all got these strange “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” expressions on their faces when they saw the mysterious sludge, so only they know what breed of bizarre secret was plugging up that pipe. Sam almost would have preferred that Super Mario had somehow popped out of there rather than what actually did. Shudder.

By now, the Knicks game has long since ended— they won by a single point, for what it’s worth— and Sam is on the verge of nodding off, cushioned in a blissful cocoon of pain medication. With the TV off, Jay splits his time scrolling on his phone or snoozing with his head propped on her shoulder, and her head pressed against his in return. She can’t imagine how he is comfortable sitting on that chair bent like a malformed tree branch, but he pulls through without so much as a whiff of complaint.

She’s wavering on the fuzzy border between sleep and wakefulness when a harsh ringtone sends a scythe slicing through their peace. She feels Jay’s hand slip out of hers as he, also jerked out of almost-sleep, frantically pats every pocket on his body. His phone, it turns out, had migrated to the floor at some point, because why not? This forces him to get on all fours and partially crawl under her bed to fetch the device and kill the noise.

“Jay,” Sam groans, barely cracking open her eyes. She just spent two hours pacing around the room in an effort to make some progress; now she can think of nothing better than resting her eyes for a minute. A single minute.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” His hand slaps at the linoleum until, finally, he gets a grip on his phone and sweeps it back in his direction, along with a harmless dust bunny or two.

Then she frowns, allowing her ears to wake up more rapidly than her vision. “Is that... ‘Candy Shop’?” she asks. “Is that seriously your ringtone now?”

“Yes. No. Maybe,” says Jay. He flips the phone to silent mode. “Don’t judge. That song holds special memories for me now!”

“Mm. Could say the same,” Sam mumbles. Her eyelids still sit at a drunken half-mast. “Different kind of special, though.” If watching a live stripper give a lapdance to a ghost while clicking like a dilophosaurus doesn’t count as ‘special,’ she thinks, then I don’t know what does.

“It’s the fam calling again,” Jay informs her. “I’ll step into the hall and update them that there are no updates.”

Sam lets her eyes fall shut again. A long sigh coasts through her lungs. Now, try not to dream about a dancing dilophosaurus, she reminds herself. Or mystery sludge rising out of a toilet. That’s not exactly the definition of relaxing. Just... pretend you’re at a spa, Sam. Even if you’ve never been to a spa and don’t know what they’re like.

But relaxation, it seems, is a while off for her. Even though Jay has left the room, Sam still feels a presence nearby. She risks cracking one eyelid, expecting a nurse or possibly Dr. Crowe on tiptoes, but nope. It’s the forehead gash ghost. Grinning extremely close to Sam’s face. Cheshire cat style.

“Happy Halloween!” she says brightly.

“Ahh!” Sam yelps. She scoots as far away as the bed’s very limited limits allow. The copious pillows drop like flies to the floor. Sam may be mostly numb at the moment, yet she’s able to feel her heartbeat in every part of her body. She slaps a hand over her mouth, but the damage is done.

While Jay and a battalion of Living nurses come tearing into the room— a brigade to make Isaac proud— the hospital ghosts also reappear, bleeding through the walls like— oh god, are the walls actually bleeding?

“So it is All Hallows Eve,” the nun intones, repeatedly drawing the cross over her chest. “May God help us all.”

Stricken with terror, Sam clenches the bed sheet up by her face. Yet something compels her to keep watching.

The IV-ripper stands to the side while the others mill about, making stereotypical ghost moans. “Check out the walls,” she boasts. “That’s my power for ya. I can make ‘em bleed all. Night. Long.”

Hal lets rip a magnificently macabre cackle, then drops the act to acknowledge the chaos. “Sorry, Sam. We just never get to actually haunt anybody. And trust me, there have been some real stinkers over the years who deserved to be haunted and know it. So now we’re taking out all our pent-up haunting needs on you. Hope you don’t mind. And Happy Halloween!” He beams and reverts back to the awful cackling.

With Sam’s arm already in a death grip, it takes Jay a few moments to grab her gaze. “Sam,” he whispers urgently. “Hey. Look at me.” She looks at him; her stiff muscles go to mush. “It’s okay,” he tells her. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“Y- yeah,” she breathes. “Bad dream, everyone. Sorry.” Right when she is starting to feel semi-sane, however, a fresh fright strides into the room. Sam screams again.

The figure waves their palms in surrender and swiftly removes the contorted mask. “I’m sorry!” Cathy says. “It hit midnight a few minutes ago. Thought I should be more like you two and get in the Halloween spirit.”

Jay also has a hand clutching his chest. “Wouldn’t, like, a pair of cat ears be more practical than the mask from Scream?”

“You know what,” Cathy says, “good point. Good point. I appreciate the constructive criticism.” She studies the mask in her hands. Then she offers it to a coworker, who shakes their head and turns away. Her attempts to jettison the mask persist as the Living assembly files out of the room, emergency over.

Over, except for one person.

Distracted by Jay carding a hand through her hair, Sam doesn’t notice at first when a young nurse practitioner approaches them.

“Excuse me,” he says gently. “Hi. I’m Ron.” He goes through the motions of introduction before he gets to the nitty-gritty: “Is it alright if I ask whether this is a common occurrence for you, what just happened?”

“That?” Sam asks. “Oh, that... it was just a minor, er... nightmare. No big deal.” Her inflection betrays her by curling up in a higher, doubtful pitch. She feels exposed under Ron’s gaze, like he can translate her hesitation into the lie that it is. Jay swipes a thumb over her knuckles, and their fingers bunch together more tightly.

“It seemed you were awake, though,” Ron points out, “and still seeing things.”

“Call it a... ‘daymare,’ then,” Sam replies, fresh out of excuses.

“And how often would you say these... ‘daymares’ happen?” Ron asks.

Regrettably, Jay speaks before he thinks. “They happen when they happen, Ron. She’s under a lot of stress right now, and Cathy the Ghostface wannabe didn’t exactly help matters.”

Ron is quiet for a moment, his gaze steady on Sam. Then, with a polite dip of his head, he excuses himself. Yet for some reason, him being out of sight doesn’t make her feel much better.

Not long after, “Candy Shop” is heard again, and Jay steps outside to take the call from his mom. If Sam was placing bets on her mother-in-law’s current whereabouts, she would risk a stack of Benjamins that Champa Arondekar is currently doing a cool eighty miles per hour up I-87 from Secaucus.

When he returns more than a few minutes later, Sam’s eyes immediately pin him down with curiosity. “Is everything okay?” she asks. “Did your mom ask you to explain how to navigate to QVC on her Smart TV again?”

“No, it wasn’t that,” Jay replies, falling back into the chair next to her. “Though, rest unassured, she’s on the road as we speak”— mentally, Sam pumps a victorious fist and hisses, “Knew it!”— “and it did take her a couple of tries to figure out how to hang up the phone through the car. She kept accidentally calling me back. It was like the worst game ever of ‘you hang up, no you hang up,’ except it was more like ‘don’t call back, no please don’t call back.’”

Sam reaches out to rub his arm. “Then what’s the matter?”

His eyes stray beyond her to the door, then flick back to her face. There is a shadow darkening them that sets her on edge. “I don’t wanna stress you out...” he begins reluctantly.

“We’re way past that point, babe.”

“Fair enough.” Jay slaps his hands against his thighs, runs them down to his knees, then speaks through a wince. “So, yeah... that Ron guy tracked me down again and asked me a few more questions. I think they’re pretty concerned about your, uh”— he lowers his voice— “‘daymare.’”

“Why?” Sam asks. “Everything’s completely normal.”

Over her shoulder, Hal and his cronies shake their heads in tandem, like birds on a wire. “The discrimination against ghost-seers is, frankly, disgusting,” he laments.

Sam frowns, sparing a shard of a glance in their direction. “Just a few hours ago, you guys were calling me ‘the conductor of the crazy train.’”

“Sure. But that was before we realized you can do things for us.”

She fills in Jay with a furtive eyebrow lift. “These ghosts are a bit more... deprived than we’re used to. I’m a novelty to them.” Her shoulders drop. “I miss our ghosts, Jay.”

“I know. So do I,” he replies. “But you have to remember, our normal is not the same as—”

“— other people’s normal.” Sam sighs, shifts uncomfortably. “Okay, so what sort of questions did he ask?”

“Well...”

“I only want to check in and make sure we’re all on the same page here. Your wife’s behavior that I witnessed was concerning. Can you tell me if she has had any episodes of a similar nature before?”

Jay gulps, feeling not unlike a cornered animal under Ron’s smart, attentive gaze. “Uh... define ‘before.’ And ‘episodes.’ And... ‘wife’?” A tremulous titter erupts from his throat, and it might as well be a gush of lies by omission. “Look, I’d love to stay and, uh, yak it up with you, but I gotta get back to the room. I need to get this ice chip refill delivered in a timely manner. And I don’t wanna miss seeing my kid be born. You know how it is, Ron. Thanks anyway!”

If he proceeds to sprint down the hallway, Jay hopes he is the only one who notices it. Of course, several doctors, nurses, and ghosts all very much notice it.

“Wow. That might have been the worst reaction you could’ve had,” Sam says.

“It was pretty terrible,” chimes in a ghost who has no perceptible fatal malady, for a change. “Hard to watch. I would have died from embarrassment, but...”

“That Ron guy totally gets in everybody’s business,” says Eliza with the forehead gash. “He’s always like, ‘Oh my god, what’s wrong with you?’ and ‘I’m gonna have you committed,’ and ‘Go to hell, Eliza.’”

“Wait, you knew Ron when you were alive?” Sam asks, a skeptical slant to her brow.

“Oh, no. I made up that last one.” Eliza grins, shrugs. “But it’s fun to insert yourself in the narrative.”

Jay studies his wife’s face for hints. “Anything helpful?”

“Not in the slightest,” Sam replies.

His hand finds its home joined with hers again. “Okay. Here’s a plan. Let’s just... keep our heads down, lie low, not attract any attention, have our baby, and go home to our ghosts.”

“That’s a nice, neat to-do list, Jay,” Sam tells him. “Not sure I can follow it to a T, but...” Her gaze slides sideways, then back to his face. “I’ll do my best to ignore them.”

There’s a scoff from behind her. “Unbelievable!” complains Gertrude, the IV-ripper.

“Not if we don’t ignore you first!” Eliza retorts.

Sam tries not to visibly perk up too much as she recognizes a blessing in disguise. Keeping her eyes firmly on Jay, she resists every urge that tells her to give the ghosts any attention. And holy mackerel, it works.

“Obviously we are way better than she is at ignoring,” Hal proclaims haughtily. “After all, we get ignored all the time!”

“Uh-huh,” says Gertrude, leaning close. “We are ignorant— er, ignoring pros.”

“Wait, guys,” says Eliza, tapping on the others’ arms. “Does, like, talking about her count as ignoring her?”

Hal hums. “Oh, yes, good point. I guess it sort of defeats the purpose.”

“She’s right,” growls Gertrude. “Okay, team. Let’s bust this popsicle stand.” A bony finger jabs into Sam’s peripheral. “Prepare to be ignored so hard, Stacey!”

Sam nearly bites off her own tongue in an effort not to correct the subject of her own insult.

And when she finally hazards a glance over her shoulder a few minutes later, she could cry with relief— the ghosts are gone.

After three more recurrences of “Candy Shop,” seven more pop-up hauntings, and a few more false starts, Lila Eve Arondekar finally enters the world.

She doesn’t cry at first.

Initially, Sam assumes she doesn’t hear her crying because it’s impossible to hear anything over the roaring of her own thoughts. And when the pressure finally subsides, and her eyes crawl all over Jay’s face, where he has a far better vantage point standing at her shoulder, both of his hands knitted tightly with her own— even then, she still doesn’t catch on right away.

Coherence and oxygen and lucidity and all those important things seem to be evading Sam at the moment, but she strings together a few words as best as she can: “How... how is she?”

“Oh.” Jay’s throat bobs. “She’s amazing,” he whispers.

“Really?” she asks. An energy-starved smile stretches her cheeks like putty. “No head of cabbage?”

He chuckles softly. “Not even a head of lettuce, babe.” A few odd glances are tossed their way, and behind the surgical mask he wears, Sam can only see the way Jay’s eyebrows squirm. “Inside joke,” he explains, which technically isn’t a lie.

“Where...” Sam tries to prop herself on her elbows, but finds that they are made of gelatin. Jay untangles one set of fingers from hers so he can place a warm, steady hand on her shoulder. His eyes are far away, looking over her head at activity she can’t see but so desperately needs to see.

“Everything’s fine. She just... needs a minute,” he tells her. All Sam can focus on is the way his mask shifts over his mouth while he speaks, at the wrinkled seam formed where his lips touch. The little depression in the thin blue material, that cleft where he pauses mid-sentence, and she wants to go home.

The nurse on the other side of the bed grabs Sam’s free hand and gives it a comforting squeeze. “You have one of the best neonatal teams in the state right here in this room,” she says. “Your hubby’s right. Everything will be okay.”

Sam’s awareness is so all over the place, it doesn’t even occur to her to cringe at “hubby” as she normally would. (In her humble opinion, her hubby is the only person who is allowed to say “hubby,” and no one else.) “What’s happening?” she croaks. Their vague mannerisms put a bad taste in her mouth.

In a flash, the nurse— Sam swipes through the foggy void of her mind for a name, reaches, reaches, it’s Vera— provides her with that Big Gulp-size, hospital-grade jug of water with the crinkle straw. Sam sucks down several greedy slurps. Only when she’s sated does Vera answer, “The cord was wrapped around baby’s neck, so she’s having a little trouble with her first breaths. We call it a free sliding nuchal cord. Very common. Nothing your baby girl can’t handle.”

“Is she breathing now?” Sam asks. The question unravels from her tongue in a blubbery mess. Her gaze boomerangs between Vera and Jay, who has sat down heavily in the chair by the bed, a rarely-seen cowlick emerging in his ruffled hair. He only has eyes for her now, but there’s this chilling depth to them. She wants to run a comb through Jay’s hair, smooth it down. If only so she can forget this renewed sensitivity to mortality for a minute.

“You know what I think?” Vera continues calmly, and no, Sam doesn’t particularly care what Vera thinks, but she’s too friggin’ nice to admit that. “I think this means your little girl is a fighter, Sam. She’s showing her true colors, and they are golden. She won’t let a slow start slow her down. Just wait...”

But Sam has done so much waiting, she isn’t sure she can wait any more than she already—

A brand-new wail, more wonderful than anything else Sam has ever heard, disrupts the stifling air in the room.

Vera beams. “— and there she is!”

Jay stands so suddenly, he nearly tips over the chair. A blanketed bundle is passed into his arms. He only keeps her to himself for a thudding heartbeat before he gives her to her mother, placing this incredible and tiny and wriggly thing on Sam’s chest.

“Aw,” Sam whimpers, lost in her little face. “She looks pissed off!” Gentle laughter travels around the room. “Oh my god. She kind of looks like Hetty.”

This warrants an eyebrow raise from Jay. He tucks his mask under his chin. “Huh,” he says, placing a weightless hand over the newborn’s chest. “So now I have a point of reference for Hetty’s appearance, aside from her creepy ankle portraits with the eyes that follow me around the room. Cool.”

A broken but spirited guffaw crawls out of Sam’s throat. “The resemblance really is uncanny. Wow.”

Vera smiles. “Who is Hetty? An aunt?”

Sam tips her head. “Yes,” she murmurs. “Yes, she is.”

Dr. Crowe clucks her tongue as she snaps off her gloves. “Actually had an ex named Hetty. Had to get a restraining order. I’m sure yours is much nicer, though.” Debatable, Sam thinks. But we love her all the same.

“Babe,” Jay says, in his own bubble staring at Lila. Awe exists in every particle of him— the way he looks and touches and breathes. “We really made that.”

She looks over at him, blinking hard, and the world is painted in watercolors around them.

Jumping to the wrong track, Jay swiftly amends, “And let me clarify, it was you who did the vast majority of the work—”

Sam interrupts his silly rambles with her lips. Right away he responds in kind— that’s his sixth sense. His kiss sugars her tongue, flutters her heart. His lips are softer than petals surrounded by the irresistible scratch of his stubble. Then they hear fussing, and they part ways so they can look down again.

“Hello, Lila,” Jay whispers. He boops her nose; she offers a mildly disgruntled gurgle in return. “The greatest thing my hands have ever done is hold you. And these hands have rolled some spectacular pasta dough.”

Sam nudges aside the blanket, admiring her daughter’s curled fingers. She has never seen fists so small and so strong. She’s alive. She’s okay. Everything is really okay.

“Happy Halloween, Lila,” Sam tells her. “Your first of many.” And there are so many people I can’t wait for you to meet. Or... for them to meet you? Either way, it’ll be great.

The scariest thing about today, Sam thinks, is how much she loves this fragile being in her arms. She would die for her. It’s terrifying.

A veiled head pokes through the wall. “Blessings to your family. Is there any chance you could ask the patient down the hall to change the television channel? We have grown quite weary of golf—”

“Thanks, Sister Bernadette,” Sam says without taking her eyes off of Lila. “And no.”

Cathy and Vera share the worrying combination of a glance and a frown. Noticing this, Jay blurts, “Ha... ha. Yeah, that was— it’s a kink we have, where Sam calls me ‘Sister Bernadette’... so sorry you’ve been subjected to it.”

Scratch what Sam thought earlier. That was infinitely scarier.

Sometime after a FaceTime call with their invisible loved ones back home, Jay leaving to retrieve a forgotten phone charger, and a truly fantastic nap, Ron steps into the recovery room. He is armed with a clipboard that screams importance and official business and you’re crazy, Sam! The modest list of questions he begins with soon multiply into many more. It wouldn’t take a degree in psychology to recognize that he is psychologically examining her.

“Ron,” Sam says at one point, when the interrogation has nearly run its course, “Have you ever spoken to dead people?”

He peers closely at her. “... no,” Ron replies. “I have not.” His pen taps a relentless rhythm over the inconclusive answers he has scribbled on the phonebook-thick collection of papers. From his perspective, it seems that Sam hears voices in her head. If only it were that cut and dried.

“Okay,” says Sam, entirely serious. “Then neither have I.” Next to her, several ghosts— those who have chosen not to partake in the game of ignorance, that is— shake their heads and grumble their resentment.

Ron sits there for another minute, as if he hopes she will extend another problematic symptom to plug into the silence. Sam is familiar with this tactic— she used it plenty of times as a young reporter trying to wheedle information out of a grumpy New Yorker.

When she gives Ron nothing more to build on his foundation of suspicions, he finally gives up. “Thanks for speaking with me, Sam. Here is my card in case you ever need to talk,” he tells her, rising to his feet. “Congratulations, and best of luck.”

Sam watches him go and quietly accepts his wishes for luck. She has a feeling they might need it.

By the time Jay returns with the requested charger, she has slid into another euphoric nap. About an hour later she wakes to find him slouched in the more comfortable padded chair in the corner, cooing random bits of love to Lila where she’s nestled in his arms. He doesn’t notice Sam has woken at first. She lets him continue not to notice for a while, until at last he looks up and their eyes meet.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re awake.”

“How did it go at the house?” Sam asks. Her words rumble roughly over the gravel in her throat; she reaches for the water.

“The ghosts have been thoroughly updated,” Jay says. “In fact, probably a little too updated. I was there for a while. Maybe two or three whiles. And I may or may not have hit Sonic on the way back.” He nods at a greasy bag that’s been plopped onto the table tray. “Chili cheese tots for my hardworking wife.”

She gives a muted snort, then fixes a longing gaze on the baby.

“You want a turn?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I really, really want a turn.”

On feet made of marshmallows— which, weirdly, have now reverted to being as repulsive as they always were to her— Jay rises from the chair and tiptoes over to the bed. Lila is deposited back into her arms almost as if she never left. Sam holds her tightly, though not too tightly. She doesn’t want to break her.

They exist there in the sweetest silence for some time, not worrying about the outside world or what the clock says. For this precious segment, Sam’s entire universe is contained right here in the space between the three of them.

Then she blinks over at her husband, and they regard each other with eyes as soft as their voices. “Hey, Jay Bae,” she whispers.

He cracks a smile. “Hey, Samcakes,” he answers. “You did something pretty extraordinary today.”

“Understatement of the year,” Sam says through a laugh.

“And all you have to show for it”— his hand snakes along her arm, igniting pleasant shivers up and down her spine— “... is this super stylish bracelet.” His hand’s journey ends at her wrist, where he toys with the plastic hospital-issued ID. “That’s some pretty sick bling, babe.”

“Oh, is that all?” she asks innocently. “I feel like you’re forgetting something.”

“Am I?” Jay puts on an exaggerated frown, rubs at his five-o’clock shadow. (That’s five A.M. and five P.M. shadow.) Then he snaps his fingers and declares, “Now I remember! We also got one of these,” he says. He strokes Lila’s flawless forehead. “They’re pretty nifty, I guess. I like this one.”

“I’ve heard they make a lot of noise,” Sam says, still playing along. “And that they’re super needy almost all of the time.”

“Hm,” says Jay. “It’s almost like... we’ve had practice with this sort of thing.”

“Really? I can’t think of when.”

The two gaze at each other for the longest minute, so close they’re nearly sharing heartbeats. Then they burst into laughter— albeit, restrained laughter, so as not to wake a very fussy baby who has only just settled into a snooze. And when the delirious mirth fades to a lovely dull roar that may always be humming in the background from now on, Sam looks at Jay and says, “You’re a dad now.”

Without missing a beat, he replies, “And you’re a mom.”

“I’m scared,” she admits. She skims her thumb over Lila’s cherub cheek.

The wheezy, worn-thin laugh that escapes his lungs takes her by surprise— and relief. “I am so glad you said that,” Jay whispers back, “because I’m scared too. But you know what?”

Sam’s eyelids flutter rapidly. It’s probably just the fluctuation of hormones, but she can’t tell if she wants to cry, to scream, to laugh, or to sleep for a thousand years like a teenage ghost in an attic. “We got this?” she guesses.

“Yeah,” Jay tells her. “I think we really do. We’re in it together.”

Through thick and thin. For better or for worse. Dead or alive.

One moment of her life that Sam is sure will go down in her personal history book— whether she is sucked off quickly or takes longer to meet her maker— is the moment when she and Jay bring home baby Lila for the first time.

When they open the doors to the house, she expects the ghosts to be all over them like glue, trampling each other as if it’s Double Deal Day at Deal-Mart. All just so one can claim the title of being first to glimpse the newest member of their atypical family. But instead of a gaseous stampede, Sam and Jay are greeted with a little bit of breathing room.

“... is that who I think it is?”

“Are they finally home?”

“It’s about time!”

“Shhhh.”

Showing tremendous restraint, the ghosts— their ghosts— file into the foyer with anxiously clasped hands and timidly tiptoeing feet. For a moment that precedes the big moment, everyone simply stands there, relishing the anticipation that comes right before a long-awaited reunion. While their time apart may not have felt that long to them, it felt like eternity for Sam.

Jay only has time to put down Lila’s baby carrier and the car keys; then the ghosts come forward in a controlled rush, emitting an appropriately wide range of exclamation. Trevor spreads his arms wide as he approaches, leading the pack. “Mazel tov, you guys!” he cheers.

“Everybody,” says Sam, kneeling alongside the baby carrier, “meet Lila.” Then she gets a closer look at their faces. “Hold on, did all of you know her name already?”

Alberta waves her off. “Oh, that doesn’t matter. What matters is how enchanting this young’un is!”

The glaze is gone from Flower’s eyes as she admires Woodstone’s new addition. Thorfinn somehow looks delicate as a fawn laden in his bulky furs and blunt force weapons. Pete is full-on sobbing, and this time he doesn’t bother insisting it’s only allergies. Even Macaroni is here, trying and failing to rub his head on the baby carrier.

Hetty also crouches so she is close to face-level with Lila. An unexpected touch of nerves trembles her voice. In spite of this, she speaks with the gentlest formality and poise which, of course, goes unappreciated by the newborn. “Greetings, child,” she says. “My name is Hetty Woodstone. I am your... great-great-great-great-great grand-ghost.”

Behind her, Sasappis shakes his head and remarks, “So undeserving of so many greats.”

A swift whack delivered to his shin from the great-great-great-great-great grand-ghost makes him regret that assessment.

“And that is exactly not the kind of example we want to be setting for her,” says Sam.

“Booo, Sam,” Trevor protests. “It’s not like the kid was watching! Her eyes aren’t even open.”

“And so what if they were? There is absolutely nothing wrong with committing some light corporal punishment,” Hetty concurs. “Or, wait— I’m meant to be better now. There is... nothing wrong with viewing some light corporal punishment. There.” And she grins, all too proud of her improvement on personal morals.

Trevor appears to recognize the weight behind his argument then, and wisely shuts up, his hands sliding into the invisible pockets of his imaginary pants.

Jay frowns thoughtfully. “I gotta ask, does it really matter how the ghosts behave? I mean, it’s not like Lila will be able to see them too, right?” He laughs. The others don’t. He stops laughing. “... right?”

“Well...” Sam lifts one shoulder.

“Come on,” Jay complains. “Is there seriously a chance I will still be the only human in this family—”

“Only human?” Isaac interjects dubiously. “We certainly are not aliens.”

“— who can’t speak to ghosts?”

“Feel free to fall down the stairs anytime, my dude,” Trevor tells him.

“We’ll even give you a little push!” Pete says pleasantly.

“Yeah, because purposely taking a tumble down the stairs worked out so well for poor Eric,” Sas points out.

Trevor shrugs. “Bro was missing a piece of the puzzle. He didn’t trip over my vase, to start. And I bet if we recreated Sam’s accident down to the finest detail, Eric would currently be the world’s latest, semi-greatest, ghost-seeing pushover.”

“Yeah, or he’d be here permanently, because he’d be dead,” Alberta says.

Sam could melt into a puddle of sap right where she stands. God, she missed these deceased dorks so much. Can she really be blamed for being such a homebody?

She can’t wait to write all this down someday.

Finally, Sam recalls her sense of mercy and clues in Jay. “You remember when Mark’s son visited here?” she asks him.

Realization oozes onto Jay’s features in a crawl, then in a sprint. “Okay, but— how common is it for kids to see ghosts?”

“Pretty common, actually,” Sas answers, which Sam reiterates to Jay. “But they always grow out of it. Odds are, she’ll only share Sam’s ability until she’s about five at the oldest.” A pondering look lingers on his face, though, that gives Sam pause.

“Thor fondly remember playing ‘Ring Around Rosie’ with small weans in time before landships had motor. Children always scream and run when it was Thor’s turn to fall down.”

“Man, I gotta add this to my ghost lore,” Jay remarks. He produces his phone from his pocket and types expeditiously. “Fact number six hundred and sixty-five... kids... see... ghosts... some... times.”

“So, with that in mind,” Sam concludes, “can we please keep the smacking and the swearing to a minimum? At least while she’s in the room.”

“Ugh,” Hetty groans. “Fine, Samantha. Strip away all the jollification from our existence.” She quiets then, still knelt on the floor beside the baby. Sam can’t think of a time when Hetty has ever been the first volunteer for the uncouth act of sitting on the “filthy” floor. “But I must ask, what are you meant to do with these, then?”

Sam blinks at her. “With— what do you do with a baby?”

“Well, yes.” Hetty’s eyes stay steadfast on Lila; Sam will never, ever, tell her how endearing she looks while doing that. Probably. “What good are children for, aside from being heirs and workers?”

“You... love them,” Sam answers softly. “You try to give them the best life you can. Encourage them to be a better person than their parents.”

“You got it, Sam,” Pete sniffles.

“Hmm,” says Hetty. “Sounds exceptionally boring. And yet my heart is being touched in all of the shadowy, cobwebbed places.”

Sam grins. “Don’t worry. That’s normal.”

The polite peace offering the ghosts had put forward turns out to be a Trojan horse, however, because as soon as Sam’s back is turned to hang up her coat, an explosion of noise sets off like a bomb behind her.

“Lila! Wake up, Lila!”

“Hey, kid, look up here!”

“La, la, baby noises, goo-goo ga-ga—”

Sam whirls around. “Guys,” she snaps. “What are you doing?”

Trevor looks down, kicks an invisible pebble under his foot. “If we say ‘nothing,’ will you accept that you’re just hearing things?”

“After the experience I had at the hospital, I’m not taking any chances with that,” Sam replies. “Could you all wait a while before trying to get her attention? Like, six months, maybe?”

The ghosts groan; Jay nods in agreement despite missing some of the context. “She had such a good nap in the car on the way home, and we really wanna extend that as long as we possibly can.”

“That’s fair,” Pete admits. He reminds the others, “Once you hear this one start crying for the first time, you’ll all be wishing to have this boring silence back.”

Just then, there’s a faint gurgle from below. All eyes flash to the carrier, but— nothing. Lila is still crawling through her indubitably darling baby dreams.

“Cheese and crackers!” Pete gasps anyway. “She heard me! I know she did! She twitched!”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Pete,” Sam argues. “She’s probably just picking up on my stress, and exhaustion. And Jay’s stress and exhaustion. And—”

50 Cent interrupts her redundant string of woes.

“Hold that thought, babe,” says Jay. He holds his phone up to his ear and goes, “Yello?” like a true dad, making Pete burst with pride. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. And there’s no putting this off?” His eyes catch on Sam’s, and she knows what this is about. “Alright. See you soon.” He ends the call and announces, “Mom and Bela are on their way over from the hotel.”

He bends to pick up Lila’s carrier. Together, they make their way up the stairs with the slowest, most vigilant steps they have ever taken in their lives.

“Should we be offended that Champa doesn’t want to stay here with us again?” Sam wonders.

“We could,” Jay says. “Or we could just be grateful that she isn’t.” They share a chuckle before he adds, “Plus, you remember what she said about last time. The bathroom sink faucet kept turning on spontaneously, and a pipe in her ceiling mysteriously offed itself and dripped onto her bed. And instead of waking us up so we could blame the ghost cat, as one does, she chose to sleep in the bathtub and basically woke up the next morning like the dude in Saw.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Sam replies, tongue-in-cheek, “I guess I can understand her reasoning.”

“It smells foul in here,” Champa complains. She isn’t wrong, either. “Can someone crack a window?”

“Sorry about that, Ma. I boiled some cauliflower earlier,” Jay fibs, going to crack a window as requested. Afraid that won’t be much help, Sam thinks. Technically they could tell the truth and pin it on a stinky ghost, but sometimes it’s just easier to lie to people.

Lounging spread-eagle on the couch next to an unwitting Champa, Nancy comments, “What kind of sick freak boils cauliflower? You’re supposed to look at flowers, or throw ‘em on corpses. You don’t eat ‘em. Duh.”

“There is no cauliflower,” Isaac hisses. “The smell is you, Nancy. For once, the smell is not me. It is you. See, farts are not always my thing!”

Nigel pats his arm. “You said it, chap. Sometimes your thing is… dinosaurs.” Isaac gives him an almost intimidating staredown for that one.

Nancy, naturally, is still stuck on the smell thing. “Aw, yeah. My good ol’ earthy musk. Thanks for the shout-out, Isaac. You want a hit? Or a dab?”

He leans away from Nancy’s proffered arm (armpit included at no extra charge) in an abrupt jerk, nearly knocking over Flower like a bowling pin in the process. “No. No. No, thank you.”

Nancy shrugs, resting her arm over the back of the sofa. “Suit yourself,” she says. “This is fine quality substance. Eau de moi. If I could’ve bottled this stuff when I was a Living, I’d have been sitting on a house just like this, all on my own.”

“You know, people are into weird stuff. I bet if you really tried,” Trevor muses to an intrigued Sas and Thor, “you could totally bottle sweat and sell it. Has anyone ever tried that? Sam?” When she ignores him, he mutters, “Fine, guess I can google it. Gonna take me an hour, but...”

“But,” Hetty says, “I will google your brains if you don’t shut those flapping lips of yours, Trevor.” This sort of backfires, as Trevor smirks and wiggles his brows in response.

“Okay!” Isaac shouts, palms raised. “I am out of here.” He leaves the room dramatically, bursting through the wall rather than using the open doorway right next to it. Nigel mouths a straitlaced apology and chases after his husband.

Of course, Jay and his mother have the misfortune of missing out on that illuminating conversation. Instead, Champa is focused on her granddaughter, who is snuggled quite comfortably in her arms.

“She’s beautiful, Jayanth,” she murmurs. Her eyes lift to Sam, imparting praise and joy that need not be spoken. Sam’s heart quivers around its next beat.

Pete frowns. “Who’s ‘Jayanth’?”

An ominous rumbling of murmurs is initiated, just seismic enough to tip a solid three on the ghostometer in Sam’s head. She rakes her gaze over them and subtly signals quit it by drawing her finger across her throat. (Good thing Crash isn’t in the room to see that move.)

“She really is, isn’t she?” Jay’s cheeks are practically swollen, he’s been smiling so much lately. “And best of all, no head of cabbage.”

Thor’s roaring laughter is sudden and harsh, paired with an awkward clap. “Ha! Good one. Is hilarious joke, made by small man.”

Bela wanders back into the room from her raid of the fridge leftovers; she’s currently helping herself to the last of Jay’s semi-finely-aged pad see ew from three days ago. “Do I wanna know what that’s referencing?” she asks, fork scraping the bottom of the Tupperware container.

“No,” Jay responds. “No, you do not. Also, did you overlook the fancy pita chips and hummus tray I set out? Emphasis on the fancy. And the hummus. It’s really good hummus.”

Bela shrugs, sidestepping the latter portion of his statement. “I sorta do want to know, though.” Despite their mother obviously not listening, she lowers her voice to a whisper and adds, “You can tell me later. I wanna be in on the ghost loop.”

After a few minutes, Sam ducks into the kitchen to feed a grumbling Lila. Most of the ghosts follow her as usual, popping through the wall like a motley crew of weasels. Thankfully this happens before Sam uncovers herself. And now she recognizes a new boundary that will have to be drawn before it is crossed. Drawn firmly, that is. With a permanent marker. Maybe even with tattoo ink, while she’s at it.

Sam freezes. The ghosts stare back, some less ashamed than others. Then she breaks the stalemate and says, “Too much to ask for some privacy here?”

Trevor flicks his fingers, glances slyly at the ceiling. “Don’t let us stop you.”

“This is the kitchen,” Hetty says. “It is a common space, is it not?”

“Plus we have questions,” Alberta adds. “Since when is Jay not just ‘Jay’?”

“And why were we not privy to this information?” demands Hetty.

“I don’t know, because nobody ever asked?” Sam sighs and rises from her chair. At her chest, Lila voices her own muffled babble of irritation. “‘Jay’ is short for ‘Jayanth.’ Just like how ‘Sam’ is short for—”

“Samantha!” Hetty whines. “Why are you leaving?”

Sam has already scurried out of the room, Lila tucked into her chest, because she needs to go feed her baby, damn it. Sam whisper-yells over her shoulder: “None of you follow me. This is a big enough house for all of us!”

“When we’re bored,” Sas yells after her, “it really isn’t.”

Jay shuffles into their bedroom on silent socked feet. He painstakingly closes the creaky door, only to turn around and find Sam watching him, her eyes twinkling with amusem*nt.

“You’re awake,” he whispers. “How?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” she says. “Must be some residual adrenaline.” She pulls back the covers, and he climbs in so they can cuddle close together. “Is she finally down?”

“Yeah.” Jay lets his lungs deflate gradually as he settles in, his face buried in her hair. Sam also eases out a long exhale, her forehead pressed to his chest. She never feels better than she does when they lay like this, threaded together like stitches in a sweater. Adventure is awesome and all, but she also looks forward to a lifetime of falling into the same grooves and patterns and comforts with him. “And while I was sitting there rocking her,” Jay adds, “I was trying to think of nicknames.”

Sam leans back to give him a funny look. “Why?”

“The question is why not, babe. Nicknames are fun! Ones that’ll make her laugh now, and that’ll embarrass her as a teenager.” He sighs lightly. “But I couldn’t think of anything. She’s just Lila. It’s perfect for her.”

“Don’t worry, I think we’ll have plenty of time to flex our creative muscles and come up with fun nicknames,” she tells him. And they will— Lila will grow up, fast but not too fast. They’ll watch her personality unravel. Idly, Sam wonders what her favorite flavor of ice cream will be. What her best subject in school will be. What—

“What will she think of the ghosts?”

Jay takes a minute to craft his answer. He says, “I feel like it’s impossible to know that. She’s gonna have a unique experience, though, being raised in a place like this. She’ll be around a lot of quirkiness. But I’ve grown to love it. So have you. And... with our help, the best we can hope for is that Lila will also fall in love with it.”

“I guess there’s always a chance she’ll be looking for an escape hatch by the time she hits thirteen or so,” Sam says, “conventional household or not.”

“Hey, by all accounts visible to the naked eye, we”— Jay’s sentence is broken by a massive yawn, which drags Sam into deeper drowsiness herself— “are conventional. But we’ll let her escape, within reason. And we won’t employ her at the ripe old age of nine like Hetty would. How’s that for normal?”

“Hold on, I never said we could be ‘normal,’” Sam murmurs, punctuating her reply with a playful snort. She is on the cusp of much-needed unconsciousness when one final worry reanimates to nag at her brain. With strands of sleep spliced in her voice, she asks, “What if she doesn’t believe me?”

This wakes Jay up again. He scoots back so he can get a better look at her face. “Believe your—”

“— power. Ability. Not-a-curse. Gift. Whatever you call it.” Pause. “What if she thinks I’m... crazy?”

“She won’t,” Jay says immediately.

“But we don’t know that.”

“Okay,” he says. “What we do know is the kind of environment she’ll grow up in. How we’ll raise her. We’ve agreed on that much. We’ll just... have to let it play out from there. But I think we’re doing alright so far, don’t you?”

Sam is quiet for a while. She watches his eyes slip shut, and thinks back to how the three-day saga of Lila’s arrival began, with her sitting here and watching him sleep. “Yeah,” she replies at length. “I do.”

Eyes still closed, Jay snakes one arm out from under the sheets and presents his fist to her, an awkward but charming maneuver in the tight space between them. “Day one, done.”

She accepts his fist-bump with a gentle tap of their knuckles. “Done,” she whispers. Then— “I kind of want to go in and check on her. Just to make sure she’s okay.”

With a grunt, Jay frees his other hand, and it flops drowsily onto the nightstand. “Mm. Baby monitor, babe. Check on her and”— enormous yawn— “mm’fine.”

“You’re right,” Sam admits, translating his garbled sleep-speak with ease. “She’s only right next door. And it’s not like the house is haunted or anything.”

(Little do they know, Lila currently has several ghost guards surrounding her crib. All standing silent, just in case.)

An utterly drained smirk forms on Jay’s face. With her hand captured in his, he pulls her knuckles to his lips and plants a sloppy kiss on them. “Love you,” he says.

“Love you,” she says.

And then he’s asleep. For a few minutes, Sam lays there and imagines what day two and all the days after that will bring.

Then she falls asleep, too. If he were to walk in her dreams tonight, Sas would be thoroughly mind-numbed into boredom— because this time, Sam’s dreams are nothing but sweet.

Chapter 10: para-thorfinn

Chapter Text

Thorfinn likes being on baby duty. To him, it is the greatest luxury.

Lila does not do much yet, but she is puny and excessively squishable— though Thor, distressingly, cannot squish her cheeks with his own hands— and she is almost as adorable as Björn was when he slaughtered his first wolverine at six months old. Most Viking infants were issued baby-sized spears after the passing of twelve moons since their birth, but of course Thor’s son had been special.

“You know, Lila doesn’t always need a babysitter around, Thor,” Sam points out one day when the baby being sat is about a month old. “I’m right here looking after her.”

It is nearing Christmas, and decorations have been up at Woodstone for a ridiculously long time already— meaning, since less than a week after Halloween ended. Still, Sam has found yet a few more red and gold ribbons to twist around the handsome staircase railing.

Even without her unbridled adornment of the house, however, the holiday spirit would be felt here. Snow is frosted in a thick blanket outside, burying Sam and Jay’s landship under a smooth cap of white. Inside, the fireplace crackles and roars. All that is missing, Thor thinks, are barrels of mead and layers of lynx skins and a good orgy to get them properly warmed up.

“Thor do much more than sit on baby,” he declares from where he is seated on the rug next to Lila’s rocker. “Is most precious responsibility to watch over young. Thor honor this responsibility with life.” He hesitates, waves away the inaccuracy with one hand. “Is really death that Thor honor with, but life sound more powerful.”

“Aw. That’s cute, I guess,” Sam says. Her eyes flicker over Thor and Lila for a moment more; a tiny grin curls up one end of her mouth.

“It’s a little weird,” Sasappis says as he passes through.

“But cute!” Sam affirms. “I mean, she does keep most of you occupied so that you’re not peeking over my shoulder and/or through the wall while I’m wrapping your Christmas presents.”

“Oh, thanks for reminding me. Now I’m gonna go smell my present and see if it’s that Italian seasoning blend I asked for.”

Shaking her head, Sam returns to her self-inflicted task of struggling to attach a fresh-cut pine bough along the ceiling.

Thor’s comrades that live in the magic window— Jen and Mike from Houses with History on HGTV— would have a field day chastising Sam for her decorating abuse. Double-sided tape and Command hooks on the crown moulding? For shame.

“Outta the way, Thor,” Alberta’s voice cuts in.

He grumbles but rises from the floor, his eyes still fixed on Lila the entire time as if she might make a run for it on those chubby legs. The ghosts take turns watching her throughout the day, and Thor always drags his feet when the next shift rolls around.

Sure, Sasappis may use his allotted time to tell Lila stories packed with symbolism— slightly diluted symbolism, of course, due to her still being a newborn and all. And yes, Isaac may spend his designated time urging her to dedicate her future studies to paleontology— Lila is, at this stage, still too much of a blob to do anything besides blink at his dinosaur pop-up book. But Thor’s time with her is by far the most enriching. He—

“Is it Auntie Alberta time? Yes, it is! Hi, cutie pie,” Alberta coos, interrupting Thor’s brooding. She slots herself into place right where he had just sat, gushing over a baby who is, indeed, very cute, but is also very asleep and very unable to absorb the copious compliments.

“I didn’t think it would be possible for anybody to love Lila more than Jay and I do, but sometimes I wonder,” Sam remarks, only half-serious. She climbs down the stairs to scrutinize her holiday-ification of the entryway.

“Fledgling may not speak or move much, but her mere existence is what warms heart of Thor most,” he replies. And it is the truth— if Sam and Jay are the ghosts’ entire world, then it only makes sense that Lila is part of that world now, too.

“I just can’t get over those roly-poly lil’ cheeks!” Alberta exclaims. “Ugh, I wish I could pinch ‘em. We all knew you two would make a cute baby, but this one’s in a whole other realm beyond cute.”

As if she suddenly can understand the praise, Lila rouses with a tiny squeak that anyone not tuned in to her mannerisms would miss. But Thor hears it. He will always hear her.

Sasappis comes back in and points up at a gap in the evergreen border. “You missed a spot,” he tells Sam.

Her chin drops to her chest. “Damn it.”

“Oh, there you are!”

Flower slips into the dark room soft as a whisper, eyes wide as she works her way with caution across the rug, as if she could actually make the aged floorboards creak. She curls into Thor’s side by instinct; he greets her with an affectionate grunt and side embrace, his burly arm dwarfing her narrow shoulders. Normally they would both allow his hand to wander further south, to parts that are unknown to others but extremely known to Thor... yet doing that in front of a baby just feels wrong, so there will be no explore-and-conquer for his hand this time.

“I thought your shift for Lila-palooza ended hours ago,” she says.

“Yes,” answers Thor, “but then Trevor never show up, so here Thor stay.”

He looks down at Lila’s tiny form in her crib. When his own gaze is so gentle and fond like this, he can’t help but be reminded of the time he possessed Sam. How when he looked down at his hands and saw hers instead— compact and clean, soft and forgiving— what he felt was not revulsion but envy, because he knew those hands would only be his for a short time. Maybe Thor is not so aversive to these syrupy sweet feelings, after all eternity. He is in love with a hippie, it should be said.

He explains, “Fledgling cannot be alone. Must be shielded at”— a fearsome yawn splits his maw— “all costs.”

“But Thor-bear, you’re exhausted,” Flower protests. Her words conduct a careful, lightweight dance across her tongue in accordance with the room’s drowsy atmosphere. “Look at you. You can barely hold your head up. Like me that time I sat the wrong way in a Sacco chair in Mama Cass’s cousin’s garage for fifteen hours.”

Thor would ask to hear that story, but he has already heard it at least twice for every hour Flower spent upside-down and stoned in Mama Cass’s cousin’s chair made of beans. So instead he inhales the heady scent of patchouli intertwined in her hair— a scent that is runner-up only to wolf urine, fresh-caught cod, and cod that has been out in the sun for a week. Then he narrows his eyes and ruminates majestically.

“Something’s bugging you, man,” Flower murmurs. She knows him better than she knows herself— truly. It never takes long for her to see through his majestic rumination. “What is it?”

He only hesitates for a moment— perhaps half a moment, if measured in ghost years. “Flower, this something only you can know. Is not intrepid, or... manly secret, but Thor feel need to purge feelings.” Drawing in a heavy breath, he reveals, “Thor want to make up for lost time with own son. So many years of Björn’s life missed. Thor cannot repeat mistake with offspring of Sam and Jay.”

“Aw,” says Flower. “I think that’s sweet, Thor.” She stands on her toes to peck— well, his shoulder is about as high as she can reach. So, she pecks his shoulder.

He swirls more bitter into the sweet by adding, “When alone, fledgling lies vulnerable to attack, from predator such as wolf or—” Thor stops himself from saying bear, despite the sore fact that Flower used the naughty word herself not five minutes ago. “— puffin,” he improvises. “But when Thor here, no harm can befall her.”

Flower frowns up at him. “A puffin attack? Really?”

“Crafty birds. Especially prone to homicide this time of year,” Thor lies. “Will use beak to rip limb from limb, then unspool intestine from—”

“Okay,” she cuts in, giving his arm a patient pat. “I gotcha, babe.”

Thor gazes gently at her, appreciative of her unquestioning acceptance. A Viking woman would have cast him out to sea for revealing sensitivity like that. But with Flower, there isn’t even a trace of a problem. She makes him feel like he has a heartbeat again. Thor can still hear the patronizing remarks of Sas when he first found out about them being an item: You and Flower? That’s like if the world’s cheesiest Halloween costumes got together.

“Come on,” she whispers, tugging on his arm, urging him to rest on the floor next to the crib. “We’ll watch over her together.”

If he had to, Thor would wait for Flower for another thousand years.

— provided that he would still be permitted to take part in all the same sexual exploits, of course. Those build character.

When Thorfinn sets his mind to bonding with his son, nothing gets in his way.

... most of the time.

Wednesday afternoons are the slot he and Björn have set aside for their weekly chat. All Thor requests from his housemates is moderate silence, and total solitude in the room where he shouts out the window— never mind that everybody can hear what he says regardless, because he is shouting out the window. If anyone, or anything, dares to disrupt them, anger will inevitably boil Thor’s innards into a bitter, mushy stew, and he will be inclined to force-feed it to the wretched interruptor. Well, in imagination, at least.

But when it’s the newest member of the Woodstone family who interrupts, Thor may have to change his tune.

“Father,” Björn bellows one frosty Wednesday afternoon in February, “what is the source of that racket? It covers your voice, and is very bothersome!”

“Thor apologize!” Thor yells back, hands cupped around his mouth. “Source of racket is new fledgling in house. She been colicky all day, and no amount of burping helps. Thor suggest placing child in basket with badger, and Hetty suggest eyedropper of alcohol, but Sam and Jay do not take ghosts’ advice!”

There is a prolonged pause before Björn returns with, “What?”

“Thor said, baby colicky, burping no help—”

“No, I hear what you say, Father, but... I do not understand.”

“What does Björn not understand?”

“Why you care so much!” Björn responds.

Thor is stumped on how to answer, which is just as well, because Lila’s crying is only getting louder. And louder. Almost as if she is in the same—

“I’m sorry, Thor. This was the closest room to duck into,” Sam says. She slips inside and shuts the door behind her. An irritable Lila bounces in her arms, and the infant’s back is being rubbed, yet the effort does little good. Should have procured badger for this, Thor thinks.

“Now is not best time,” he begins, but Lila dissolves his sentence with a particularly pitiful whimper. All at once Thor gives up the ghost and turns away from the window, stomping over to them. “What ails the fledgling?”

Sam switches to a smoother rocking motion. Lila quiets, but doesn’t lose the twisted expression that mars her tiny features. How strange, Thor notices— she resembles a pissed-off Hetty when she was about that age. He remembers.

“I think she wants her dad,” Sam sighs. “Jay’s arms are a certified baby hammock. But he’s still at the restaurant for another couple of hours.” She swipes a featherlight hand over the mat of dark hair on Lila’s head; Lila’s chin trembles accordingly, but for now she gives no voice to her evident displeasure. “I don’t know what it is,” Sam continues in a voice like choppy waters. “It’s like she doesn’t agree with the energy in a room, or something. This is the sixth room I’ve tried. She didn’t like her room. She didn’t like our room. I can’t...”

“Is not energy of room,” Thor points out softly. “Is energy of Sam.”

“I know. You’re right.” Sam shakes her head. She blinks hard to ward off tears, in spite of the tracks already painted on her cheeks. “Sometimes I think,” she whispers, eyes flashing to and away from Thor’s face with pronounced shame, “she’s sick of me after spending nine months in close quarters together.” An ensuing sniffle turns into a laugh, or maybe it is the other way around. “Isn’t that ridiculous?”

“Is not ridiculous you feel this way. But is also not true,” Thor tells her. “Babies can be... difficult. Expected that you harbor frustration. Here, allow Thor...” He trails off, only realizing when his hands are already outstretched to take the baby. “Ah. Right.” Bowing his head, he lowers his arms. “Thor would hold fledgling if possible.”

Now Sam lets her tears freefall. “Of course,” she murmurs. “I know you would, Thor.”

In a snap like a sail splitting, the tentative wave of silence in the room breaks, and Lila’s pitchy concert starts up again. “There is always badger method,” Thor reminds Sam.

“Not doing that, but thanks,” she replies right as Trevor’s voice booms from elsewhere in the house: “Can you turn that baby off?”

Sam’s face crumples in a manner not unlike her daughter’s. She transfers Lila to a new configuration again, tucking her in a burping position against her chest. “Okay, I’m desperate,” she announces. “Think, Thor. Is there any, um, modern equivalent to the badger-in-a-hole thing?”

“Badger in basket,” Thor corrects. “And, erm...” He mulls it over for a minute, then comes up empty-handed to ask, “Define ‘modern.’”

Sam blinks at him with round eyes, one hand cupping the back of Lila’s squirming head. “Not illegal. Not dangerous. Not”— she’s cut off by another uproarious wail, and switches Lila to her other shoulder— “morally questionable in any shape or form?”

“Badger is really not so bad,” Thor insists. “Is only to instill sense of fear. Would not make you bad mother, Thor promise. Have seen much worse mothers before. Like Hetty. And mother of Hetty. And grandmother of Hetty—”

“Right, I don’t think the Woodstones on this property date back that far—”

Another cry crowds the room, this time from across the way. “Father!” Björn shouts. “Is everything alright?”

“Aw, we really did interrupt you,” Sam says amid a wince. “I’ll just go take her to—”

“Have no worry. Thor blow son every Wednesday. Was almost finished.”

Something short circuits. With one hand on the door, Sam nearly drops the baby. “I’m sorry, you... what?” she asks, spinning back to him.

Puzzled, Thor mimics her frown. “Is what Thor call this communication between kingdoms,” he explains, indicating the window. “Thor blow voice over to Fartsbys’. Björn blow Thor back.”

Sam opens her mouth, but Trevor’s head pops through the door right on time for a cheeky jab. “You huge hunky idiot, they’re called the Farnsbys,” he says. “If they were the Fartsbys, that’s where Isaac would live. Up top!” He offers Sam a high-five which she does not reciprocate.

“Heard that!” Isaac’s voice, pinched by disdain, sounds from somewhere nearby.

“Hey, me too. Cool beans!” giggles Flower from somewhere in the walls.

Through all this, Lila’s whimpering persists, though her most clamorous cries have subsided.

“Is there a single door in this house without one of you listening on the other side of it?” Sam wonders. She swings open said door so that Trevor is no longer a disembodied head à la Crash. This leads Thor to ponder if there is more of Crash in his head, or in his body. One might conclude that Crash is mainly in his head, yet there is more to his body than to his head... hmm. One might also imagine that a thousand years is enough time to think everything there is to think, but alas, new questions always arise.

Thor is torn away from massaging his beard by Björn again: “Father!”

Thor twists around to dismiss him, one hand held in a C shape over his mouth to project his reply: “Thor will finish blowing you soon, son!”

Then it happens. Swift and harsh as a lightning flash— a hilarious comparison, very amusing— Thor is launched back in time to, well, his lifetime. Smoke clogs his nostrils, and fish gut residue fills the space below his fingernails. Under the shade of a tent in their encampment, he sees his juvenile son, as big as Thor ever got to see him when he was alive. Baby Björn gazes out mournfully into the wild and wooly forest beyond the camp and wails, “Father!” All too soon and not soon enough, the vision vanishes from view.

How could he? How could he have abandoned his baby boy? He vows, again, never to let it happen again, again. Again?

When Thor blinks back to awareness in the current century, he returns at the precise moment Sam is saying, “I really shouldn’t be surprised by these double entendres anymore.”

“Double entendres are such a double-edged sword,” Trevor laments. His suppressed laughter shows only through a devious twinkle in his eye. “Because you wanna explain it to them, but at the same time you don’t.”

“Yeah,” Sam replies. “I really don’t.”

“Father!” Björn shouts once more. This time Thor bolts toward his voice, throwing himself at the window like he’s planning to jump from it— again.

“Yes, son?”

“I have suggestion for your Livings!”

Thor peeks over his shoulder at Sam, who perks up upon hearing this. “You ever think it’s all their yelling that’s making Lila cry?” Trevor asks, but she ignores him and signals to Thor for more information. In her arms, Lila fidgets and fusses.

Thor takes in a great, greedy “gulp” of air to inflate his lungs, then goes, “What is it, Björn?”

“Take child in car, Father! I have witnessed this before. Movement will soothe child to sleep!”

Thor squints as he tries to decode the message. “Why do you use this word ‘car,’ son? I do not—”

“That’s the ticket!” Sam interrupts. “I’ll take Lila on a car ride. Tell Björn I said thanks!” With that, she scurries out of the room, leaving Trevor to swagger up next to Thor at the window.

“So,” he says casually. “Björn have any wild stories from his bachelor days? I bet Viking ragers were wi-i-ild.”

“Were all mead and orgy,” Thor growls. “Why not ask Thor this question? Was also Viking bachelor at one point.”

“Yeah, but.” Trevor shrugs. “You’re boring, bro. You were friends with a squirrel. ‘Nuff said.” He leans out of the window and hollers, “Björn! You gotta spill, man. Was ringing in 900 CE da bomb, or what?”

A pause. Then Björn responds with the closest to a confused mutter that can be expressed in a shout: “... what?”

“We’re home!” Sam whisper-yells. She comes through the front door first, Jay close behind her.

Enough beats of silence follow to spur a dubious remark from Jay. “Yeah, we’re home. Is anybody else, though?” He shades his eyes. “Also, is it just me, or are all of the lights on in the house?”

Thor had been the first to hear their return just from the slightest whine of hinges, and the creaky give of the floor under their feet. It is impossible for anyone who is alive and boasts solid weight to sneak around this house. After habitating here as long as Thor has— watching the bricks be laid then lashed by decades of weather, watching the once-new wallpaper peel, and the once-sturdy floorboards soften with age— he is now fluent in Woodstone noises.

Before he can make his presence known in the foyer, however, a physical body whizzes past him with a firm beeline drawn to the exit.

“Oh, hi, Bridget!” Sam says, taking off her coat. “There you are. How was—”

Without so much as a hair’s breadth between the cutoff of Sam’s question and the beginning of her interruption, Bridget answers briskly, “Little Lila is adorable, well-tempered, perfect in every way. She’s safely asleep upstairs in her room.” To demonstrate this, she holds up the baby monitor, which has a small screen displaying a grainy image of Lila in her crib. Thor shies away from the device; its boxy shape reminds him of that nefarious ghost trap.

Jay dips his head, holds out a resigned hand. “But...?”

Bridget snatches his suggested word with the attitude of someone picking a booger that is not their own. “But,” she snaps, setting down the monitor on the front desk with a curt smack. “Your house? It is not well-behaved. It is not well-intentioned. It is diabolical. It is offensive. I thought I knew what I was signing up for, but this is something else. Your house would spit on me, kick my cat, and call me late to dinner even if I showed up an hour early. Respectfully, your house sucks more than a wet vac. Yet your daughter is a total angel! Which is interesting, considering where she lives. Really, there should be studies done on it.”

“Should I even ask what happened?” Sam wonders, eyes sliding to Thor in the background. And to the ghost cat licking himself on the floor. Macaroni does, admittedly, have the markings of a diabolical cat who would gladly kick another, hypothetical, cat. Thor has met moose that were more cuddly than that feline.

“Don’t ask, babe,” Jay mutters under his breath, tapping through his phone, “because we don’t have the answers.” Louder, he states, “Bridget, thank you so much. I am adding another hundred and Venmo-ing that to you right... now.”

With another huff that clearly puts a period on her one-time stint as the Arondekars’ babysitter, Bridget scoops up her belongings and hurries out— though not before making sure the Venmo has gone through, of course.

The second the door is closed, Sam and Jay accidentally make twins out of themselves. Both put their hands on their hips and sketch scowls onto their faces.

“Oh, ghosts!” Jay says in a false pleasant tone. “What did you do?”

One by one, the others file out of the room behind Thor.

“Some light tormenting, perhaps,” Isaac answers first.

“What you might call ‘Diet Haunting,’” Pete says, “or ‘Haunting Lite.’”

“Did you torment her on purpose because you were bored or jealous?” Sam asks.

“We really liked that babysitter!” Jay mourns. “You know how hard it is to find a 4.5 star or above who is willing to drive all the way out here? I mean, how? None of you are even that powerful! I’m sorry, but if haunting were an exam, you guys would skate by with a C- at best.”

As if to disprove his point, Thor lifts one mighty hand and performs a little tête-à-tête with a nearby sconce. Jay’s shoulders hunch defensively.

“I’ll give you all one chance to answer my question honestly,” Sam says, “or else all TV remotes and the iPad will go in a locked drawer for a week”— her eyes catch Jay’s— “scratch that, a month.”

“You hear that?” Jay piles on to the threat. “Our laptops will remain closed, suckers, like we’re stowing ‘em on a plane!”

Hetty rolls her eyes. “Samantha, don’t you know time holds little meaning to us? Month, schmonth. We cannot count. For all we know, a month could be a minute!”

Flower raises a scholarly index finger. “Or a minute a month!”

Contrary to them, Isaac gasps. “A month?” he demands. “Egad, they really are becoming formidable parents before our eyes.”

“Mm, I wouldn’t be so sure,” says Sas. “Just last week, I saw Sam apologize to a fly before swatting it to death.”

“I didn’t swat it to death, actually,” Sam mumbles, shifting her weight. “I missed.”

“Look, I’ll be real with you, Sam,” Alberta pipes up. “We just don’t understand why you gotta invite a total stranger to watch your baby!”

Flower nods in avid agreement. “I used to babysit the neighborhood kids when I was a teenager. A house only burned down on my watch once!” She thinks twice. “And there was one runaway guinea pig. But otherwise, I did great!”

“Not helping our case, Flower,” Alberta says.

Pete frowns. “Did you ever find the guinea pig?”

“Oh, yes! The golden retriever next door caught it,” Flower replies. Her grin evens out into a mild frown and head shake. “It retrieved, but we did not receive.”

Pete sighs. “Yeah, that tracks. To be fair, in those days you were considered a grade A babysitter if you kept kids from pogo-sticking in front of a moving car. Or, worse, hitchhiking to Buffalo.”

“Babe,” Jay says tightly. “What’s going on here?”

“Um, somehow it has evolved into pogo sticks and guinea pigs.” Sam shakes her head in a bid to clear it. “Let’s just say... this is shaping up to be worse than the time Hetty kept photobombing our formal family portrait.”

They all know which one she’s referring to. Upstairs, there hangs a recent Christmas portrait, rife with red sweaters and ruddy cheeks. It shows an obliviously grinning Jay, a mildly concerned Sam, and a neutral Lila held in Jay’s lap— along with a faint outline of Hetty, standing stiff and straight-backed behind them. An apparition in the truest sense of the term.

“The ghosts are jealous,” Sam deduces. “They feel left out.”

Hetty lifts shoulders that are unburdened by shame. “I determined you still did not possess enough portraits that paint me in a positive light, so I took it upon myself to remedy that,” she replies. “And though I still do not understand how I could have detonated your image, as you describe it, I will say it was wholly worthwhile to watch that photographer scream and run for the hills. Don’t know about you, but it certainly made my eternity.”

Isaac grins broadly, bumps her shoulder. “Mm. Quite.”

“He ran for the mountains, more like,” Sam mutters. “Speaking of ‘detonating our image,’ he had our number blocked and some choice words posted on our Instagram page before his mom’s car had even left our driveway.”

“Oh, the photographer guy?” Jay says. “His mom was nice. But really, don’t these people know what they were getting into? We stopped hiding the whole haunted thing. Thought that might do us some favors.” His voice hardens as he fixes a firm stare on empty air. “I’m targeting you specifically, Trevor, with your Winnie the Pooh-dressed ass. You’re not so easy to see, but you are so easy to bully.” Patiently Sam directs Jay by the shoulders until he is glaring at the correct spot.

Trevor lets out a gasp that rivals Isaac’s. “Rude!” he snaps. “Accurate, but. Rude.”

“Ghosts have no jealousy. All simply want best for fledgling,” Thor says. “This woman was not best. Did not sit on baby as instructed.” He chuckles. “These, they are basic directions!”

“For the millionth time, Thor, literally sitting on the baby is not a requirement for the job,” Alberta tells him. Thor puzzles over this. Why not call it a babywatcher, then, if the expectations are so low?

“Though I do see what he’s getting at,” Isaac says. “This Bridget woman, she had no pizzazz. But you know what she did have? The personality of John Jay’s toupée when it got damp from the rain. Soggy, wet dog, doing absolutely no favors. Personally, I would have surrendered to the bald spot myself.”

Sam groans. “Say we did leave you all alone here with Lila, which will not be happening, by the way. What would you do if there was an emergency?” she asks them. “Would you be able to dial us fast enough?”

“I do believe we can handle a simple phone number, Samantha,” Hetty scoffs. “How many digits can there be, two?”

Pete lifts a hand. “If it helps, I know the Heimlich maneuver! Certified in ‘85 a month before I went, and proud of it. Proud of the... certification, not the... dying bit.”

Sam takes in a sharp breath. “You know, I felt bad enough leaving Lila with a babysitter for the first time. But Jay and I really needed this romantic date night.”

“Even if said romantic date night ended with us sitting in a Denny’s for you to write and me to nap,” Jay says.

“Then for you to game and me to nap,” Sam adds.

“We were sucking up that free waffle Wi-Fi like it was an Internet café in 2005,” Jay remarks.

“And somehow, it was still romantic.” Sam holds up a fist.

Jay gives her a bump. “You betcha, sweetie.”

“Sure beats sitting with your wife in an over-themed tiki restaurant, glumly bobbing your head to ‘Thunder Island,’ after having a fight about credit card bills in the car on the way there,” Pete chimes in. “I’ve never seen a tiny umbrella look so depressing.”

Trevor attempts to wipe the grimace from his face, but does not succeed.

“Oh, well,” Sam gives in. “I mean, we were feeling a little guilty anyway. I guess it’s not too bad we had to come home early.” She picks up the baby monitor, checks on Lila’s static sleeping image. “She really did okay without us for a few hours, huh?”

“Would be behind in Viking culture,” Thor comments. “Children gain full independence upon passing of third month.”

Sam twists her mouth. “I feel like there are some things wrong with that.”

Meanwhile, Jay goes around turning off various lamps. “Okay, but even if we aren’t mad at them anymore, don’t we still deserve to know what the ghosts did? They scared that poor woman enough to make her light up the entire house like the dashboard of my old Civic.”

“That’s true.” Sam crosses her arms, scans over the group. “Well?”

“Hm, that’s really odd,” Isaac says abruptly. “It seems Nigel is asking for me. Do you hear that?” Without giving anyone a chance to confirm that they do not hear a nonexistent call, he says, “Well, then. Duty calls!” And off he goes.

One at a time, in conjunction with Bridget’s protective sources of light being turned off, lamps darkened and candles extinguished, the ghosts find excuses to disappear. All except for Thor, who stands with his chest puffed still in the same spot.