“Quick, they’re coming!” This was in Simone’s voice. I was thrown from memory and back into the present. My heart was racing, electric tingles danced across my skin, my cheek blazed afire—except none of that was true, for I had no heart, no skin, no reddening cheek. Sensation had nearly overtaken me.
Was this love, romance, sex? God damn.
“I…ahhhhm. Welcome to Frosty’s,” I managed. Barely.
More memories tumbled from Heather as the day sprinted onward to evening. Our time together felt all too short. I learned of her tryst with Simone, and of the violence that followed it, even as Heather shied away from that topic. I wondered at her death. The timing would make sense.
But more than that, I learned how blood could pound, how happiness could radiate—and how sadness could wax and wane as an ocean tide. Humans, I’d found, often thought of emotions as mere brain activity, so I was caught off guard by the rich physicality of loneliness, of sexuality, of tiny joys.
It made my own experience of the world feel soulless, grey—even light and color took on new dimensions through Heather’s memories.
I couldn’t help but wonder as I left Heather Sunday evening. It was late September. The fall season was drawing to its end as I neared the anniversary of my hiring at Titan’s World. The theme park would be closed for the winter.
How long could this last, this momentary caress of spirit on bone?
Monday morning dawned all too slowly. I arrived early at my post at Seoul Bowl.
“Oh, good morning!” Hilary’s cheer I’d slowly discovered to be a carefully maintained facade, but one I did not begrudge her. She had the unenviable task of wrangling a dozen workers, most in their late teens, in maintaining Seoul Bowl and Frosty’s.
I detected her eyes lingering on me for longer than usual, however. Not wanting to draw out the tension in her expression for much longer, I turned my skull in her direction and said, “What is it?”
“I, um. You’re doing all right at Frosty’s, yeah?”
I nodded. I realized, with a stab of fear, that management might simply close the stand down as temperatures dropped even further.
But a spark of hope. “Well, Ramona sent in her resignation for the season. I think she’s heading out of state.”
“Right.”
“Can you… It won’t be every day, but you seemed happy to close Frosty’s these last few days. Could you…?”
“Of course.” A stay of execution. Oh, now I understood a little why humans went in for hyperbole in their metaphors so often.
“Awesome. So, they’ve fenced off that old coaster by the stand this morning. We had to wheel it up near the Egg Blaster…”
And just like that, hope died within my heart. I felt a phantom of the pain Heather had experienced when she learned she’d be moving away from New York City. A small piece of it. Separation.
A part of me was still listening to Hilary detail where the stand had been relocated, but the rest spiraled. Could Heather travel that far from where she was anchored—from her haunt?
That Monday was unseasonably hot, so Frosty’s enjoyed a brisk trade in its new location beside the worn down attraction Egg Blaster. At times, my line was longer than for my neighbor.
Heather was nowhere to be seen.
The afternoon dragged on. I wondered at the relativity described by humans as they experienced time’s passage—golden days gone in a blink, while grey hours stretched on like years. I was not so much a stranger to this phenomenon, but never had I felt it more. I worried for Heather, for her loneliness…
Was this heartache? This weight crushing my borrowed memory of a beating heart?
The moment my shift was up, with the cash register cleaned out and the stand locked up, I raced to Heather’s haunt.
Hilary had not exaggerated. A tall fence of chain links barred my way. I stood perhaps fifty feet from where Frosty’s once resided. My visual sense pushed inward, searching, hoping—
There. A tiny thread, faint even in the darkness two hours after sunset, languished.
“Heather!” I could make myself quite loud when I needed to.
The thread jerked, then darted toward me. Ten feet before the fence, it slowed, as if she were tied to the end of an elastic band. Tethered. She strained, and I passed my arm through a thin gap in the fence to reach her. “Heather,” I repeated, straining to fit my body through the gap.
Useless. At best, we strained to close three feet of distance. I pulled back, sizing up the fence, and—
“Hey! What are you doing?”
The blinding light of a flashlight enveloped my head. I turned, adrenalin in my veins—the ghost of the memory of adrenalin, that is. My vision needed no adjustment to dramatic changes in lighting, so I shielded my eye sockets from the light out of habit only.
“Park’s closed,” the security officer said. “And beyond the fence is off limits either way.”
“I…”
The officer sighed. “Yeah, I know people are excited to see the new coaster, but most of the parts aren’t even on site yet. They’ve barely started tearing The Plunge down.”
How to explain? How to make this man understand?
“Come on,” he said. I suppose I was grateful he was treating me like any other entry-level employee. “Let’s clock you out for the night.”
Behind me, Heather kept straining at her tether as I was led away, step by step. I chanced one last turning of my skull back, then said loud enough for Heather to hear, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, buddy, no harm done.”
For the first time in my year’s employ with Titan’s World, I called in sick.
I was hopeful. I only called out for my shift on Tuesday. One point would accrue to my employee record, as I did so within a few hours of my shift’s starting time. That brought the total number of points in my account to… one.
The despair of the previous night had not left me. I laid down in my rented room—more of a rented closet, but it was truly larger than I needed—and focused my visual senses on the ceiling above. I counted the tiny ridges of plaster in its texture. I developed a simple system for differentiating between one ridge and the next, for they flowed into each other in a way that made them hard to differentiate.
After determining this system and completing my count, I judged there were one hundred and seventy-four individual ridges, including one that ran from above the doorway’s upper hinge all the way, nearly, to the opposite corner.
It was only then that I checked the time.
Thirty-seven minutes had passed since I had called out sick.
Turning my attention back to the ceiling, I started counting the ridges again.
One hundred and twenty-four minutes after I called out sick for Tuesday, I repeated the gesture for Wednesday. In my current state, I doubted I could discharge my duties for fifteen minutes at a time, much less for a full shift. As I had given them more than twelve hours of notice, this did not accrue any additional points to my record.
I don’t know why I cared so much for that. Heather… should I go to her, and damn the consequences? Trespassing was not a felony, though I doubted I would obtain the same rights in a court of law as a human would. Fear wound through me. But the thought also reminded me of that kick of adrenalin.
Perhaps I should.
I found myself, in the early hours after noon, at the library.
I reviewed the processes that had brought me here. Most of them were less than conscious—at least, they didn’t occupy the forefront of my mind. But I recall the need to change the scenery about me, the plaster ridges on the ceiling of my room all accounted for. I remember walking down the street, my mind setting my feet on a familiar route as it was otherwise occupied with my conundrum.
Well, I was here. Might as well make the most of it.
I presented my library card to the librarian in order to obtain access to the internet, then went to my assigned computer station. I paused there, wondering how I would continue my research. Ghosts were little studied; less so than my fellow skeletons, of course. Our appearance ten years ago had opened many avenues of academic research once thought frivolous. That curiosity would have extended to other creatures associated with death. Right?
I pulled up a search engine tailored for academic publications and tested this hypothesis.
Once my allotted time was up—sixty minutes—I had found little.
The existence of ghosts had been confirmed by a research team at the University of Wisconsin two years ago. But little else had been confirmed—not even an understanding of the “haunting” phenomenon, the tether that had kept Heather penned within a small territory near Frosty’s. I supposed this research would be ongoing; but nothing that assisted in my current predicament had been published online, at least that I could find.
I walked away from the station, wondering if I should extend my time. There were enough computers available; Tuesdays at 3pm were not, apparently, a busy time for the library.
I almost didn’t see her.
A tiny thread slunk between two nearby shelves, vaguely in my direction. I spun toward it, and had I a heart, it would be hammering in my chest. I remembered the electric feeling Heather had felt, engendered by Simone.
No. It couldn’t be her. I stepped toward the ghostly thread, reality asserting itself. The silence of the library reigned.
Slowly, I reached out my hand. “Are you…?” I couldn’t finish the question.
The ghost brushed against my index finger.
“It’s me. Heather.”
How could this be? I nearly lost my balance, but Heather wasn’t done speaking. She pecked against my hand, plucking out a message from her memories. It reminded me of my first experiences with a computer’s keyboard. Disjointed words, all in different voices, formed a coherent message.
“I was… bound by… memory... death…” A pause before her pecking continued. “But… with you… I made… another cherished memory… life…”
I recognized the last word. It was in my own voice.
Two Years Later.
“Hey, girl, I just wanna say. You’re really brave. It’s fuckin’ inspiring.”
I bowed my head without responding verbally as the taxi driver pulled into the drop-off area of Saint Lucy’s Senior Living. Outside, the sky was steel-grey, and I was told the temperature was quite frigid, typical of late January in Baltimore. Beside me, Heather twisted in chagrin. I wondered what she was thinking.
The driver pulled the taxi to a gentle stop. “Hey, before you go, like, if you’re not in a hurry or anything…”
He trailed off. I looked up, cocking my head in a way that showed I was listening.
“Could I get a picture?” He held up his phone, a new model with a large, dark screen filling the space that would typically feature a mechanical keyboard.
Heather brushed against me. “Oh, let him have one. It’ll make his day.” Sometimes I found it unfair that she could speak with me at any apparent volume without anyone else able to hear. I could not reciprocate this, so I made a shooing motion with my hand the taxi driver couldn’t see.
“Certainly,” I said, considering my wardrobe for the day. It was acceptable, dress and a black bow, both firmly marking my gender. I left the vehicle, and posed myself behind the driver as he took three pictures with his phone’s front-facing camera.
“Hey, thanks!” He held out his hand to shake, and I reciprocated as he returned to his vehicle.
The interaction was short, simple. Was I reading too much into it? I was used to boundary-crossing curiosity, if not outright fear, from strangers. Still, I said to Heather, “Was that really a good idea?”
“Maybe I like watching you pose.”
“Of course.” I remembered the sunny feeling of a smile. I tilted my head down slightly, the closest I could come to smiling myself. Then, I walked to the Senior Living reception area.
I actually really liked this dress: simple, sleeveless, black with stars scattered across it in blue and white. Tasteful. It hugged my bones firmly without giving them too much definition through the fabric. I’d gotten it at the Swap, a few months ago. Another recent development I was thankful for.
A couple years ago, some skeletons had reached out to each other online, building the bones—ha!—of a virtual support network for each other. Last August that network, my network, had moved from our message board and held our first in-person gathering, in Chicago. I had met a very nice skeleton named Frank who had learned the art of tailoring, and had offered to trade clothing fit for a skeleton.
I carried precious few belongings, but the clothing Frank offered was among my most prized.
The sounds of Baltimore January fell away as I stepped inside. The cream-white room felt oddly sterile, especially as I was currently the only visitor. I walked to the desk, and the receptionist looked up.
“Do you have an appointment with one of our residents?”
“I do,” I said. “I’m Amber Bone, and I have one with Ms. Vazquez-Maldonado. She lives at apartment 6331, I believe.”
“One moment.” The receptionist tapped a six-digit code into her phone and put the receiver to her ear. I tuned out the sound emitting from it. The receptionist greeted the person on the other end, made small talk, then inquired to confirm my appointment.
“Mhm. Yep, right here. Thanks. I’ll send him right up.”
“Her,” I said as she hung up the receiver. I felt anxious at the correction, but also not a little indignant.
“Oh, I apologize. Um.” The receptionist pressed a button, and the latching mechanism on the glass door beside her desk clicked. “Yeah, you can head on in. Sixth floor. You can use any of the elevators around the corner.”
“Thank you,” I said shortly.
As I walked away, Heather said, “She seemed nice at first. It’s always the nice ones, right?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does!”
“Fine, you’re right. But it’s not worth the trouble.”
Soon enough, we were in the elevator heading to the sixth floor.
I looked down at Heather, her thread twining in and through my body. We had been together for two years now, though it felt like much longer. And I took her voice for granted, too—it had only been six months ago that she’d gained the ability to speak her own words, those not drawn from her memories. She sounded much as she did when she was alive.
I loved her voice.
Before I knew it, I was standing before the door to apartment 6331. I raised my fist to knock, but hesitated.
“She’s expecting us,” Heather urged. If anything, she should be more nervous than myself. But there it was.
“Right you are.” I knocked three times.
The door opened shortly. “Hello, come in.” A short, thin woman with vaguely asian features looked up at me kindly as she welcomed me in.
“Is…? Um. We’re here for Ms. Vasquez-Maldonado.”
“My… partner,” the woman said, nodding. I sensed she wanted to say wife. “I’m Valentina Nguyen.”
“Amber Bone,” I said. After my introduction Heather swam forward, making contact with Ms. Nguyen’s forearm.
“I’m Heather Everett,” she said, and as she was in contact with myself and Ms. Nguyen, we both heard her.
“Ah!” Ms. Nguyen jumped in surprise, though she never lost her kindly smile. “I wondered! This way.”
She led us into a tiny living room, books and papers stacked along the walls a testament to the room’s name. Already present in the room, seated in a metal wheelchair, was the woman I presumed to be Ms. Vasquez-Maldonado. I sat on a velvet plush chair and made my introductions.
“Of course, of course.” Ms. Vasquez-Maldonado nodded in recognition of my voice. “You were very kind in our conversation over the phone. And do you…?”
It was Heather’s turn to hesitate. I said, “She’s here. Just… nervous I think.”
“She needn’t be.”
I gestured with my hand, encouraging Heather gently. After a heartbeat’s indecision, she surged forward and brushed against Ms. Vasquez-Maldonado’s right hand.
“Simone? I… I’m Heather Everett.” The ghost’s voice was small, but strong. “Do you… remember me?”
The golden sunrise of blissful memory broke across Simone Vasquez-Maldonado’s face.
I really hope you enjoyed the ending as much as I enjoyed writing it.
In conceiving an ending, I don’t always have an end-goal in mind when starting out a story like this. I’d say it’s about fifty-fifty; when I wrote The Sea, I had a clear idea of the final moments of the story before I started writing a word. Here, however, I started with the basic premise—a skeleton working at an amusement park, who develops a relationship with a ghost—and just started putting words down. It wasn’t until I was halfway through part 2 that I started getting foggy, faint indications in my mind of how this all would end.
I knew that, this being a story centered on Amber and Heather’s relationship, I’d need them to separate. Coming up with an excuse to do so was pretty simple, but working through Amber’s depression wasn’t easy to write, exactly. But it was worth it, at least for me. Cathartic.
Once again, thank you so much for reading!
Part 1 is here, and part 2 is here.
And we’re finished! At 8,600 words (give or take), this turned out quite a bit longer than I thought it would at the start. I’m more than happy with how the story turned out.
Here’s the thrilling conclusion!