His name was Ian McNealson. I hadn’t known it until I turned on the morning news. To me, he had always just been the boy with the vacuum every Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday. Cute, but we were both too busy to talk, always coming when the other was going.
Now he was Ian McNealson, the missing student whose body had been found in a local creek. The news was calling it a possible suicide, but I knew it was murder.
How? Because Ian McNealson was standing in my kitchen, drinking straight out of the carton of milk I had just bought and torturing my cat with a goddamn lazer pen. I hate ghosts.
“But honestly, what kind of loser commits suicide in a creek? Who the hell is running this investigation?”
“There’s a bridge not too far down from where your body was found, which is semi-logical, I guess. I mean, your neck was snapped.”
“How do you even know that? They didn’t release that information, and I sure as hell don’t remember.”
“You keep tilting your head to the left and rubbing it.”
He opened his mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it. Smart kid. Don’t get me wrong, I get it. It’s hard to adjust to the after-life, especially if you didn’t even believe an after-life existed, in the first place. I just didn’t have time to wait for him to face-facts. I had to get to court. Not that that seemed to matter to McNealson, who just kept firing off questions, without even giving me the proper time to answer.
“Look kid. I get it. Being dead sucks. But just because your life has ended, doesn’t mean mine stops too. So shut up, and let me do my thing. And I swear to God, if you don’t leave Spartacus alone I am going to feed you to a demon.”
Who knew ghosts could get so white?