Page 19 of The House on Haven Way

“Well. I’m here to help with that. First thing in the morning, we work.”

Chapter Five: Partners

I open my eyes slowly. My head instantly tells me this is a terrible plan.

“Oh, good. You’re up. Coffee? Toast? Eggs? How do you like your eggs?”

I let out a soft scream, rocket up, and plummet down, clutching my back. “Damn it,” I groan. It wasn’t a dream, and the fall in the wet glass didn’t help my back.

“Sorry.” Johnny floats my laptop, a plate of toast, and a cup of coffee down with neat, precise placement: coffee on the nightstand, laptop on the bed beside me, toast by the coffee.

I blink up at him through waves of pain.

“Ooh. You look worse than I do. And I’m dead,” he says, wincing away from me.

“Your fault,” I croak. “Ugh. I’m so congested from crying and screaming last night—my sinuses always get congested when I cry.”

“Sorry. I’m so sorry about that, kid. What can I do?”

“Find my saline nose spray and the Motrin,” I mumble, ignoring everything else in favor of my pillow.

In seconds, a glass of water, nose spray, and a pill bottle are floating next to me, neat soldiers in an airy line.

I gratefully take the pills and water, swallow what I need, and realize my stomach will hurt if I don’t eat. And coffee may or may not help my head; it’s a gamble.

Sitting up makes the pain shoot up from my hips to the base of my skull. “Physical therapy today,” I half-whimper. I don’t like people seeing me weak and miserable.

“That’s good. Sounds like you need it.”

I decide that I don’t care if Johnny sees me whimpering like a wimp. One, he’s not going to tell anyone. Two, he’s dead, so I’m automatically in better shape, and my competitive nature likes that. Three, I don’t think I have a choice.

“I have to use the bathroom. Move your ghostly ass, and you stay out of the bathroom when I’m in it.”

“Of course. I’m a ghost, not some peeping tom,” he spits and crosses his arms. “I’ll go... I’ll go all the way outside. Yep. Yep. You tell me when it’s research time.”

I think that’s a little extreme, but what the heck. It’ll be nice knowing I won’t have an audience.

I stagger to the restroom, stagger back, and sit on the edge of the bed, blinking and rubbing my temples, hoping the Motrin and coffee will kick in.

I pull the laptop over and open it, even though the burst of electronic light instantly hurts my eyes. I turn the screen brightness as low as possible while still being able to see and start typing.

Johnny Miller, Pine Ridge, NY. Death.

His picture comes up.

Him in a black-and-white photo, wearing a uniform and with a much different haircut.

Obituary. Beloved son... Survived by his parents, three brothers.

Death date: September 17th, 1954.

My spine prickles in a different way. I moved into the house on the anniversary of his death.

Well, that would piss me off, too, if I were a ghost.

“But... But... It doesn’t say how?” I gasp.

“Hey. You said you’d call me.” Johnny’s head is suddenly next to mine.