Page 22 of The House on Haven Way

“Well, it definitely doesn’t sound like shin complications,” I say drily. “If you were young and healthy, and this was sudden, they must have done an investigation. An autopsy.”

Autopsy report, Johnny Miller, 1954.

Nothing.

Didn’t they do one?

Did they need to?

Death certificate, Johnny Miller, 1954. Pine Ridge, New York. Age twenty-four.

Bingo.

“Hey! Hey, the New York State Archives says death certificates for deaths that occurred fifty years ago or longer are a matter of public record, but not all of them are stored electronically. We can put in a request to view your death certificate, Johnny,” I breathe out. “We just need to fill out this form online. It says we should have records within three weeks of the request.”

Johnny nods, but his face creases in a frown, and with the serious look and the black-and-white coloring of his ghostly form, he looks like some old movie star, the kind who would pose with a cigarette in his hand and soulful eyes—you know, before they realized cigarettes would kill you?

He finally murmurs, “That’s great.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

“Search up, Johnny Miller, murder. The year, the town, all of it.”

“Uh. Okay.” I do, and nothing comes up.

“You know what that means? It means they didn’t know it was a murder. That means whatever it was, he hid it well enough that they missed it. That it was just an ‘accident.’ Or something.”

“Or something. But, Johnny, we won’t know what they actually think caused it until we read the cause of death on the certificate. Um. I could... I could maybe call your nephews? The bank must have their numbers. I could say... I could say I’m investigating the history of the house and want to know about the first owner. I could convince people, you know. I’m a—a research nerd. It’s part of being an architecture major. You do a ton of research on buildings and spaces.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Well... I know I can’t work on this all day.” I wince when I look at the time in the corner of the screen. “I have PT today. Physical therapy for my back. And maybe my foot now,” I gasp in pain when I put weight on it, rising from my bed.

“Sure. Take care of that. I’ll do some thinking. I doubt there’s anyone around here who remembers me or what happened—especially if it wasn’t called a murder. I would just have been that new guy in town, the mechanic who died.”

“I don’t know. There could be some people. I’ll figure it out with you,” I say, and I reflexively put my hand on his shoulder—or where his shoulder should be.

My hand doesn’t stop. It sinks through, and it feels like sinking into warm, soothing softness, almost like a waterbed, like gel, but it tingles. It tingles all over my arm, all the way to my neck and head, and for a second, pain is just a memory, a distant, unfamiliar word.

“Oops. Sorry.”

“I’m going to go out and think. For some reason, I can travel between here and the cemetery. Don’t know why, maybe because they’re so close, or maybe this was all one chunk of land at one point... See you tonight.” Johnny waves and whistles tunelessly before striding through the wall. When I look out the window, I see him walking with long, slouching strides across the lawn.

“That was new,” I tell the crow who likes to visit my grave. It’s not a crow, exactly, since its head looks like a bird’s skull every so often.

It sits at my feet, but I don’t have any treats for him. He’s a nice bird.

Good listener.

I feel like it’s okay to say this out loud, as long as it’s just him overhearing. “She put her hand right through me. It was... Wow. It could be that I’ve been in dry dock way too long, buddy, but that was something else. It was tingles, everywhere. Everywhere, you know what I mean? Tiny, buzzing little kisses. Even in places I never got kissed.” I don’t breathe, but my chest is heaving, and my cock is suddenly hard as I think thoughts about Amber that I got no business thinking.

I stay out of the house for the rest of the day.

But I can’t help but remember what she looks like wet and naked, and I can’t help but replay the little gasp she made when she pulled her hand out of my shoulder. I think it was a sound of pleasure. I don’t know if she felt the same way I did, like tiny explosions of bliss were rippling across her skin.

I certainly hope not. Right? I’d better hope not, because that would make things messy.

Real messy.