A Good Night to Be Alive

By Meaghan E. Ward

How in Hades can a three-headed dog escape the Underworld, cross the river Styx, and enter the world of the living without me immediately hearing about it?  But Cerberus has managed it somehow. So here I am, calling his name like an idiot in the middle of New York City at what must be the busiest time of the year.

I nod to a woman wound tight behind her red scarf. “Evening.”

She shivers as she walks past and says nothing. Which is fine by me.

I am a ghost to her. The only ones who see me are those who are nearly ghosts themselves.

Still, it’d be nice to be acknowledged. You’d think being the Lord of the Underworld would garner some respect, but no.

‘Tis the season for people to not watch where they’re going or care who they pass. And happy New Year to you too.

Am I grumpy? Yes. And I have every right to be. It’s a busy night, and I still have a lot of work to do. On top of that, I hate my job. Hate it.

Dealing with the dead should be easy, but they’re more cantankerous than the living.

“Cerberus!” I call. My breath puffs on the air like the fading remnants of a lost soul.

I tuck my chin into the collar of my coat. I hate the cold, too. How can they call it the happiest time of the year when the weather is so bitter and—

Before I finish my thought, a scream echoes from the direction of Central Park.

“It’s a ghost!” someone cries.

No. It’s a three-headed monster that would like to play fetch with your soul.

I glared at the maze of dark paths ahead. “Cerberus!”

He is not getting a treat when we return home.

I sprint past trees dusted with snow and bound with lights, lampposts tied with gaudy red bows, people on an ice rink who laugh when they fall, and too-happy music streaming from some distant loudspeaker that I wouldn’t mind silencing. Permanently.

A different kind of music draws my attention and I slow. The sawed notes of a harmonica dip solemnly. There are no words to accompany it, only bittersweet emotion, and a reed-thin boy on a bench.

Then I see Cerberus. He’s flopped on his back, tongues lolling. The boy stops and bends down to scratch his belly.

Why isn’t he screaming? Can he not see the three heads?

I stop a few steps away and pull Cerberus’s chain from my pocket.

He looks right at me. “Is this your dog, sir?” He’s young—too young to be seeing me.

I’m not sure what to say to him.

“Cerberus,” I growl. All three heads swivel and cock. He bounds to me. I kneel and clip the chain onto his harness. One of his heads licks my chin. The other two drool over my neck and arm. I grimace.

What’s the worst thing about a three-headed dog? Three times the drool.

I scratch his chest, watching the boy who watches me. His face is red and chapped. “Shouldn’t you be home on a night like this?” I say perhaps a little too harshly.

I should probably work on my people skills.

His hat slips in the wind. I glimpse smooth skin before he yanks it down lower over his forehead. His breath catches as his eyes flash up and down like he’s afraid I’ve seen that he doesn’t have hair.

“I should be a lot of things,” he says in the same solemn tone as his harmonica.

He shouldn’t be sick. That’s what he really means.

He runs his thumb along the harmonica. “I come here to think. Don’t you ever just sit and watch and listen?”

No. Who has time for that?

“This is my favorite time of year,” he says. “Especially nights like this with the snow and the city and the lights and the stars and the music. It’s the time of year when you feel content, even if you’re not, and that all will be right, even if it isn’t. I mean… listen.”

You don’t have time, remember?

But I do stop, and I do listen, and I tell myself I’m only doing it to indulge the whim of a dying boy.

A hush has fallen. Fine snowflakes dance on the air, and the shadows of the park stand in reverence. Behind me, the city buzzes with too many lights. They reflect in the boy’s eyes like stars.

He smiles and tilts his face toward the sky. “It’s a good night to be alive, don’t you think?”

“Sure, kid.” I have never heard anything more ridiculous.

Beside me, the boy grimaces. He closes his eyes and sucks in a breath.

“Hey, kid.” I reach toward him then yank my hand back. “Kid? You all right?”

He blinks and smiles like he didn’t hear me. We are ghostly strangers once more as he raises the harmonica to his pale lips and continues to play.

The hopeful, airy tune drifts around me as I wrap Cerberus’ chain in my fist and tip my chin in farewell.

The boy says nothing, and that’s fine by me.

Can you guess which song inspired this story? (This month it could be any time period, any genre.) Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Meaghan Ward is an author and freelance illustrator with a passion for storytelling. She lives in the mountains of Colorado where she haunts the local library and daydreams of what would happen if she stumbled into a fantasy world. She also enjoys in-season portal hunting.

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