Derby Colors

By Hannah Carter

It’s quite odd, realizing you’re dead.

Strangely, I didn’t know immediately. My epiphany happened last Derby, when I kissed my now-boyfriend, Reynolds, for the first time. He was a stranger then, but I realized when our lips met he had more substance. He was tangible; I was vaporous fluff.

And Eliza Booker is not vaporous or fluffy.

Scanning this year’s crowd, I lounged against the wired racetrack fence. The spectators included girls dressed like flappers, men in suits and ties, and older women adorned with large hats—all in shades of gray.

A lump formed in my throat as I examined my dress, which should have been bright blue with golden daisies, accented with white to match my cloche hat.

Gray.

How had I never noticed before that kiss?

I drifted through the crowd, the Twin Spires of Churchill Downs in my peripheral. Reynolds had said with a longing tone he’d see me again. Had that been a paltry pleasantry? I’d felt something when we’d kissed—something beyond oh, I’m dead—and I’d thought—

Closer to the signature steeples, I saw color.

“Excuse me,” I repeated to several other ghosts, my eyes locked on the brown fedora. “Pardon me.”

Several ghosts uttered unpleasant comments about my manners. I ignored them, more focused on the living than the dead.

“You.” Awe laced my voice, though he wasn’t a suave, Cary Grant-type. As always, Reynolds’s trench coat was wrinkled, his leather loafers scuffed, and his white shirt speckled with cigarette ash. Yes, he was the one I’d kissed in a fit of excitement last Derby.

His eyebrows raised. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” I leveled a finger at him. “What did you do to me?”

The end of his cigarette glowed red. “Whaddya mean?”

“I’m dead.”

“Don’t look at me. I found you that way.” His brow scrunched up. “But… how do you know?”

My cheeks flushed. What did a ghostly blush look like to him? Ink-stains? “Because we kissed.”

He swore under his breath. “Shoulda learned my lesson about kissing ghosts. Never know what’ll happen.”

My shoulders went rigid. “You’ve kissed more ghosts than me?”

“Accidentally dated a poltergeist once. Ended when she tried to eat my soul.” He scratched at the brown hair that peeked out from underneath his fedora. “I’m a paranormal detective, exorcism division. And you being aware you’re dead… That’s an issue.”

“How so?”

His eyes swept around Churchill Downs. “When spirits don’t know they’re dead, they’re stuck in a loop. They’re harmless. They reset at their appointed times—for you, it’s every Derby Day. You’ve probably watched hundreds of Kentucky Derbies without realizing.”

I flinched. All those years of mindless repetition.

“But when they know, they try to escape. And I’m here to make sure no one escapes.” Reynolds’s gaze landed on me.

“So you’re going to exorcise me?”

“That’s what I’m supposed to do.” He sighed, eyes downcast.

“Could you help me, though?” The overhead speaker blared a rendition of My Old Kentucky Home, and the crowd roared. Tearily, I added, “The Derby’s great, but a gal’s gotta get out, y’know?”

Reynolds rubbed his temple. “I could lose my job.”

“Or,” I said, my voice hopeful, “you could gain the best thing that’ll ever happen to you.”

Reynolds sighed. “Don’t touch my cigarette ash. It dissipates spirits.”

I grinned. “Thank you.”

The announcer read off the horses’ names. “The greatest two minutes in sports” was starting.

Reynolds pivoted. “Follow me and be snappy.” He set off at a fast clip as the gun fired. People cheered, and I dodged a portly man in suspenders. I barely caught Reynolds’s next instructions: “You’ve gotta get out of here before the horses cross the finish line or you’ll be caught in another loop.”

My breath hitched. “Got it.”

“Churchill Downs will fight you, too. It doesn’t want the ghosts to escape. It will hurt. You may not survive.”

“I’m already dead.” I sped up as we passed the Twin Spires. “Define survive.”

“You’ll get zapped with an electromagnetic pulse when you cross the loop’s border, which you’ll either fight through and escape or… poof.” He caught my eye.

“Poof?”

“My most scientific explanation.”

The crowd thinned as we neared the exit. My soul tingled, a buzzing sound in my ear. The closer I stepped to the gate, the louder it got, like a bee in my brain.

Reynolds scurried through the gate and turned to face me. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Thirty seconds, Eliza!”

He remembered my name.

Bet he didn’t remember the name of the other ghostly gal he’d kissed.

One hand on my hat, I charged the barrier.

Electricity shot through me, slowing my steps, like I was running through molasses. My body trembled, suddenly weak. My vision blurred, shades of gray colliding. Something like claws reached into my inmost being and shredded my soul, bits of me floating into nothingness.

“Hurry, Eliza!”

A hand, full of color, burst into the dull world. I stretched out my arm, which suddenly weighed a ton. My heart threatened to explode. Through the pain, I remembered one name: “Reynolds!”

We latched onto each other. He jerked me through despite my screeches. I tumbled against him, and we both collapsed.

“The winner is… Secretariat!” the announcer bellowed from inside the racetrack. The crowd cheered, right before they began to dissipate like morning mist.

But I stayed, whole, pressed against Reynolds’s chest, our eyes locked. His were a deep brown with flecks of hazel and amber.

So full of color.

“Welcome to the present.” Reynolds brushed my cheeks. “Once the electricity wears off, you won’t be as tangible. But you’re free.”

“I can’t thank you enough.” Tears filled my eyes.

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat. “So. What’re you gonna do with your second chance?”

I leaned down and kissed him. For all eternity, I would remember this: the heat of his lips, his hand cupping my face, my pounding heart. “How about a date?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hannah Carter is just a girl who wakes up every day hoping it will be the day she discovers she’s secretly a mermaid. Her debut novel, Depths of Atlantis, is out through SnowRidge Press now. Her stories have been included in several anthologies: Whispers From Before, The Never Tales, and Havok’s Casting Call and Prismatic. Her flash fiction piece “A Home for Nova” won the 2022 Flash Fiction Realm Award.

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