The inn had the pulsing, frenetic ambience of an auction house. Wall clocks and mantel clocks began crying like babies as they one by one struck 11:24.
Phezz groaned. Another excruciating morning. “I can’t hear myself think!”
“You could always leave,” the late Lord Pompington said. “Leave my inn!” His wispy form didn’t match
“You’re making enough noise to wake the dead,” Dad said from over my shoulder as I upended every bit of stainless-steel-ware in the kitchen drawer, trying to find my giant soup spoon.
“Well, you’d know,” I quipped, “considering you’ve been dead three years.” Then I turned to ask, “What brings you back this time?”
“Merry Christmas, Eliza.”
My husband Reynolds ruffled my dark hair, waking me. I came to on the living room couch with a gasp and wiped my mouth. My fingers passed over the pillow lines on my face.
It was nice to have a body again, after being dead for so long.
The thought
The sticky dough dripped off my fingers as I blew a stray strand of hair out of my eyes.
This is a lot tougher than she made it look, I thought. I eyed the oozing blob of dough on the countertop with suspicion. There was still half the butter to go into this dough and I was already losing the battle with the cloying mess.
When someone dies, the general assumption is that they will stay dead. But every Day of the Dead, the laws of time and nature look the other way, and deceased relatives can drop by for family reunions.
Deceased relatives like myself.
I waited at the end of the driveway where my family lived. Reynolds stood by me with his arms crossed.
Father Gary eyed me as if I had asked him to rob a bank. I didn’t understand why. My question was simple. He had the power and the tools to help me, so what was the problem?
The priest folded his hands. “Edwin, let’s discuss this before I consider your request.”
Fair enough.
Wisely they leave graves open for the dead
‘cos some too early are brought to bed.
I flung the last shovel of dirt over my shoulder and climbed out of the hole. Tossing the shovel to the ground, I wiped my hands on a handkerchief from my back pocket.
“How many more this week?” I asked.
It was so peaceful, there in the lake, that it was a long time before I noticed I was dead. The green water was cold with autumnal chill yet gentle like the sweetest embrace. I drifted in it among the tall water plants and funny little fishes, humming to myself and thinking of…
Read it now
“Tell me, Eliza Booker. Do you really think you can cheat death?”
Smoke filled my lungs; my breath came in strangled puffs. Around me, a circle of fire blazed—all thanks to the pyre-loving poltergeist smirking like a Jack-o-lantern amid the chaos.
Its appearance continually shifted, like shadows that couldn’t latch onto a form.
August 31st
3:20 a.m.
I crept along the shadows of Buck’s Row in London, humming a song underneath my breath. Brownstone buildings loomed over me, and my foot clacked against a circular black plaque.
I giggled, a slightly intoxicated sound.
“Careful where you’re walking there, missum,” said a voice with a heavy London accent.
“If we said wedding vows, do you think we’d say ‘‘til death do us part,’ or ‘‘til death bring us together’?” I raised my gray, ghostly hand to view it in the moonlight.
“I don’t know, Eliza, but d’ya think you can ask this question again after we stop two raging yōkai from…
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.
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