Dead Endings: Chapter 1

Cailen perched on the edge of the sofa and eyed her guest without enthusiasm over the rim of a new cup. She studied the tanned young face, high cheekbones, and jet-black eyes…and wondered what the hell a high school kid could possibly want with Gabriella, much less herself.

Now that Everett had gotten a good look at Cailen, he also seemed less than eager to be in the same room with her. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“You’re…”

She took a fortifying sip and waited.

“You’re…exactly like she described,” he finished lamely.

Cailen somehow doubted that Gabriella had told him to expect a woman the color of a fish belly, lounging around in a threadbare tank top and men’s boxers, sporting fantastically bloodshot eyes. What wonders her roommate had imparted to him must have been extravagantly exaggerated, judging by the disenchanted look on his face. Her description was probably even quite complimentary. Gabriella was rather good at embellishing.

“She said that if she ever wasn’t around, that you might be able to, uh, help with certain things.”

I am a talented woman, Cailen thought, with a mental leer.

Her mouth, however, only said, “It’s early, and I’m only on my first cup. You’re going to have to elaborate more than that.”

Everett fiddled with his bag as if toying with his own thoughts. His jaw set into a determined line.

“I’m sorry for coming over like this, but I’m desperate, and she did say you could help with this…sort of stuff.” The tall teenager stared at her meaningfully.

Cailen had a suspicious feeling that she knew where this was going, and she wasn’t in a generous mood, so she just waited.

“…”

“I…”

“…?”

“…I smell dead people.”

For the third time, the goddamned third time in one brief morning, she got coffee all over the place.

Choking and laughter warred in equal parts as she tried to clear hot liquid from her nasal passage. Everett’s only response was a telltale flush in his cheeks and a defensive set to his shoulders.

Cailen waved him to a couch while she went to run her face under the kitchen faucet, but he followed her in.

“Gabriella wouldn’t joke about this kind of thing. Do you know what I’m talking about, or what?”

“Oh…” She grabbed the dishtowel and dried her face. “I know what you’re talking about. But why the hell do you know, and what does that have to do with smelling anything?”

Pink bloomed with renewed intensity in the boy’s cheeks. “That’s just how it works for me.”

“You can smell dead people.”

“Yeah.”

“Spirits.”

“Yeah.”

“You catch the scent of their unholy body odor.”

“Yeah–no! Stop laughing! You think it’s funny to have it work like this? At least you can see them! All I get is a whiff of ozone or rot, and I can’t even tell where it’s coming from half the time.”

Cailen fixed him with her burning eyes.

“Seeing them is worse,” she said shortly. “Believe me. You’ve got it lucky.”

It didn’t look like he believed her, but some of the defensiveness left his posture. She ran a hand over her face, suddenly very tired.

“And why do you know about me? What Gabriella does is her own business, but this isn’t my thing. I’m gonna kick her ass when she gets back.”

“She gave me your number in case of emergencies…”

“And is it one?”

“An emergency?” He hesitated, and smoothed back his sleek, black hair. “…Kind of?”

The silence lengthened between them.

“Didn’t think so,” Cailen muttered, before turning her back on him. She retreated into the bedroom and closed the door behind her.

“Uh…are you coming back out?” Everett asked through the wood.

“If you stop talking, I’ll consider it.”

She was rewarded with silence. Cailen pulled open her dresser drawer.

Putting on a pair of pants did wonders for her soul. Cailen felt 100 percent more prepared to deal with things when she had a bit more between her and the world than thin cotton. As she pulled hair out of her collar and opened the door, she saw, with distaste, that Everett hadn’t budged. She irritably gestured for him to move as she headed to the kitchen for more coffee.

She finally dropped down onto the remaining sofa and propped her socked feet on the coffee table. Her latest attempt at a beverage sat just within reach, but she only traced the mug’s handle with her fingertips. Everett sat across from her, uncomfortable and fidgety on the other couch.

“You obviously aren’t ready to give up,” she murmured. “So tell me about your ‘emergency.’”

He had the good grace to look a bit guilty.

“It is important. It has to do with my job, sort of…I’m a junior reporter at the New York Daily.”

“Didn’t know high schoolers could be reporters.”

“Ha. I’m eighteen and a freshman at Columbia, thank you very much.”

“How fancy,” she said into her cup.

“And I’m hardly a real reporter,” he went on. “Just interning. I end up mostly fact-checking and doing really minor local stuff.”

“You smell a dead man while at the library, then?”

“They’ve started to let me tag along with the regulars while they’re making the crime rounds. It’s a hell of a lot better than the library, but yeah, something is haunting the travel section at the branch in Bryant Park, for your information.”

She hadn’t known that. She made a mental note to avoid the place.

“So, what, you got something from a crime scene?” she asked. “Doesn’t seem that earth-shattering. Violent crime and unhappy victims go together. It’s the most natural unnatural combination.”

She pantomimed an exaggerated murder, featuring (in her mind) a snow globe and a blender, and the subsequent ghostly output from that scenario. His eyes showed a distinct lack of appreciation for her acting skills.

“Maybe,” he conceded, “but this time it’s weird. Even for…well, people like us.”

Cailen grumbled noncommittally. She didn’t consider herself part of any club. Maybe Gabriella knew people and cared about this sort of thing, but all Cailen knew was Gabriella, and that was more than enough.

“Can’t say I’m interested yet,” she drawled.

Everett reached into his bag and pulled out two thick Manila folders. He opened the leftmost and spread the paper contents over the coffee table, then grimaced as some stuck to gluey coffee residue on the glass.

“That’s your fault,” she said, but didn’t elaborate when he raised an eyebrow.

He peeled a photo off of the glass surface and handed it to her. She gripped it by its corner. The minute but distinct calluses on his hands sidetracked her for a second; she wondered what sports he played.

The photo was of a large, brick building, multi-floored and typical for the boroughs, framed by spindly sycamores and vibrant, red Japanese maples. The lower windows were covered by the ubiquitous iron bars seen on most city apartments; bicycles were chained at almost every interval of rail leading up to the entrance. She could almost make out the name on the brass plate out front.

She turned the photo over. On the back was an address and an apartment number.

“3C,” she read aloud.

Everett tapped the photo. “That’s where a guy was killed about a month ago.”

“Shooting?” she ventured. She had about a 50-50 chance, given the area.

“Stabbed.”

“Messy.”

“And unsolved,” he said gravely. “It’s kind of an old case by that neighborhood’s standards, but there was another stabbing on the Upper East Side a week ago that had similarities, so the department wanted to cover all bases. I went there to take a few pictures and see if I could get any statements from the neighbors.”

“And you smelled the dead guy?”

“Kind of.” Everett frowned and took out his notebook. She admired the pencil sketches that filled the margins, but he flipped a few pages in and read aloud.

“There were two smells–very distinct, but overlapping. Melted batteries, a sharp scent. Then burnt wood with cinnamon.”

“Dead guys smell like cinnamon?” She grinned. “Damn, I really do wish we could trade.”

He made a face at her and flipped to another page, but before he read off the notes, he opened the second folder. Another photo was revealed–this time of a gray, hulking building with an imposing, red door.

“This is the apartment of the victim from last week. Again, young guy, stabbed to death.”

Cailen spread her hands in supplication. “And Gabriella makes fun of me for not going out. The world’s just a dangerous place for the young and beautiful, I’m afraid.”

Everett scowled. “Joke if you want, but I don’t think murder’s that funny.”

“You’d try to find the humor in it if you saw the dead, believe me.”

She got a glare for that. “I can’t turn off smelling ghosts,” he said flatly. “And they’re everywhere, even when it drives me crazy. But I’m still trying to give this the gravity it deserves.”

Cailen felt a spark of resentment in her gut. “And I’m not you,” she shot back. “You have to deal with the equivalent of obnoxious cologne. I, on the other hand, get to see stuff like that kid who fell on the tracks at Marcy and Broadway dribble through the rails every day–and that doesn’t even cover the shit I go through if I try to get involved in ghosts’ problems. So, sorry, but I’m all out of gravity.”

Everett paused for a second.

“Anyway,” he continued at last. “I went there, too, for the photos and statements. And you’ll never guess what I ran into.”

The kid seriously did not know when to give up. Resigned, Cailen gestured with the mug for him to make the big reveal and took a sip.

“Vinegar with lemons. And burnt wood with cinnamon.” His thick brows drew together as he looked up. “The second ghost was the same as before,” he murmured. “The exact same.”

Cailen took another pull of the coffee and leaned back into the sofa.

“Is that significant somehow?” she asked.

The chain on his wallet tinkled as he wrestled the notebook back into his overstuffed bag. “I’ve never smelled the same scent twice. Ever. They’re really distinct and they don’t move around much.”

Cailen thought about that one. She recalled Carl’s apparent inability to leave the butchery–thank the gods, if there were any–and couldn’t remember a single roaming spirit.

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen them relocate before, either,” she conceded. “But I’m no expert.”

“Gabriella said you were ‘old hat’ at this sort of thing.”

Cailen sat up straight and bared her teeth at him, more a grimace than a smile.

“Yes, Gabriella. Let’s talk about Gabriella. Tell me exactly what she said, so I know how much pain she deserves.”

Everett’s hands shot up. “It’s not her fault,” he blurted. “Seriously! I’m the one who bugged her about it. I had a bad experience a while ago and needed her help, but couldn’t get ahold of her. It was…well, she felt really bad about it, so she said if that ever happened again, I could call you. In case of emergencies.”

“I’m still failing to see how this is an ‘emergency.’”

“It’s…” His face fell and he motioned to the files. “It’s driving me nuts. Look, I know it’s not a personal emergency per se, but there are two murdered guys and weird ghosts. I thought that maybe if there was more info, then–”

Cailen stood abruptly and snatched her empty cup off the table.

“This is about getting a story, isn’t it?” she hissed. “For fuck’s sake.”

She stalked off into the kitchen. He jumped up after her and hovered by the sink.

“It’s not! I guess I wanted to know at first because it could pull something extra for the story, but I didn’t come here because I want a scoop! It’s seriously bothering me, and I think it’s worth looking into.”

Make enough effort to avoid them and they’ll start coming to you, she thought irritably. She grabbed the dish detergent.

“What do you even think I can do?” she snapped.

He hesitated. “I…I don’t know. Have a look? Talk to them?”

Wielding a soapy sponge, she rounded on him.

“The last thing I want to do is ‘talk’ to them,” she growled. “Seriously, you have no idea. Why the hell do you think I have death bags under my eyes today?” She gestured at her face with the sopping orange rectangle.

“Drugs?” he offered lamely.

Cailen put down the sponge and hung her head.

“Kidding! Sorry. I just want to figure this out, and I need your help.”

He seemed earnest enough. She could believe that he just wanted to unravel this little undead puzzle, but it was hard to judge anything in her current state; the only thing she was sure of was that the coffee wasn’t working. That, and whatever power the donning of the pants had given her had fled.

“I’m…I’m going back to bed,” she said finally.

His shoulders slumped. “Will you please think about it, at least?”

“Fine,” she said.

No, she thought.

“Thanks. Sorry again for coming so early. I saw the lights come on, but I know it’s a bit–”

“You were sitting outside…?”

“I told you. This is bothering me, and I want some answers. Any answers.”

He gave her a meaningful look. She chose to ignore it.

As she ushered him to the door, she remembered the folders on the table. But when she glanced at them, he waved a hand.

“Keep them,” he said. “I’ll get them back when we go to check out the apartments.”

All she could manage was a “ha” before locking the door behind him. She double-bolted it for good measure.

Cailen rubbed a hand over her face. Ghosts she could avoid, for the most part–but Everett Jung, she thought, might prove tougher to evade.

***

She woke at 4 P.M. to a car alarm’s undulating cry from just under her window. Piercing in its insistence and as plaintive as a baby’s wail, she couldn’t block it out.

Rolling onto her side, Cailen pressed her forehead into the soft cushions of the couch and tried to force the siren’s wail into the white noise of the background, where it belonged. The sweet sounds of urban confusion usually lulled her to sleep, but she supposed her odd hours were messing with her brain.

She finally gave up. She rolled off the couch and onto her feet.

A glance in the fridge confirmed her worst fears: only condiments and beer lined the meager shelves. A quick exploration of the crisper revealed inedible salad makings and two plastic packets of soy sauce. She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d had Chinese.

“Starve, or brave the world outside?” she asked the coffee maker.

It ignored her, like it usually did.

She toggled the buttons on and off fondly as she considered the effort required to leave the home base.

It would be fine. It was daylight and bustling with live people. Their fluffy parka-clad bodies would provide her with much needed emotional insulation from the dead. There would be no dead butchers waiting this time. No river of blood or…

The familiar mantle of extreme reluctance settled over her, and crawling back under the covers suddenly sounded delightful. She could just go back to her room and deal with life tomorrow. Who needed wonderfully chewy noodles saturated in pork broth? That could wait. There were always those packets of soy sauce, after all.

A loud bang outside followed by the familiar, metallic crinkle of a fantastic fender-bender eased her internal struggle. It was like balm to her troubled soul.

She pondered her choices a moment more–and it was a near thing–but the promise of soupy comfort won in the end. “Outside it is,” she murmured, and gathered her wooly sweater around her.

As she exited her blocky building, she recoiled slightly under the wan light of the sun. The sky was a bright metal gray, filled with gauzy clouds pulled tight, north to south, by the blustery wind. Fall’s breath nipped at the tops of her ears, more playful today than on the previous night. It was just the kind of weather she loved.

A blue-and-green-checkered scarf rippled behind her as she strode purposefully down the block. Like almost every New Yorker, she traversed the sidewalk like a land shark. Smaller walkers parted before her while slower parties earned a (hopefully) gentle brush against her shoulder. Before long she reached the battered doors of her favorite noodle house; she slid into a counter seat beside other hungry customers.

She simultaneously caught the waiter’s attention and ordered by throwing three fingers in the air. A nod, and it was done. After her morning’s trials with Everett, she relished not having to say a word.

While she waited for her food, she toyed with the spice rack and thought about his visit.

Neither his earnest persistence nor the subject matter appealed to her at all.

She had no personal desire to find out more about the spirits wandering the streets. Her policy had always been to just avoid them as much as possible. While their circumstances or history could be interesting, their tendency to not respect boundaries made them unwanted fellows. Being driven around like a meat puppet had that effect on a person.

If she had even a hint of Gabriella’s ability to send them on their way, then her own situation wouldn’t be so bad. But she didn’t.

Cailen recalled Carl’s trick in compelling her closer to the shop; she shuddered. That seamless loss of time between taking a step and looking up to find she had crossed the street terrified her more than anything. Had there been a car or an open manhole, she would’ve walked right into them without hesitation.

“It’s exactly because you don’t work on it,” Gabriella had told her in exasperation one day. “You’re an open door with no lock and they know it. If you just worked on it, you’d be able to keep them out, at least.”

And so, Cailen had tried. Once.

The damn ghost had walked her right off the edge of a two-story construction pit. It was only dumb luck that there’d been a pile of mulched-up gravel to break her fall partway down.

It seemed that despite the fact that the old building there had been razed to the ground, its unearthly inhabitant had stayed behind to mark the location of her death. If Cailen had known that particular ghost’s suicidal history, it wouldn’t have been her first choice, but regardless–she’d spent a week in the hospital and another two months on crutches until her shattered leg healed.

Gabriella hadn’t asked her to try again after that.

That was two years ago, she thought in resignation. And I’m reduced to cultivating most of my social life online.

A giant bowl of pungent broth, piles of fatty brisket meat, and translucent rice noodles appeared magically in front of her. The waiter slammed down fresh bean sprouts, cilantro, and basil leaves, and disappeared again without a word.

The man was an absolute paladin of his trade. Cailen dug in with relish and tried to drown the uneasy feeling in her gut with soup.

***

Belly full and arms laden with bags after a quick run to the grocer, Cailen trudged up the stairs to her apartment. She was still chewing over Everett’s request when she turned the corner to the next flight and almost tripped right over him.

Perched on the bottom step with his long legs stretched out ahead of him, Everett’s lower appendages made an excellent roadblock. She caught herself on the rails before she fell backwards to her death, but he took several plastic bags in the face. Luckily for him, she heard eggs crack, instead of his forehead.

She glared at him over the rims of her glasses, now balanced precariously on the tip of her nose.

“Are you trying to stalk me or kill me?!”

He batted the bags away from his face. “I said I’d be back,” he replied. “You didn’t answer the door. I thought you might still be asleep.”

“I may never sleep again, knowing that you’re creeping outside my door!”

Again, high color resounded in his cheeks like capillary fireworks. Cailen paused. At least he was entertaining in some ways.

Instead of replying, he stood up and grabbed the bags out of her left hand. He proceeded up the remaining stairs to her apartment, leaving her to follow. She sighed.

After her groceries were safely tucked away in their respective storage areas–sans a few eggs that were given a proper garbage burial–Cailen ended up across from him on the sofas again. Just like their meeting hours earlier.

She adjusted her glasses and did her best to look unwelcoming. Everett just stared forward, his face the color of a fire engine.

“So…” she ventured, without much hope. “Your files?”

“We’ll take them with us.”

“Several words in that sentence are incorrect.”

“C’mon,” he implored. “You must be at least a little curious.”

“You couldn’t fill a thimble with my interest.”

“You have better plans tonight, then?”

“Mr. Merlot promised me a good time,” she informed him. “Ms. Chardonnay may be joining us.”

“Two murders don’t move you? Really?”

“I’ve never heard of a ghost stabbing people,” Cailen said with a shrug. “And I can’t hear them at all. So I think my moral duty AND usefulness here is limited.”

“What if I hired you?”

“This isn’t about money.”

He leaned forward, frustration on his face. “What can I do to get you to come with me?”

She sighed. “Why can’t this wait until Gabriella comes back? She’d do it in a heartbeat. For free!”

“I don’t know if it’ll still be around by the time she gets back…” Everett ran a hand through his hair. “It’s fading. I went back today after our talk, and I can hardly smell it any more. The cinnamon part, I mean.”

“But melted batteries was still there?”

“Just barely. That one’s fading, too.” He turned to look out the window, the light already leeching from the sky.

She caught a trace of defeat in his voice now. It suddenly brought her back to the previous night, when she’d shouted at the spirit of a man trapped forever in a butcher’s shop. A touch of shame for her unwillingness to help soured her stomach. It was an emotion that she found she disliked.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I think by tomorrow, it’ll be gone completely. I know you don’t care and seem to have this thing about them, but if there’s any way that I can convince you to come and just look, to see if you see or feel anything…I’d really, really appreciate it.”

His gaze was still fixed on the window as he delivered his last plea, seemingly locked on the fading sun. He clenched his jaw, as if bracing for the negative answer he knew was coming.

Cailen began to feel really bad.

She stood up and made a circuit around the kitchen area, hands jammed deep into her back pockets. Everett followed her progress with his eyes, but said nothing.

She opened the fridge and shuffled some stuff around. Then she opened the cabinets and rummaged. She stood there for a time, staring at the cans of soup unseeingly. Some part of her mind noticed that they had tinned sardines and wondered why. The rest of her was back outside Schellar & Weibeir’s Market in the misty rain.

Whether guilt or boredom or momentary impulsiveness made the decision for her, she didn’t know. She just shut the cabinets, stalked to the coat rack, and grabbed her jacket.

“Coming?” she asked.

Proceed to Chapter 1, page 3–>