“Boo,” a voice whispered in his ear.

  Wallace didn’t so much scream as squeak. He almost fell over as he turned around. Nelson stood behind him, arching a bushy white eyebrow. “How did you do that?”

  “I’m a ghost,” Nelson said dryly. “I can do almost anything.” He raised the cane as if to strike Wallace again. Wallace reared back. “That’s better. Enough with this nonsense. You may not like being here, but that doesn’t mean you can make the rest of us suffer because of it. Either keep your mouth closed or come with me.”

  “Why would I go anywhere with you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Nelson said. “Maybe because I’m the only other human ghost here besides you? Maybe because I’ve been dead far longer than you have, and therefore know much more than you? Or maybe, just maybe, because I don’t sleep either and it would be nice to have someone to stay up with? Pick one, boy, or don’t pick anything at all, so long as you stop this infernal racket before I show you the end of my cane again.”

  “Why would you want to help me?”

  Nelson’s eyebrows rose on his forehead. “You think this is about you?” He scoffed. “It’s not. I’m helping my grandson. And don’t you forget it.” He pushed by Wallace and shuffled down the hall toward the front of the house, the little ears on his rabbit slippers flopping around. “About you,” he muttered. “Bah.”

  Wallace stared after him. He thought about picking right up where he’d left off, but the threat of the cane wasn’t pleasant. He hurried after the old man.

  Nelson went back to his chair in front of the fire, grunting as he sat down. Apollo was lying on his side in front of the fire, chest rising and falling slowly. Someone had cleaned up the glass from the bulb that had shattered earlier, and the lights from the sconces were dimmed.

  “Pull up a chair,” Nelson said without looking at him.

  Wallace sighed, but did as he was asked.

  At least he tried to.

  He went to the table closest to him and reached for one of the overturned chairs. He frowned when his hand went through the chair leg. He breathed heavily through his nose as he tried again with the same results. And again. And again. And again.

  Wallace heard Nelson laughing, but ignored him. If Nelson could sit in a chair, then it was something Wallace could do too. He just needed to figure out how.

  He grew even more frustrated a few moments later when he still couldn’t touch the chair.

  “Acceptance.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve accepted you’re dead,” Nelson said. “At least a little bit. You think you can’t interact with the corporeal world because of it. Your mind is playing tricks on you.”

  Wallace scoffed. “Isn’t that what you all wanted me to do? Accept that I’m dead?”

  He didn’t like the smile that grew on Nelson’s face. “Come here.”

  Wallace did.

  Nelson motioned for him to sit on the floor before him. Wallace sighed, but he had no other choice. He sank to the floor, crossing his legs, hands twitching on his knees. Apollo raised his head and looked at him. His tail thumped. He turned himself toward Wallace, rolling onto his back, legs kicking in the air. When Wallace didn’t accept the obvious invitation to scratch his stomach, he whined pitifully.

  “No,” Wallace said. “Bad dog.”

  Apollo farted in reply, a long sonorous sound.

  “Oh my god,” Wallace mumbled, unsure how he would find the strength to make it through the night.

  “Who’s a good boy?” Nelson cooed. Apollo almost knocked Wallace over as he wiggled at the praise.

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “Ask me nicely,” Nelson said, sitting back in his chair. “Just because we’re dead doesn’t mean we don’t have to use our manners.”

  “Please,” Wallace said, grinding his teeth together.

  “Please what?”

  Wallace wished they were both alive so he could murder Nelson. “Please help me.”

  “That’s better,” Nelson said. “How’s the floor? Is it comfortable?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re sitting on it. You expect it. The floor is always there. You don’t think about it. Except now you are, aren’t you?”

  He was. He was thinking about it quite a bit.

  Which is why he suddenly found himself sinking through the floor.

  He scrabbled for purchase, trying to reach for something to keep him from falling farther. He was up to his chest by the time Nelson held out his cane, cackling as he did so. Wallace grabbed ahold of it as if it were a lifeline and pulled himself back up, only to start sinking again almost immediately.

  “Stop thinking about it,” Nelson told him.

  “I can’t!” In fact, it was all he could think about. And even worse, he wondered what would happen if he fell through the floor completely, only to hit the earth beneath and then go through that.

  But before he sank to the center of the earth only to perish (possibly) in the molten core, Nelson said, “Did it hurt when you died?”

  He blinked, his grip on the cane tight. “What?”

  “When you died,” Nelson said. “Did it hurt?”

  “I … a little. It was quick. One moment I was there, and then I wasn’t. I didn’t know what was happening. I don’t see what that has to do with—”

  “And when you were there and then you weren’t, what was the first thing that went through your head?”

  “That it couldn’t be real. That there had to be some mistake. Maybe even just an awful dream.”

  Nelson nodded as if that were the answer he expected. “What made you realize you weren’t dreaming?”

  He hesitated, his grip tightening on the cane. “Something I remembered. I’d heard or read it. That it wasn’t possible for you to see your own face in a dream with any real clarity.”

  “Ah,” Nelson said. “And it was clear for you.”

  “Crystal,” Wallace said. “I could see the indents on my nose from my reading glasses, the stubble on my chin and cheeks. That’s when I first started thinking it might not be a dream.” A fleeting thought, one he’d shoved away as hard as possible. “And then…” He swallowed thickly. “At the funeral. Mei was … I’d never seen her before.”

  “Exactly,” Nelson said. “The mind is a funny thing. When we dream, our subconscious isn’t capable of constructing new faces out of nothing. Anyone we see in our dreams is someone we’ve seen before, even if only in passing. And when we’re awake, everything is clear because we see it with our eyes. Or hear it with our ears, smell it with our noses. It’s not like that when you’re dead. You have to start from scratch. You need to learn to trick yourself into believing the unexpected. And would you look at that. You did. It’s a start.”

  Wallace looked down. He was once again sitting on the floor. It felt solid beneath him. Before he could think about falling once again, he said, “You distracted me.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” He pulled his cane back and set it against the chair. “You’re very lucky to have me.”

  “I am?” He was dubious at best.

  “Absolutely,” Nelson said. “When I died, I had to learn all of this on my own. Hugo wasn’t pleased with me but kept his protestations to a minimum. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, after all. It took time. It was like learning to walk all over again.” He chuckled. “I had quite a few stumbles here and there. Broke a few teacups, much to Hugo’s dismay. He loves his teacups.”

  “He seems to have an unhealthy fascination with tea,” Wallace mumbled.

  “He got that from me,” Nelson said, and Wallace almost felt bad. Almost. “Taught him everything he knows. He needed focus, and the growing of tea plants provided that for him.”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  Nelson cocked his head. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s the right thing to do.”

  Wallace was confused. “But I’m not giving you anything in return. I can’t. Not like this.”

  Nelson sighed. “That’s a strange way to look at things. I’m not helping you because I expect you to give me anything. Honestly, Wallace. When was the last time you ever did anything without expecting something in return?”

  2006. Wallace had loose change in his pocket that annoyed him. A homeless man had been panhandling on the street corner near his office. He’d dropped the change into the man’s cup. It totaled seventy-four cents. The man thanked him. Ten minutes later, Wallace had forgotten he existed. Until now.

  He said, “I don’t know.”

  “Huh,” Nelson said. “That sure is … what it is. You’ve already got a leg up on me in one regard.”

  “I do?”

  Nelson nodded toward the sconces on the wall. “Shorted out that light bulb. Broke the glass. Took me a long time to work up that amount of energy.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Wallace admitted. “I wasn’t—I was angry.”

  “So I noticed.” His brow furrowed again. “Best you avoid anger if at all possible. It can cause all manner of situations better left avoided.”

  Wallace closed his eyes. “I have a feeling that’s easier said than done.”

  “It is,” Nelson said. “But you’ll get there. At least you will if you don’t decide to go through that door.”

  Wallace’s eyes snapped open. “I don’t want to—”

  Nelson held up his hands. “You’ll know when the time is right. I will say it’s nice to have someone to talk to so late at night. Helps pass the time.”

  “Years,” Wallace said. “You said you’d been dead a few years.”

  “That’s right.”

  Wallace’s stomach twisted strangely. It wasn’t unlike the hook in his chest, though it burned more. “You’ve been here every night by yourself?”

  “Most nights,” Nelson corrected gently. “Every now and then, someone like you comes along, though they don’t tend to stay very long. It’s transitionary. One foot in one world, and the other in the next.”

  Wallace turned toward the fire. It was almost out. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Ah,” Nelson said. “Of course not. What would you like to talk about?”

  But Wallace didn’t reply. He lay down on the floor and curled in on himself, arms wrapped around his chest, knees against his stomach. The hook in his chest vibrated, and he hated it. He closed his eyes and wished he could go back in time when everything made sense. It hurt more than he expected.

  “Okay,” Nelson said quietly. “We can do this too. Take all the time you need, Wallace. We’ll be here when you’re ready. Isn’t that right, Apollo?”

  Apollo woofed, tail thumping silently on the floor.

  CHAPTER

  8

  He opened his eyes again when he heard an alarm clock ringing from somewhere upstairs. It was still dark outside, and the clock above the fireplace said it was half past four in the morning.

  He hadn’t slept. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get himself to relax. It didn’t help that he wasn’t even remotely tired. He’d drifted, not quite dozing. He replayed the moment right before his death over and over again in his mind, wondering if he could have done anything different. He could think of nothing, and it only made him feel worse.

  Pipes in the walls groaned and creaked as someone turned on a shower overhead. The sound of the water brought a fresh wave of misery. He’d never take another shower again.

  Mei was the first to come down the stairs. Apollo greeted her, tail wagging. She yawned, jaw cracking as she rubbed between his ears. She wasn’t wearing a suit like she’d been the day before. Instead, she wore a pair of black slacks and a crisp white collared shirt under an apron like the one Hugo had worn the night before.

  Nelson was gone from his chair. Wallace hadn’t even heard him leave.

  “Why are you lying on the floor?” Mei asked.

  “Why do we do anything that we do?” Wallace said dully. “There’s no point.”

  “Oh man,” Mei said. “It’s far too early for your existential angst. At least let me wake up more before having to deal with such a bummer.”

  He closed his eyes again.

  And opened them when he felt someone above him.

  Hugo stood there, staring down at him, dressed as he’d been the day before. The only difference was the bright pink bandana around his head. Wallace hadn’t even heard him approach. He glared at the cable that connected them.

  Hugo smiled. “What’s this?”

  “How are you so quiet?” Wallace asked.

  “Practice,” Hugo said with a chuckle as he patted the slope of his stomach. “Or maybe you weren’t paying attention. Come on. Get up.”

  “Why?” He hugged his legs tighter.

  “Because I want to show you the kitchen.”

  “It’s a kitchen,” Wallace said. “Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

  “Humor me.”

  “I highly doubt I want to do that at all.”

  Hugo nodded. “Suit yourself. Apollo.”

  Wallace yelped as the dog ran through the closest wall. He circled around Hugo, sniffing his feet and legs. Once he’d finished his inspection, he sat down next to Hugo, his one ear flopping over.

  “Good boy,” Hugo said. He nodded toward Wallace. “Lick.”

  Wallace said, “What? Wait, no! No lick! No—”

  Apollo licked quite furiously. His tongue slobbered on Wallace’s face and then his arms when he tried to shield himself from what most certainly amounted to assault by canine. He attempted to shove the dog off him, but Apollo was heavy. His breath was terrible, and for a brief moment, Wallace wondered about his own breath, because he hadn’t brushed his teeth in days. But then that train of thought derailed quite spectacularly when he opened his mouth to shout, only to have dog tongue brush against his own.

  “Ack! No! Why! Why.”

  “Apollo,” Hugo said mildly.

  Apollo immediately stepped back, sitting once again beside Hugo, looking down at Wallace as if he were the asshole in this situation.

  “Kitchen?” Hugo asked.

  “I will destroy everything you love,” Wallace threatened.

  “Does that ever work on anyone?” Hugo sounded honestly curious.

  “Yes. All the time.” Granted, he hadn’t used those exact words before, but people had learned to fear him. Those in his employ, those not in his employ. Colleagues. Judges. A few children, but the less said about that the better.

  “Oh,” Hugo said. “Well. Until you do that, you should come and see my scones. I’m proud of them.”

  “Your scones?” Mei shouted from the kitchen. “How very dare you!”

  Hugo laughed. “You see what I have to deal with? Get up, Wallace. You don’t want to be there when we open. People will walk all over you, and no one wants that. You least of all.”

  He turned on his heel and walked around the counter before pushing through the double doors, Apollo trailing after him.

  Wallace gave very serious thought to staying right where he was.

  In the end, he got up.

  But only because he chose to.

  * * *

  The kitchen was far bigger than he thought it’d be. It was a galley kitchen: on one side were two industrial-size ovens and a stove with eight different metal burners, almost all in use. On the other was a sink and the largest refrigerator Wallace had ever seen. At the back of the kitchen was a small breakfast nook with a table near bay windows that looked out onto the tea garden.

  Mei had flour on her forehead as she moved from one side of the kitchen to the other, frowning at the bubbling pots on the stove before muttering, “Is it supposed to do that?” She shrugged and bent over to stare into each oven.

  A radio sat on top of a cabinet, and Wallace was shocked at the heavy metal music pouring from the speakers, thunderous and awful and in … German? Mei made it worse by singing along in an off-putting guttural voice. It sounded like she was trying to summon Satan. Wallace wouldn’t put it past her to be doing just that. And oh, did that start a line of thought he didn’t want to even consider.

  He startled when he saw Nelson sitting in one of the chairs at the table, hands resting on his cane. He’d … changed his clothes? Gone were the pajamas and bunny slippers. He now wore a thick blue sweater over tan slacks and shoes with Velcro straps. And he too was grunting along with the music as if he knew each and every word.

  “How did you do that?” Wallace demanded.

  Everyone stopped to stare at him, Hugo in the process of tying his apron.

  “Do what?” Mei asked as she reached up to turn the radio volume down.

  “I’m not talking to—Nelson, how did you do that?”

  Nelson looked around as if there were some other Nelson in the kitchen. When he saw there wasn’t, he said, “Me?”

  Maybe sinking through the floor wasn’t such a bad idea. “Yes, you. You changed your clothes!”

  Nelson looked down at himself. “Why shouldn’t I have? Pajamas are for nighttime. Do you not know that?”

  “But—that’s—we’re dead.”

  “Acceptance,” Mei said. “Cool.” She started furiously stirring the pots again, one after the other.

  “And?” Nelson said. “Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I don’t like to look my best.” He held up his shoes, wiggling his feet. “Do you like them? They’re Velcro, because laces are for suckers.”

  No, Wallace didn’t like them. “How did you do that?”

  “Oh!” Nelson said brightly. “Well, it’s the unexpected thing we were talking about last night after you sank through the floor.”

  “After what?” Hugo asked, eyebrows rising on his forehead.

  Wallace ignored him. “Can I do that?”

  Nelson shrugged. “I don’t know. Can you?” He raised his cane and thumped it on the floor. And just like that, he was wearing a pinstriped suit, not unlike one Wallace had hanging in his own closet. He thumped the cane again, and he was wearing jeans and a heavy winter coat. He thumped the cane again, and was in a tuxedo, his top hat tilted jauntily on his head. The cane hit the floor one more time and he was in his original outfit, Velcro shoes and all.