Haunting Zoe

  ***

  I watch as the storm clouds gather in the dim afternoon sky, the air grows thick with the promise of rain, and the first shard of lightning streaks across the sky. The workers hastily operate the wench, lowering my shiny black casket into the hole at my feet. My family has long gone home, all that’s left now are the piles of flowers and the two men in blue jumpsuits. One hops in the bobcat and begins scooping large bucketfuls of dirt to fill it in.

  They finish their work quickly and scurry to the shelter of a crude building near the rear of the cemetery. Just as they step inside and close the door a roll of thunder echoes across the sky and the rain lets loose. I don’t feel it, not the drops hitting my skin or the bit of the cold water. It might be because I’m too numb—too overwhelmed for the day—to feel anything. Or it might just be a perk of being dead.

  After Zoe had seen me at the wake, I’d been so sure there would be someone else, anyone else, who would have the same ability. I should have known it was too much to hope for.

  Zoe and I had been best friends as kids. We’d made mud pies, had secret forts in the woods behind my house, she’d even been my first kiss. As innocent childhood kisses go, it had been pretty memorable. But all that changed after her dad died. I remember knocking on her door every day that summer, only to be sent away by her mother because she didn’t feel like company.

  Every. Single. Day.

  She ended up homeschooling for a while and by the time she came back, we were in high school. I had new friends and new hobbies. We just didn’t fit in each other’s lives anymore. I got popular, and she got bitchy.

  And that was being generous.

  For the most part we’d managed to stay clear of each other, until the end of school last year when my best friend Bruno had asked me for her number out of the blue. Even as an unexpected feeling of jealousy and possession had flared up inside me, I’d jokingly slapped him on the shoulder and told him he’d be better off asking out a pit viper.

  I close my eyes, trying to remember what the inside of her house looks like. The air around me changes and when I open my eyes, I’m in her kitchen. The storm is still raging outside and above me the simple chandelier flickers. Zoe is standing there, her back to me. Her long, messy brown hair is hanging in loose strands and she’s in what I assume are her pajamas, her feet bare.

  The lights flicker again, harder this time, and she turns to face me, a glass of milk and a plate of pizza in her hands. I watch as her eyes focus on me and I can’t help the momentary feeling of relief.

  She really can see me, even now. Whatever had happened at the funeral home hadn’t been an isolated incident. Then as I stare into her doe eyes, they widen, her face pales, and I see her mouth open. The plate and glass slip from her fingers and crash to the floor, shattering in every direction.

  I hold out my hands in front of me.

  “Don’t move,” I say calmly.

  Then she screams.