Nearly Departed by Max Schlienger (read novels website .TXT) 📗

“We’re talking a real ghost, here?” he asked. His voice carried a tone that put Dennis slightly on edge.

“Yes,” he replied hesitantly. “A real ghost.”

Bobo examined Dennis’ face for a moment longer. “I suppose,” he said, making a show of carefully weighing his next words, “that if some lady is willing to pay you that much to help her, then it must be the real thing.” He sat back in his chair, which creaked in protest. “It would explain a few items, too.”

“I’m glad that a check is all it takes to convince you,” said Dennis, a touch sarcastically. He refolded the paper and slipped it out of sight. “Explain what, exactly?”

Bobo shrugged. “Your reflection was watching you, is all.” He looked back at Dennis, who said nothing. “Come on, now, you haven’t heard of this?”

“Heard of what?” Dennis asked flatly. “Reflections always watch you, at least when you’re looking at them.”

Bobo shook his head. “It’s a fairy story I heard when I was younger. Yeah, you’re right, reflections look back at you, but there’s a difference between looking and watching.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, I’ll show you,” Bobo said, standing up. After a pause, Dennis rose and followed him back into the main section of the shop. A few minutes of rummaging through various merchandise revealed an ornate and tarnished silver mirror, which Bobo held out to Dennis. “Have a look.”

There was nothing strange about Dennis’ reflection, save for a few shards of porcelain still clinging to his hair. He grimaced as he brushed them out, then examined the sight of himself. With the flakes of dried glue and streaked makeup on his face, he did in fact look like a disheveled drunk. Other than that, though, the image appeared normal. He glanced up at Bobo.

“I don’t see anything.”

“They say that when a person is about to experience something magical, or sometimes when they’re already in thick of it, that their reflection will judge their actions.” He pushed the mirror closer to Dennis’ face. “Look again, you’re not trying.”

“If I try hard enough, I’m sure I can make myself see Paris in there,” Dennis replied. He looked around the mirror at Bobo. “Listen, this isn’t a game.”

Bobo carefully put the mirror down on the multilevel display table where he had found it. “Alright, suit yourself.” He turned back to Dennis. “If you want my help, you’re going to have to be a little more open-minded, is all.”

“Who said I wanted your help?” Dennis asked, rather more rudely than he had intended. Bobo seemed unaffected by the question, and he gestured around at the shop as a response.

“Look around, September. I know all there is to know about this New Age mumbo-jumbo. I’m what you’d call a bona-fide expert.”

“Hitting me with a porcelain Jesus does not count as expert advice,” Dennis countered, but he considered Bobo’s words. He was only too aware of the various bits of so-called culture that he had picked up during his numerous excursions, but he had to admit that he knew next to nothing about the myths and superstitions that surrounded them. Besides, Bobo was right about being an expert. Dennis had overheard him droning on to anyone who would listen about the secrets of the spirit world, and although he had always dismissed it as a sales technique, it seemed unpredictably applicable to the current situation.

“Okay, fine,” Dennis conceded. “You can help me. I’m not going to ask Elspeth for more money, though, so you’ll have to make do with a cut of my weekly payment.”

“You can keep your money,” replied Bobo. “I’ll settle for seeing a real ghost!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “So, when do we start?”

“In two days,” answered Dennis. “I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty, and we can head over to the house together.” A thought occurred to him. “Won’t you need someone to run your shop?”

“I’ll put a sign on the door,” Bobo said. “Hey, in this business, my hours are whenever I bloody well feel like it.”

“Right.” Dennis looked around the shop again. “Well, I’ll see you on Wednesday morning, then.” He moved to the door, past the long-dead remains of the incense sticks. “Oh, and Bobo…”

“Yeah?”

“Leave the wig at home, okay?”

Bobo’s smile widened as he answered. “You got it, boss.”

Exhaustion was threatening to overwhelm him as Dennis approached the door to his house. He was certain that he had begun hallucinating at some point during the final stretch of his drive, although he couldn’t be certain. It was San Francisco, after all, and it was quite possible that he had in fact watched two women clad only in orange paint chase one another with plungers. Still, he somewhat doubted it. The fact that they had vanished immediately after Dennis had nearly bulldozed a mailbox was another hint.

The lights were on when Dennis opened the door, which meant that either Alena was home or he was in trouble. His wife seemed to have a sixth sense about the electricity bill, and regarded unnecessary lighting as a crime punishable by death. It came as a relief when Dennis heard the sound of footsteps, even as he realized that Alena’s presence did not in any way negate the possibility of his own forgetfulness.

“Where have you been?” Alena asked as she turned the corner. There was more curiosity in her tone than anger, but Dennis could still sense the irritation lurking underneath her neutral expression.

“A job,” he answered.

“I tried calling you. I take it your phone was on silent?”

“No, it’s…” he thought for a moment. “Actually, it’s still in my glove compartment.” He flopped down onto the couch and let his eyelids fall as he tried to relax, although the shaking that had started in his limbs seemed disinclined to fade.

“Are you going to go get it?” Alena asked. Dennis waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. He heard the sounds