From Beyond
by Dale C. Mallows

Chapter One

I’d only ever met Jackson twice, and he’d never seemed a particularly pleasant person to be around. Something about him, his attitude maybe, put me off. He didn’t seem to like me very much either, but here he was, standing in front of me, asking for my help. He was still an arrogant son of a bitch, and an angry one at that, but I mean who can blame the guy? He was murdered after all. Or so he tells me, ghosts don’t always tell the truth. Life would be a hell of a lot easier for me if they did, but nobody ever fooled me into thinking life was fair.

Not many people can see ghosts. I can, and as an added bonus, I can also talk to them. The drawback is that can talk to me, too, and ghosts don’t really have a much respect for privacy. None of them seem too concerned about the fact that I have to sleep from time to time, either. I really shouldn’t complain though, if it weren’t for my connection to the spirit world, I’d probably be leading a completely different life, most likely in a nine to five. I’ll take invasive ghosts over a cubicle any day.

Jackson had died three nights ago, according to his own report. He stood there, looking completely solid to me, with his arms crossed and a frown on his features. I wondered fleetingly if he’d died wearing that Armani suit, or if he was trying to spruce up his own ghostly image. Who he was trying to impress was beyond me, but it seemed in death Jackson was still as vain as he was in the living world.

“I’m only twenty four years old! I wasn’t supposed to die this young; I still have a lot to accomplish!” Jackson voice wasn’t whispery or incoherent, he spoke as loudly and clearly as any living person would, the only difference being nobody else could hear him aside from Yours Truly.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Jackson, you’re dead.” I replied lamely. I suppose it sounded a little callous, but he’d been arguing with him for at least fifteen minutes now. He’d had plenty of time to come to terms with his death, and arguing about it wasn’t going to help him or me.

“I can’t believe he killed me, that son of a bitch!” He was talking about his business partner, who’d apparently shot him.

“Pretty low.” I agreed.

“So you’ll help me?” Jackson asked, his ghostly eyes fixing on my blue ones.

I sighed, though hopefully it wasn’t too audible. “I can’t do what you’re asking me, Jackson. I don’t kill people.”

“Shit! What the hell use are you, then?”

I thought about reminding Jackson that I never actually offered any assistance to him, and that he’d actually tracked me down, but it seemed a moot point. “I can take your information to the police. They’ll investigate your claims, and if what you say happened, he’ll go to prison.” I offered, knowing already that he wouldn’t be satisfied.

“So I rot in hell while that backstabber sits in a comfortable prison cell? Shit!” Jackson spat.

“You’re not in hell, Jackson. You’re here, talking to me.”

Jackson only grunted in reply. For the record, I don’t know what happens to ghosts when they pass on. Only a few have given vague recollections of seeing a light just after their death, but nothing substantial. Heaven and Hell are as much a mystery to me as they doubtless are to anyone else.

“I don’t do vengeance, Jackson.” I said simply and firmly. I wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t going to budge on this, and it seemed to work.

“Christ. You’ll at least tell the cops about it? Get the bastard locked up?”

“If your story fits with the evidence the police find, yes, I’m sure he’ll be locked up. But I don’t do guarantees, I’m not a cop.”

“Alright, let’s go.” Jackson ordered, his eyes full of fire.

“We’ll go tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the police station at seven thirty.” I replied.

“Come on, this is an emergency!” Jackson shouted, and I was thankful none of my neighbours would hear him. “We have to hurry!”

“You’re already dead, Jackson.” I replied calmly. “You’re not getting any deader. Besides, it’s four in the morning. I’m only human, and I do need to sleep.”

The ghostly image seemed to flicker for a moment, which sometimes happens when a ghost feels a strong emotion. I was guessing said emotion was anger, but I wasn’t game to ask. It only occurred for a moment, and his image was still as strong as ever afterwards. Jackson Perry might be an asshole, but he had a strong will. Well, I supposed it was willpower that differed the semi-transparent ghosts from the solid seemingly alive ones like Jackson.

“Fine, fine. Seven thirty, and don’t be late!” In the blink of an eye, the ghost was gone. Where, I had no clue, but I was glad he was gone. Being woken up by an aggressive spirit at four in the morning was never fun, and you don’t get used to it, no matter how many times it happens.

I looked over at my alarm clock. The glowing digital numbers confirmed my estimate of the time; it was in fact quarter past four. I sighed with the knowledge that I’d have to be up in two hours. I really had to find a way to keep ghosts from entering my house, especially my bedroom I thought as I rolled over and pulled the sheets over my shoulder. I mean, really, why can’t spirits visit my office during office hours?

-

As promised, I awoke two hours after my encounter with the dearly departed Jackson Perry. My apartment was located above my office, so I was rarely late for work, but I’d always been an early riser. I usually went for a jog just after getting out of bed, but since I’d made the appointment with Jackson to see the police, I knew I wouldn’t have time. Instead I went through some paperwork before showering and shaving. My reflection looked exactly as I thought it would, shadows under my blue eyes due to the lack of sleep. I quickly threw some gel in my short brown hair, brushed my teeth and hurried out of the apartment.

I made my way sleepily down the staircase that lad down to my office, which was very small and not highly decorated. I put up a picture of a watercolour sunflower to break up the bland off white walls, but I didn’t want to turn the place into a circus. After all, many of my customers are distraught; I didn’t see how having a plant in the corner was going to make them feel better. I did have a pile of magazines sitting on a small wooden table, and these I tried to keep up to date, which I felt put me ahead of other businesses in that regard.

I made my way into the kitchenette, as I kept the milk stocked in the office but rarely had any in my apartment, and made myself a coffee. As I drank it down I double checked that I had no appointments in my diary, which turned out to be accurate. I had Mrs. Florence coming at midday, so I had plenty of time to spend with the police. Other than Mrs. Florence, I only had two other appointments. Slow day. I suppose I can’t blame the industry, people die every day. There isn’t really a market trend with ghosts.

My job is to speak with the dead. There are many different reasons people hire my services, often mundane reasons like sorting out a will that wasn’t written before the deceased...well, became deceased. Other times, it’s to pass on a message, or even a warning. It isn’t a terribly exciting job, but I get to work my own hours, be my own boss and work alone. Using my natural gift to pay the bills just makes sense.

I looked down at my watch and saw that I was running later than I’d expected. My alarm clock on my bedside table was always five minutes fast, no matter how many times I fixed it. I couldn’t decide if it was getting too old or if some ghost was messing with me. Not too many ghosts can affect anything physical, but a few of them can change small things, mostly electrical devices. I finished the coffee and left the empty mug sitting on top of my files, which was a bad habit of mine I suppose, and made my way to the door. I could see through the window on the door my name printed in reverse, as I was looking at it from indoors.

From Beyond
Joshua Hawkins
Certified Medium

My office and cell number and office hours were below my name. It was all very professional, a necessary touch when running a business, particularly when you’re up against big competitors. Not that there are many people in my field of work, in fact there are very few, but all the others I know work for P. L Delilah, a company that offers all kinds of supernatural services from other mediums, to necromancers. They’d offered me a job, but like I said, I like my freedom. That said, I wouldn’t mind one of those pay cheques they were offering at the time. I’ve been relying on advertising in the local paper and dropping flyers in people letterboxes.

I exited and locked up my office, and headed to my car which was parked just a little down the street. I almost never got a parking spot in front of my office. I jumped into my old Ford and turned the key. However, before the motor had a chance to jump to life, I was startled from a voice behind me.

“You’re going to be late.”

I looked behind me and saw a head of dark hair and almond eyes. Eric Sanders, my co-worker of sorts. “It’s only a short drive, I’ll make it.” I reply.

“No, you won’t.” His deadpan voice responds.

I turn around to look at him fully; the curly raven black hair that falls across his eyes in uneven licks. Even sitting in the back seat of the car his height shows, a little over six feet tall and very thin. There is a smile playing on his lips, though he tries to hide it. “Alright,” I sigh, “why am I going to be late?”

The smile finally breaks into a wide grin on his pale face. “Because your wallet is sitting on your desk.”

I instinctively pat my pockets and realize he’s right. A sigh escapes my lips as I turn away from the silently chuckling passenger. When I said earlier that I work alone, that was slightly misleading. I have a partner, Eric, the tall dark-haired youth in the back of my car. He and I have worked together for two years, but I don’t really see him as a typical co-worker. You see, Eric is dead.