Page 17 of The House on Haven Way

“Dipwad?” I mutter and walk over.

For a second, her eyes glaze, then focus, and she gasps. “The frowning man!”

“The what?”

“You! You’re the frowning man in my dream!”

“Wasn’t a dream,” I sigh. “I knew you saw me for a second. And look, I’m not usually a big frowner. I’m a jovial sort of guy. Real people person and all that. But not these days. This is my place. I can’t leave it, and I can’t cross over, either, so you can forget that. One of us has to go, and it’s gotta be you.”

Amber slowly tries to sit up, wincing and gasping. I don’t know what I’m thinking, but I gently stretch out and help her sit up.

“Thanks. And also—no deal, buster. All my money is sunk into this place. I’m not moving. Not selling. How could I? That would just be someone else you’d scare off, right? Is that really what you want to do with your life?” She looks at me, frowns, and amends, “Unlife? Afterlife?”

“No, of course it isn’t. I wanna cross over, okay? I got a family, too, but they’re all dead and gone. I can’t leave—because I was killed here.”

Amber’s eyes widen. “Killed?”

“That’s right. I had it all, kid.”

“Amber. I’m Amber. Not ‘kid.’”

“Fine, Amber.” I sit down, too, cross-legged, looking intently at the wet, shaking woman across from me. “I was a Sgt. Had an honorable discharge at the end of my time in Korea. Got one of the special loans for G.I. s. Got this place. Got a car—a real beauty, a Chevy Bel-Air. Got a job I liked, working over at Manny’s Garage. Got a girl—Nancy. Cute little waitress. I was supposed to propose the night I died. Killed. Only twenty-four, you know.”

“No. I didn’t know. And look. I’m sorry, because that’s horrible, and miserable, and I’m so, so sorry—” Her voice rings with genuine sympathy, and she looks at me, waiting for me to supply my name, I think.

“It’s Johnny. Johnny Miller.”

“I’m so sorry, Johnny, but I’m alive. You’re not. I had a career. I worked my ass off to get into an architectural program in Boston with a minor in structural engineering. Only girl in most of my classes. I got internships, then the lowest jobs in firms that partnered with bigger firms, then actual jobs at the actual big firms—I was going in for a meeting with someone at the head of Urban Design at Dillinger and Doesberry, the biggest firm in Manhattan, when some idiot T-boned my car and nearly killed me. Busted my back. My head. Blurry vision. Broken wrist. Unable to do the job I’d trained for all of my adult life.”

“But you’re better now. Couldn’t you—”

“No. You know why? A year in recovery taught me something. I might have been in a car crash in Manhattan, but I was heading for an actual crash in real life. I wasn’t eating, I wasn’t sleeping, I was in meetings and calls until eight at night, and I was obsessed with getting into the next big team, nailing a spot for the next big project—and I don’t want to live like that anymore. This is Pine Ridge. This is peace. I’m going to keep this house. And my peace.” Her soft, pretty face goes hard. “And if you mess with me, Johnny Miller, I will kick your undead ass. I will exorcise you so fast your ghostly blue jeans catch fire.”

I look down at my clothes. I never take much notice of what I’m wearing, but I think it’s usually the same thing. White tee. Blue jeans. Work boots. Used to have cigarettes rolled up in my left sleeve, but I don’t now. Wonder where they went, if they faded away as I stopped reaching for them, knowing I couldn’t smoke ‘em. “You know I could kill you before you find your phone. So fast your pink jammies catch fire,” I snarl, turning the phrase on her.

Amber’s face goes slack in shock for a second—then gets cocky. “No. You wouldn’t. You dragged me inside when I was knocked out under the tree. And... and it was you! You saved me when I was choking, didn’t you?” she gasps.

I close my eyes. “I just wanted to make you leave, not kill you. But, hey, if you’re throwing around words like ‘exorcise,’ I’ll play rough, too. I think you’re one cold dame if you can come in and throw an old man out of his home, a home he earned serving his country, a home he was murdered in the night that he was about to seal his future, start his family by proposing to the girl of his dreams,” I say, arching one eyebrow. Laying it on real thick.

Even as I say it, I feel a guilty squirm about one part.

Nancy. She was wonderful, but she wasn’t the girl of my dreams. I was young and dumb. I dreamed of a future where I’d have a few kids, grill on Saturday, cut the lawn on Sunday, and have a wife in a pretty dress making sure the clothes were clean and the dog was fed. Just... Just what they call the American Dream, I guess.

What do I dream of now?

I don’t know. People that I love. Seeing them again.

“Look... Can we work out some kind of a deal? You have the back bedrooms, and I’ll take the rest of the house? When my cousin comes over in October, I’m going to need you not to pull this freaky shit, though,” she informs me, trying—and failing—to stand.

I help her again. “You’re in real bad shape, ki—Amber. You’re not in a position to make demands.”

“And you’re a bad poker player,” she counters, letting out a muffled noise of pain when she finally is able to push off on her wrist and rise. “I think I broke a toe. And my wrist always hurts when it rains. This is a new level of pain, though, thank you very much.”

“Hey, I tried the diplomatic approach, though. A little flicker-flicker here. A little slam there.”

“Hmph.” She makes a doubtful noise. “Hey... You can touch stuff!”

“Damn, how hard did you hit your head, kid?” I ask. “Yeah, you’ve already figured that out, remember? I was the one who hauled you in here? The one who was slamming the doors and windows?”