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The nightclub looks worse in the daylight, though that’s true of most clubs. Police tape is hung everywhere. A patrol car is posted at the end of the street. I easily evade him, parking my bike down the same alley we gathered in last night. The backdoor is wide open, and I spot piles of trash bags lining the alley that weren’t there before.
I step inside the club and see the broken chairs and tables, likely trampled by the people trying to escape, blood covering the floor. Someone’s been working in here, though. I hear the sound of footsteps.
A man walks in from behind the bar and freezes when he sees me standing there.
“Who the fuck are you?” He grabs an empty bottle and throws it at me.
I narrowly dodge it and hold my hands up to him to show him I mean no harm.
“I was here last night,” I explain. “I lost my friend in the crowd. I was hoping if I came back, I could retrace our steps.”
The lie falls easily off my tongue, and his face changes briefly to a look of pity, before his guard goes back up.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” he answers. “But this is a crime scene. You shouldn’t be here. I thought you were the shooter, coming back to finish the job.”
I look at him curiously. “Did you get a good look at the guy?”
He shakes his head. “No, but you look like the kind of guy that could handle firepower. No offense.”
I smile. “None taken.”
“Look, I’ve got a lot of cleaning to get done, so if you wouldn’t mind getting the fuck out of here…”
I nod and turn for the door, but I stop before stepping out onto the street.
“My friend—she has long black hair. I don’t suppose you saw her?”
The man fixes me with a hard, annoyed stare. “Fifty people were shot in my establishment last night,” he answers coldly. “I’ve got a little more on my mind than helping you chase ass.”
I shrug and walk out, not offended by the man’s tone. It was a long shot, but I had to try. The only thing I know about the woman is that she was here last night. It’s nothing to go on.
But this city is crawling with ghosts, and they are huge gossips. How hard can it be to find one girl when I have access to the largest network of surveillance in the state of Louisiana? I find an abandoned apartment complex a block down from the club and enter.
The lights flicker ominously, a sure sign ghosts are here. I realize quickly, though, that they aren’t trying to scare me for the sake of their own entertainment. Because I can’t find them. Like Cassandra, these ghosts are hiding from me.
Ghosts don’t usually hide from the living because they don’t have to. Their favorite thing to do is appear to the living in ominous, terrifying ways. Something is off if they’re trying to scare me away.
I search through a few empty apartments to be safe but find nothing. I call out to them, letting them know I’m a friend. This usually works because ghosts never get to interact with the living. They love to unburden themselves and complain about the afterlife to me, but they aren’t enticed.
I give up on the apartment building and head across the street to a rundown crack den. Ghosts love watching the living throw away their lives for stupid shit. It’s their second favorite activity. As I carefully navigate over the smelly husks of drug addicts, I have the same experience. No one is around. Or, if they are around, they aren’t showing themselves to me.
It’s a frustrating experience. Whenever I want peace and quiet, at least a hundred ghosts are barreling down my door to get to me. Now that I need them, they’re nowhere to be found. So fucking unhelpful. If I ever become a ghost, I’ll be sure to spend my days making the other ghosts miserable.
It’s nearly eight, now, and Pocus wants to meet this morning so we can talk about our increased security. I have to try one more place because I refuse to return to the clubhouse empty-handed. The last few days have been frustrating, and I won’t tell Pocus that I’ve struck out with every ghost in New Orleans.
A small cemetery is situated a mile down the road. I pull my bike up and walk among the tombstones. Some people find cemeteries terrifying while others consider them peaceful. The truth is somewhere in the middle. Ghosts love hanging around cemeteries to frighten mourners and dumb teenagers who break in at night.
If you come at the right time, though, the light filters in through the hanging moss, and the whole area is transformed into a beautiful oasis. Even a few ghost tricks can’t scare people away from this kind of beauty. I’ve only seen graveyards like this in New Orleans.
I call out to the ghosts, offering my help. Finally, someone pokes his head out from behind a tombstone.
“I’ve heard of you,” he says ominously. “You’re the one who communes with the dead.”
“You can drop the formalities. Where is everyone?”
The ghost is an older man dressed in a Civil War uniform. Many of those wait around here. They’re all a little unhinged, but it’s better to get information from him than to go home empty-handed.
“You don’t know?” he scoffs. “We’re being hunted by an evil spirit. It wants to drag us down to hell with it.”
