Excerpt: Clocks

The dead man sitting in my passenger seat scowled and quipped, “You’re not dating that, are you?”

“What?” I was completely taken aback by the question. “God, no, that’s just Nichole. She an’ I have been friends since I moved here.”

He snorted. “She called you in the middle of the night two days ago.”

I shrugged. “Her boyfriend broke up with her.”

“Ah,” said the ghost, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “You’ve been friend-zoned.”

“Hey, you’re not here to talk about my social life. My TV said something about your granddaughter, so spill.”

The television incident had been one of the freakier incidents in my life, especially so since I’d watched Poltergeist when I was a kid. It was worse because it had happened while I was awake after midnight finishing my Latin translations and most of my apartment was dark.

Then suddenly the TV was on.

An electronic screech pierced the silence and made me lose my textbook as I jumped to my feet on the couch. Books, paper, and energy drink spilled on the beige carpet and all over the coffee table. Seconds later the screech was replaced by loud static, and then a voice—my dead passenger—telling me to listen up.

‘What the fuck are you?’ I’d shouted back at it. I’ve gotten weird phone calls, cold chills, mist, dreams, things thrown, and glimpses of entire people or events before, but never The Interactive Ghost Channel at two a.m. on a Friday. Heck yes I was scared. It might have been inhuman.

‘I need you to help my granddaughter,’ he’d replied. ‘Something is coming. She can’t do it on her own.’

He’d materialized next to the TV—wide shoulders and blue overalls with as much square mass as a lumberjack or Viking. It was probably fair to say that even if he hadn’t been dead and giving off major chills, his presence could have quelled most arguments.

Over the next few minutes as I calmed down enough to pick up my damaged homework with trembling hands, the dead man came closer and sat down on my couch. ‘Someone is blocking me from finding her or I would warn her myself.’

‘You can do that?’ I asked. Most ghosts were barely sentient, either recordings of the past or imprints of strong feelings from someone who had undergone a traumatic event. Most of the ones I’d met didn’t have the strength to manifest as strongly as this guy.

He nodded. ‘They’ve managed to keep me away from all my family, whoever they are. I want you to find out who and why.’

My recollection of the incident was interrupted by the red light at the intersection. I slammed the brake. My tires squealed.

I was so sleep-deprived. I was driving and starting to go off into space now. I growled and set my forehead on the steering wheel for about three seconds. When I finally lifted my head back up, the ghost was staring at me.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“You keep drifting in and out,” he said. “I’m the dead guy, not you.”