Excerpt: One in 50,000: The Old Port

The wee hours of the morning were lonely times for Portland, made moreso by the cold echoes of the living, who try to fill the vast emptiness with their voices.
Some sang. Some talked to themselves.
Some even walked loudly, making a point of kicking every loose cobblestone and old soda bottle along the street, if only to make sure that there was something alive making the noise.
Not that many actually heard the ghosts that lingered, or saw them flit from place to place along the paths they had worn in life. The older a city, the harsher her history, the more ghosts linger, as significant echoes of what was-- and Portland was old. She'd been burned to the ground in wars three times, then, like a Phoenix, had risen from her own ashes to become a small and beautiful city.
At least in the daytime.
The flickering yellow lights of halogens that hadn't been replaced for twenty years beckoned only the bravest-- or the drunkest-- souls to meander through the eternally dark maze of alleyways. Some lights would darken without warning for minutes at a time, then surprise the pedestrians by illuminating the crumbling sidewalk, just in time for them to avoid serious injury.
Most of the time.
An unusually cold November, the soft sounds of things moving in the shadows-- be they rats, cats, or ghosts. Or even the eternal shushing ocean against old wooden pylings. They all contributed to an atmosphere that would be better suited to an end-of-October weekend, not one so close to the more cheerful holidays.
Or birthday celebrations for old college roommates.
Can anyone hear me? Please—I need help.
“Did you hear that?” No one else had. Leaving her friends to continue walking towards to their after-bar birthday party, Lydia Baine stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, letting her friends go around her. “I need to catch my breath. I'll catch up with you.”
Please help me-- help my friend. Is there anyone there?
Laughter was the only response from a few of the friends lagging behind on the steep incline, after all, none of them heard the voice that wasn't a voice. Only Lydia.
The last ferry had long since docked for the night, and the bars were dispensing drunks and designated drivers into the icy streets after last call. Mostly the former, and precious few of the latter. Some staggered to cabs, some to cars, and yet others towards private dwellings-- like Lydia and her party-- to continue their midweek celebration past the usual curfew that was imposed upon the nightclubs in the Old Port.
November was normally a rainy month. This one was no exception-- however the chill had hit the air, and occasional spots of snow had turned the dull red of sidewalk brick into a mottled pink, and given the cobblestones a pale glaze. Thunderstorms rarely happened at this latitude this deep into the cold season, but for some reason there had been an earth-rattling series of booms running through the snowy skies. Lydia hadn't been terribly surprised that none of the rest of her friends had noticed them, but then their senses had been dulled by alcohol. The general over-tiredness that came from being around too many people for too long had made her give up asking-- that and a cold wet rain would probably sober up a few of them.
God, can't anyone hear me? Danny's going to die, and I can't even touch him.
The voice was still there, and as she backtracked down Fox to find the source, she noticed the figure of a man, dim in the ancient street lights. He looked ragged enough to be one of the homeless in the area-- but Lydia knew better. She watched him making a grab for the shoulder of a passer-by.
The hand went through the shoulder.
What good is being a ghost if you can't get anyone's attention? Come on-- there's got to be someone . . .
“Great. Another one.” Lydia sighed. A ghost-- one that she hadn't seen before in the years she'd lived in the area. A few more steps brought her close enough to see the details that faded out in the light. “And I suppose you've got one of those helpless hopeless tasks that you left undone? Did you even have a home, or are you just another crazy bum?”
The air grew still, a calm before sudden downpours. The ozone practically crackled as the ghostly man turned to look directly at her.
You can hear me. You can see me.
“Yes, I can.” Sometimes she hated this gift. Hated to be able to see ghosts, to read people-- as the old cliché said-- like a book. She paused as something he'd said struck her. “You know you're a ghost?”
I'm dead, but Danny's alive-- he's Danny Saitau-- I don't know what's happened to him, but you've got to help him.
“Are you sure?” Lydia came closer, a sudden wind pushing her weakly towards the ghost. “That he's alive, that is. Most ghosts don't even realize that they're dead, much less--”
Please. She could make out the features of a man not much older than herself, worn, tired-- blackish blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. He's been ill-- and now the wounds-- there's nothing I can do.
The spectre backed, as though afraid to break eye contact, back down the spottily shoveled cobblestone street marked 'Wharf'. Lydia sighed, and followed a step, then two.
He's here-- next to the door--
A shadow in the first halfway sheltered doorway took on new shape, as she realized that it was actually a solid object, propped up against the door.
It was indeed a man.