Death throes. That's what I heard as I listened to the pipes overhead. They groaned like the death rattle of something old and massive. I reached for the coffee pot. The liquid inside was black as tar and twice as toxic. But it was fuel. That's what mattered at three in the morning. Sleep wasn't coming. Not tonight.

It was the insomnia, sure, but I was still pinning it on Slim. The long-dead reporter was stalking back and forth through my office walls, rattling off about his next big scoop. Death hadn't shut the man's yap—I sure as hell wasn't up to the task.

"Shaw, you're not seeing the bigger picture here!" Slim's outline shimmered beneath the sputtering glow of the bargain-bin bulb overhead. "Think about it — 'Local PI Discovers Haunted Real Estate Scam.' That's front—page material!"

""It's a divorce case, Slim," I took a wincing sip of the sludge masquerading as coffee. "Husband’s shacking up with someone at the Riverside Motel–easy to do when he owns the place. Wifey wants to claim it in settlement so she can flip it, to stick it to him. Then there’s you. You’re the only ghost in the story."

"That's what you think." Slim whipped out his notepad, his spectral pencil hovering over the translucent page. "But my sources—very reliable, mind you—say that motel's got more spirits than a prohibition-era speakeasy. And trust me, I would know."

The radiator sputtered, sending a plume of steam into the already stuffy room. My office hadn't seen a proper cleaning since Johnson was president–Andrew, not Lyndon. At least the rent was cheap. Having a ghost for a roommate tended to drive down property values.

"These sources of yours—don’t tell me they’re just the ghosts already haunting the joint," I said, deadpan. The way his face twisted almost justified being awake at this hour.

"Confidentiality, Shaw! I can’t betray my sources like that!" he shot back, all puffed up and indignant. Literally puffed up–his chest the width of a barrel. Damned ghosts were practically cartoons like that.

His bluster, like his resolve, barely lasted a second, however, before he grinned wickedly and ducked in close. “Off the record, however… We both know dead men tell the best tales."

"Yeah, you ghosts do love to gossip,” I made to push him away from me, my hands turning his form to swirling mist as they passed through him. “Take you, for instance—never know when to quit.”

“And your sources,” I continued, not letting him get a return jab. “Didn’t your so-called sources claim Jimmy Hoffa was buried under Yankee Stadium?" I flipped through the stack of surveillance photos cluttering my desk idly as I went for the kill. "Then it turned out to be some stray cat a homeless guy was feeding."

"Hey! The cat was named Jimmy Hoffa! It was a minor setback on the path of journalistic excellence." Slim adjusted his incorporeal fedora. It was something he carried with him into the afterlife–a dated fashion sense. "But The Dead Letter Papers has a responsibility to—"

The phone rang, cutting through our familiar argument. Not the office line—my private number. The one only a handful of people had. I walked over to the receiver and picked up on the second ring, more out of curiosity than anything.

"Shaw—at 3 AM, I might add," I answered, leaning back as Slim hovered right up to my face, his ear phasing in and out of the receiver. The newsie had no concept of personal space—–-and it had gotten worse after he died.

"Mr. Shaw?" The voice on the other end was female, cultured, with an edge of desperation that usually meant trouble. "I... I need your help. I think someone has performed an illegal binding."

"Who is this?" I kept my voice neutral, professional.

"Someone who needs discretion." Her words carried weight, like old money and older secrets. "I can make it worth your time. Double your usual rate."

"That's generous. But I need a name."

"Not over the phone. But we can meet." A pause. "I'll bring cash. Five thousand up front."

Slim's eyes went wide, his spectral form doing excited backflips through my filing cabinet before slinking back to eavesdrop.

My free hand instinctively reached for the worn leather journal in my desk drawer. Dealing with bindings could get messy–but it was usually profitable. "What kind of binding are we talking about?"

"My sister." Her voice cracked. "Someone's bound my sister's spirit. She's... she's still alive, but something's wrong. I can see it in her eyes. They're using her like a puppet."

I watched Slim's face change. Gone was the usual curiosity, replaced by something harder. Something I rarely saw. Bad news. Even as a ghost, Slim had standards. Binding human souls–that was dark territory. The kind that made the dead themselves uneasy. And when the dead got uneasy, the living had damn well pay attention.

"Address," I said, already reaching for my coat. The woman rattled off a location in the old warehouse district, and I jotted it down on the back of a receipt.

"Please hurry," she added before hanging up.

I grabbed my beaten-up leather bag from behind the desk, checking its contents: chalk, salt, iron filings, and the various tools of my trade. All the old reliables for handling things that go bump in the night. The journal went into my coat pocket, its pages filled with notes on bindings I'd encountered over the years.

"I'm coming with you," Slim announced, floating through my desk.

"Like hell you are." I pulled on my coat, ignoring the draft that always accompanied his presence. "This isn't one of your stories."

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Shaw, buddy, pal," Slim's form flickered with intensity. "When have I ever steered you wrong?"

"You want that chronologically or alphabetically?"

"That's not fair! The thing with the possessed poodle was totally legitimate news—"

"You turned it into a three—part exposé called 'Demon Dogs: The Bark Side of the Supernatural.'"

"And it would have won a Pulitzer if they weren’t so spectraphobic!" Slim followed me down the creaking stairs, his voice echoing in the empty stairwell. "Besides, you need me on this one. Binding cases always have a paper trail, and nobody's better at following those than a dead reporter. I don't sleep!"

"Yeah, well apparently neither do I," I snapped. He had a point, though I'd never admit it. Slim might be a pain in the ass, but his network of deceased informants had saved my skin more than once. Something about this case felt wrong—the kind of wrong that usually meant I'd need all the help I could ge. Even if it came from the afterlife's most annoying journalist.

The autumn chill smacked me in the face as I stepped outside, sharp enough to sting. My breath hung in the dark, curling like smoke in the night air.

Parked at the curb was a '75 Dodge Dart, a rusting relic clinging to its last shreds of dignity. It only took three tries to coax the engine into a grudging rumble. On cue, Slim faded into view in the passenger seat, his ghostly fedora slicing halfway through the roof like it owned the place. It was incorporeal and gauche, a combination of the worst of two worlds.

"Just so we're clear," I said, pulling away from the curb, "this isn't going in your paper."

"Shaw, you wound me." Slim pressed his hand halfway through his chest in exaggerated offense. "Would I exploit a case involving the forbidden binding of an innocent soul for journalistic gain?"

"Yes."

"Okay, fair point. But think of the headline: 'Binding Scandal Rocks City's Elite — Exclusive by S. Sullivan.'"

I turned onto the expressway, the streetlights casting intermittent shadows through the windshield. "How about this headline: 'Ghost Reporter Exorcised for Being a Pain in the Ass'?"

"You wouldn't dare." Slim grinned, knowing full well I probably couldn't exorcise him even if I wanted to. We'd developed a weird symbiosis over the years—he got his stories, I got his information, and somehow it worked. Most of the time.

The warehouse district loomed ahead, a maze of abandoned buildings and broken dreams—a perfect place for something illegal. For something like binding a human soul.

Binding other humans had been taboo since the dawn of time, and illegal since the end of the War. Turns out we could all agree that once a poor sap died for his country once we shouldn’t be tying them down and forcing them to do it again.

Binding elements was one thing—they didn't mind, didn't feel. Binding spirits was trickier but doable with the right precautions. But binding a living human? That was playing with fire in a gunpowder factory.

I parked in the shadows of a defunct textile mill and killed the lights. The address the woman provided led to a ramshackle warehouse, its windows dark except for a faint blue glow on the third floor. Slim phased through the windshield, his form barely visible in the moonlight.

"I'll scout ahead," he said, already floating toward the building. "Try not to get killed while I'm gone. But if you do, stick around! I want your first posthumous interview."

"Your concern is touching." I grabbed my bag from the backseat, checking the iron knife strapped to my ankle. Binding magic responded to symbols and substances—iron to break connections, salt to purify, chalk to redirect. Simple tools for complicated problems.

Slim returned as I was drawing a protection sigil on my palm with chalk. "Third floor's got three people—one's definitely bound, has that weird aura around her. Two others, a slimy looking guy who's probably our binder and some dame in a tight skirt. Also, there's no other spirits around, which is weird for this area."

"Too weird," I agreed, wiping the chalk dust on my coat. Empty buildings usually attracted spirits like moths to flame. A total absence meant someone had cleared them out. "Any signs of wards?"

"Just the usual stuff—nothing you haven't broken before." Slim's form actually rippled with excitement. "This is going to be good. I can feel it in my non—existent bones."

"Stay close," I told Slim, "but stay hidden unless I signal. And for God's sake, don't take notes during the exorcism this time."

"That was one time!" Slim protested as we approached the warehouse. "And it was a great article—'Demonic Possession: A Step—by—Step Guide to Salvation.'"

"Except my client was the demon, trying to get out of a bad contract. They read your stupid piece over my shoulder and threatened to sue for libel."

"See? That's impact journalism!"

I pressed my chalk-marked palm against the warehouse's side door, feeling for wards. The protection sigil burned cold against my skin as it detected the magical barrier. Basic stuff, really—the kind of entry-level warding you'd use to keep out random ghosts and kids looking for a place to make out. But that's what had me concerned. Give me military-grade mystical security any day. At least then you know what you're dealing with. Amateurs, though? They're the ones who screw up the formulas, forget to carry the metaphysical one, and suddenly someone's either dead or something worse–like spending the next decade as a sign spinner outside a tax prep office.

The lock was simple too—a standard deadbolt. It couldn’t stand up to a bit of focused will and a whispered word. Inside, the air felt thick with residual magic, the kind that lingered after repeated bindings, like the aftertaste of a smoker who wanted to be a little too cozy. The stairs creaked under my weight as I climbed, but I couldn't hear any movement above. Slim floated ahead, his (adjective - shady?) form growing fainter as he approached the third floor.

He reappeared beside me at the top of the stairs looking grim. "They're in the main room. The bound woman's just... standing there. It's creepy, Shaw. Like one of those department store mannequins, but breathing."

I nodded, keeping my steps silent as I moved down the hallway. Blue light spilled from under a door ahead, pulsing slightly like a heartbeat. As I got closer, I could hear voices—a woman speaking rapidly, her words too muffled to make out, and another voice responding in flat, emotionless tones.

My hand was on the doorknob when Slim's warning came too late. "Shaw, wait—"

The floor beneath me flared with sudden light, a binding circle I hadn't spotted activating at my touch. Amateur work on the doors, professional work on the real security. I had just enough time to curse my idiocy before the magic took hold, dropping me to my knees as invisible bonds tightened around my limbs.

The door opened, spilling harsh blue light into the hallway. A little figure stood in the doorway, backlit and impossible to make out clearly. But I could hear the smile in her voice as she spoke:

"Right on time, Mr. Shaw. We've been expecting you."

Dames. Dames always won in the end.