Big Al’s Catfish Haven was the number 3 ranked seafood restaurant on Yelp for the area of Ravenwood. That may sound like an impressive feat until you learn there were only 4 seafood themed locations in the entire town. That’s less of an accomplishment and more like being the best-dressed guy at a nudist colony.

The fact there were even four seafood restaurants in this Midwestern town that was nowhere near a coast was a small miracle in itself. What really blew my mind was that one of these places was somehow rated worse than Big Al’s.

I spent 3-4 days a week at this dump as one of four part time busboys. I had zero interest in walking into that 4th placed location.

For now however, I was stuck in the back room of the restaurant, carefully cutting off the “Shipped from China” labels printed on the boxes of lobster that had just arrived.

Big Al was a proud man- but he was also a cheap lying bastard. “Only the freshest fish brought in straight from Maine,” he’d boast, even printing it boldly at the top of every menu.

Yet, every week, the same scene played out. The delivery would come in, Al would put on a grand show of how the boxes were “mislabeled,” and then he’d assign me or another busboy to remove every incriminating sticker.

According to one of the other busboys, lying about the authenticity of where your fish comes from is some sort of health code violation. I never really bothered to look up if that was a real rule or not. The inspector would have had plenty of other violations to hand out when they did finally stop in.

The job was easy, though, and it gave me time to focus on more important things, like the fact that I woke up this morning to a string of messages from my best friend, informing me that everything I did last night—from the breaking and entering to the call I made to Naomi—was probably based on an incorrect assumption I made.

I wanted to blame Nicole for this. If she had just told me her name when she first met me, this entire misunderstanding would have never occurred. However, the real issue was me. I judged the man based strictly on how he and his property made me feel. It was a rookie mistake and one I didn’t plan to make again.

According to the article Murph found, Nicole Monroe was a high school junior in 1997. And yes, I completely misjudged the time-frame of her existence.

Anyway, Nicole and a friend had snuck out to attend a house party in a small rural barn just outside of town. Toxicology reports showed someone had spiked their drinks, and the girls passed out. When Nicole woke up a few hours later, she panicked, terrified of what had happened and desperate to get home before her father found out. In her frightened state, she abandoned her friend and attempted to drive home, still under the influence.

She never made it. A few days later, her car was found half-submerged in a creek bed, not far from her house. She had died on impact, just a few miles from home.

I knew that creek bed. Murph and I used to bike along it in junior high. I had no idea something so horrible had happened there.

For months, Nicole’s story was used to warn students about the dangers of date rape drugs. Posters with her picture were hung in schools across the area. Murph sent me a link to one, and it was definitely her—locket and all.

Another article mentioned she was survived by her father, Harry Monroe, and her late mother, Nancy, who had died of breast cancer a few years prior.

She must have been the older woman in the picture with the man now known as Harry. Harry, whose house I broke into last night and assumed murdered a young woman. Not just any young woman, his own daughter.

He must have been so distraught by the situation that he felt the need to keep her clothes and necklace around as a countless reminder of her existence. That poor man. No wonder he drank.

That still doesn’t explain why she decided to stand next to me, to watch as I cut these boxes. I’m pretty convinced she's either an Attached or Protector at this point.

I looked over at Nicole, she had been stuck here in ghost form for almost ten years now. That’s over half my life with no one to talk to, no one to interact with, and no one to love. No wonder she felt the need to follow me. It must be a lonely afterlife. I still need to help her move on.

Unfortunately, It was going to be hard to get into that basement now with Harry on full alert.

Speaking of Harry, I should probably call Naomi back. I kept replaying the scene over and over in my head, but the conversation always ended poorly for me. I didn’t leave a number, and didn’t use my name. Maybe I should just shred the number and forget it. She’d probably dismiss it as some teenage prank anyways and leave it at that.

I went to cut the last label. Distracted, I nicked my hand in the process. A small cut of blood trickled down my finger. At this point I was just adding insult to injury. My body felt like a wreck. I grabbed a small paper towel and wrapped it around my finger.

With the labels finally off the boxes, I was ready to return to my regularly scheduled role as the underpaid, under-appreciated busboy.

Fortunately, early afternoons on football Sundays weren’t peak hours in Ravenwood. I cleared a few tables and noticed that no ghosts were lingering around the restaurant, outside of my usual companion. Then again, with only a handful of tables occupied and the day still young, who knew what would happen.

Wait, was it the end of Lent this week? I'll have to ask one of the other busboys to cover my shift on Friday. Today was manageable, but this place during the dinner rush on a Lenten Friday was a different beast altogether. It was not worth the risk, even if the money was good.

I headed to the dish room, eager to drop off the dishes with Terry, our dishwasher, and then check the game scores at the bar.

I normally didn’t mind interacting with Terry. He was cheerful, if a bit slow, with a thick, almost Cajun-like accent that made him hard to understand. But for a man in his sixties, he was incredibly efficient. Which I appreciated.

No one knew Terry’s backstory for sure, but the leading rumor was that his mother was a drug addict who dropped him on his head as a baby, causing severe brain damage. It sounded plausible, though I hoped it wasn’t true. Big Al had taken him in about five years ago, offering him a job and a place to stay. It was out of character for Al, but I guess everyone has their soft spots.

I put the dishes down carefully, trying not to draw Terry’s attention. Then I froze. There was a woman standing behind him. Not a woman, a ghost. Apparently, Terry had his own ghost.

She was around Terry's age, maybe a bit older, even in ghost form. I guess you remain the same age visually as you were when you died. That explained why my ghost girl looked so young. So either I need to die young or make sure I don’t turn into a ghost. That shouldn’t be too hard with this new ability.

“Hey, Terry, how’s it going this morning?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Doin’ great, boss. Still livin’, still workin’. Roof over my head. How ’bout yourself?”

“I’m good, man. That’s great to hear!”

How do I approach this? I can’t just say hey Terry, do you know there’s a dead woman standing behind you? I needed to lead him into the situation.

“Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Shoot, boss. I’m an open book. Ain’t got no secrets.”

“You got any family around town? I swear I saw someone who looked a lot like you yesterday when I was out shopping.”

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“Me? Nah, no family here. Mom dead, dad dead, sister dead. I’m the last one, boss. Only family I got left is Big Boss Al. He took me in, gave me this job and some money for smokes and magazines. Probably be dead without him.”

“That’s rough, man. Bet you miss your folks.”

“My daddy left when I was knee-high to a hopper. Ain’t even know what he looked like. Momma, she was a good lady. Worked hard to keep food on the table. But she died.”

“And your sister?”

“She’s my guardian angel. Kept me goin’ after Momma died. But she passed. That’s when Big Al took me in. Her and I used to come in every Sunday for those crab legs. She called it payday treat. But then she got sick, and we had to stop comin’. That’s when Mr. Big Al reached out, found me, took me in.”

“This is going to sound weird, but was she about five feet tall, with curly white hair and a large birthmark covering her right eye?”

Terry’s face lit up as he tried to remember. After a few seconds, he turned back to me with the biggest smile I’d ever seen.

“Now how you know about my sister’s birthmark? You see her right now, don’t ya?”

I smiled back, feeling a tear slide down my cheek.

“I sure can. And you know what? You’re right—she is your guardian angel. She’s watching over you right now.”

“I knew it! I felt her. I’ve been really good, Sally Anne. You told me to work hard and listen to Mr. Big Al, and I have. You’d be proud of me.”

The woman walked over and placed her hand on my arm. I felt warmth radiate from her touch.

“She knows you’ve been a good man, Terry. She wants me to tell you she’s proud of the man you’ve become.”

I didn’t know her exact words, but I tried my best to convey the warmth I felt. After the fuck up I had with Nicole, it felt good to actually help a ghost for once. Just like with Nicole, this woman had to watch as her brother lived his life, stuck to him, but somehow unable to communicate.

For a sparse but monumental moment, this woman named Sally Anne was able to communicate with him, if only through a proxy like myself.

I had a sudden realization at the phrase, Just like with Nicole. Those words unlocked the final piece of the puzzle I had been missing. Oh man, it was so obvious! The gun, the whiskey, the pictures. Nicole's Terry was Harry. It was right in front of me!

The whispers from Nicole last night. She said, “He needs your help”. The he she referred to was Harry. She must be his protector. Unable to stop him from making a horrible decision. Oh god, that’s what he was going to do with that gun.

It wasn’t to hurt other people at all, it was for himself. We must have interrupted his plans.

I had my thoughts interrupted by one of the hostesses from the front.

“Hey, Joe, woah, it’s freezing back here. Sorry to bother you, but there’s a lady in a fancy suit up front asking for you by name. She seems upset.”

She ducked back out, leaving the door swinging.

My heart stopped. Was I going to prison? If she tracked me down to my workplace, I’m probably in serious trouble. Should I run? No, that would just make things worse. I wasn’t even sure it was Naomi.

I peeked out of the kitchen and saw a tall Black woman in a dark suit with a light blue top pacing the lobby, a gun holstered at her hip.

Shit, yeah, that’s a cop. I’m in trouble. And just when the day was starting to look up.

As I walked toward the front, I caught side glances from customers and employees. Thankfully, the place wasn’t too busy. And as a bonus, my boss wasn’t here. Maybe I’d still have a job if I could talk my way out of the situation.

“You Joe? Resident of 149th and Kensington Ave?” she asked, straight to the point.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s me.”

“Don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ That’s for old ladies. I’m not some old lady. Got it? You may refer to me as Detective Johnson.”

“Yes, Ma—I mean, understood, Detective Johnson.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to need you to come down to the station with me. We have some questions we need to ask you about an open case I’m investigating.”

She flashed her badge in my face, making the situation all too real.

I turned to the hostess. “Hey, I’m going to take a long break. Cover for me?”

###

We had been driving for about three minutes. She drove and I sat in the rear of the vehicle, where prisoners would often be transported. I looked around at the metal bars and featureless seats. How do I tell her I fucked up. How much does she even know? We’d barely hit the road when Naomi shattered the awkward silence.

"Boy, you better have a damn good reason for calling me at 12:30 on a Saturday night. No return number, nothing. You know how much work I had to do to track your scrawny butt down?"

I fumbled for a response. "I’m sorry, Ma’am."

"We already talked about the ‘ma’am’ nonsense."

"Oh, right. My bad. Shouldn’t have called so late. I’m sorry."

"Yeah, you should be. So tell me, boy, did you know you were breaking the law when you decided to break into Mr. Monroe’s house last night?"

My heart plummeted, and for a second, I was sure my life was over. High school graduation? Forget it. College? Not a chance. Best-case scenario, I’d end up flipping burgers for the rest of my life once I got out.

"We got a call from Mr. Monroe last night. Poor guy was shaken up. Said he caught two teenage boys rummaging through his basement. Didn’t take much for me to connect the dots."

The car jerked to a halt, pulling over just in front of a Walmart Superstore. I saw Naomi turn to look at me, her expression unreadable.

"Don’t worry, you’re not under arrest. Count yourself lucky you called my direct line and not the precinct’s."

Relief washed over me so hard I almost melted into the seat. "Holy crap, thank you so much!"

"Language, Mr. Raymond. This is a curse-free vehicle, and I expect you to keep that kind of talk under wraps when you’re with me."

I bit back another curse. "Okay, I understand. It won’t happen again. But I have to ask, why are you helping me?"

"Don’t ask stupid questions, boy. Just be grateful. Look, I knew Alex well enough to understand that with this gift comes some… let’s just call it quirky behavior."

I gave her a puzzled look, not sure what she was getting at.

"I can’t tell you how many times I caught Alex in places he shouldn’t have been. At first, I thought he was lying about blacking out. Then I blamed it on the chemo. Finally I chalked it up to the fact that maybe he just liked the thrill of doing something illegal before he died. It wasn’t until the letter he wrote me about you that I realized it wasn’t under his control."

Letter? He warned her about a future Alex. Damn that kid was smart.

“Here, maybe you can get some use out of it.”

Her voice wavered, and I saw her reach up, trying to stop the tears before they had a chance to fall. She reached into her console and grabbed the letter. Then hesitated for a moment, before she finally released it to me.

“Thank you. I’ll make sure to check it out.”

"I’ll miss that little delinquent. Sharp as a tack until the end, too. Now I’ve got you as a replacement. You’re already breaking and entering, calling me at all hours… It feels a bit like he never left. I think you two would have gotten along."

She fumbled for a notepad and pen in the front seat, then turned back to me.

"Alright, let’s talk about that message you sent me. What’s this about a girl being brutally murdered?"

I looked over to Nicole, then back to Detective Johnson. My words sounded so stupid when I heard her repeat them back to me.

“Is she in the car with us now?” Naomi asked.

"Yeah, she is. Uh… about that. I think I screwed up. There was a girl there, and everything told me she was murdered, but then I found an article about the girl that made me realize I misunderstood the situation… plus I think I’m still getting used to how they communicate. I do think her father wants to take his life though. I think that’s why she found me."

She lowered her notepad, her gaze sharp.

"I see. Well, just this once, I’m going to let it slide because you’re new. As for her father, the best I can do is send a wellness check to his house. They can evaluate his mental state, but it might be a day or two."

“Thank you so much! That’d be amazing.”

“Next time, don’t call me unless you’re sure about what happened. Also leave that poor man alone. I don’t need you in any more trouble. I saved your behind this time, but I only have so much power around here.”

"Understood. I’ll do my—" My voice cut off as every muscle in my body seized up.

What the hell was that coming out of the store? Oh fuck! That was the ghost of Christmas Future, or as Alex called it, a vengeful spirit. It was a dead ringer if I’d ever seen one. Wait, it was not just one. There were three of those monsters.

"Hey, kid. What’s going on? I’ve seen that look before on Alex. You see something." she asked.

I pointed to a man walking out of the store to his car. He was young, maybe twenty, around six feet tall, and skinny with a small scar on his right cheek. He wore a Broncos hat and a long black leather jacket, and something about him felt off.

He got into his Honda Civic and started to drive away, but not before I saw them, monsters that surrounded him like ants drawn to a picnic. He was the spilt kool-aid. My pulse rocketed, and it felt like my whole body was on fire.

"Was there a ghost with him?" she asked.

"Worse than that." My voice trembled, each word heavier than the last. "Mrs. Johnson, I know you just told me to only call you when I was confident of something.”

I took a deep breath, trying to regain my composure.

”I’m confident something bad is about to happen in this town, and that man in the Civic… he’s going to be a part of it."