Marcie and Hunter’s bloodstained clothes lay in a pile at the foot of Hunter’s bed. They’d quietly changed out of them the night before, having resolved to save any conversation for the morning. All the cacophonous emotions had drained the energy Marcie had left, and she fell into a deep sleep about as soon as she’d gotten under the covers.

When they awoke, Hunter still looked so utterly lost. A redness had developed around his eyes. Maybe he’d been crying. If he had, Marcie hadn’t noticed.

“Hey,” she said softly, “You okay?”

Hunter shifted. He started to reach out, but stopped himself.

When she was last alive, she wasn’t the best at handling their arguments. She was well aware of that. Stubborn couldn’t even begin to describe her disposition. Oftentimes, Hunter was on the receiving end of a cold shoulder. But he always tried reaching for her. She’d continue turning away, expecting some grandiose apology. What was she even thinking? That he’d get on his knees and beg? It was so childish of her.

Now that she was here—after he’d reached so far, he pulled her out of death—she didn’t want to make the same mistakes. Marcie took his arms and wrapped them around her torso.

“I know you were pretty upset last night. What did you wanna talk about?” Hunter asked, shifting his eyes away from her.

“No, no. We’ll get to that,” Marcie promised. “First, I want to know if you’re okay.”

“Honestly?” He began. “Not really.”

“Mmm,” she affirmed.

She heard the quiver in his voice before he even spoke the first word.

“What we saw last night. Whatever the fuck that was…” he trailed, “I keep trying to convince myself it wasn’t real. But it was. I know it was.”

Whatever time he’d had to process last night hadn’t gotten him very far. Both of them were still living in some waking nightmare. Marcie parted her lips, wanting to comfort him. Wanting to say anything to reassure him. But she clenched her fist when she couldn’t find the words.

“And then it was over and you walked away. And I just felt…” Hunter’s eyebrows creased. His words faded away.

“Alone,” Marcie finished.

Hunter confirmed her conclusion with a heavy breath. As he curled his body inward, Marcie pulled his eyes to meet her own. She wished so badly that he’d just let go of the tears she could see he was holding onto so tightly. Maybe she could feel the release of shedding a tear or two vicariously through him.

She held his gaze for as long as she could before he looked away to wipe his face.

That was truly the worst part of being undead. She didn’t miss her beating heart or the involuntary motion of her inflating and deflating lungs. She actually felt quite calm without them. She didn’t miss having to use the bathroom either, though she didn’t quite know where all the food she ate went anymore. And she certainly did not miss periods. But crying. She missed crying.

“I’m sorry I just left,” Marcie went on.

“It’s okay,” Hunter said, “I was thinking about it while I was waiting for you. You felt trapped, didn’t you?”

So he understood. The knowledge of this filled her with relief. She pulled him tighter into her so she could feel the warmth of his body against her skin. He flinched a little before settling into it.

“Sorry? Am I cold?” She asked.

“No,” Hunter refuted, pulling her closer still. “It’s okay.”

With her mind a bit clearer, Marcie stated, “I did feel trapped. Not just in your room. It’s like, when I was dead, I was just essence. There wasn't a space for me to be in. Being shoved back into a body—which I’m still grateful for—felt claustrophobic. I still want to be alive. But it was such a sudden change and I didn't really know I felt that way for a while. And then to be swallowed by…that thing…”

Hunter wrapped his arms further around her. “I know baby, I know.”

They stayed there for a moment. Marcie gripped Hunter’s shirt, balling the fabric in her hands. The texture of it was so soft.

“I don’t want to be stuck here anymore,” Marcie admitted. “I didn’t rise from the dead just to live a life confined to your bedroom or shoved in a suitcase. I know that wasn’t just your idea and I know we still have to be careful–”

“–You don’t have to explain yourself.” Hunter said. “I’m still afraid of losing you again, but I’ll figure it out.”

Marcie felt a rise of frustration again, somewhere in the cavity of her chest. “You keep saying that.”

“What?” Hunter asked, genuinely not understanding what she could possibly be referring to.

“You keep saying ‘I’ll figure it out’. Hunter, we’re a team. We’ll figure it out. Got it?” Marcie said sternly, raising one eyebrow—the one above her empty socket—towards him.

Hunter groaned the way he always did when he knew he was wrong. “Got it. Got it.”

“Mmm,” she chided, “relationships are harder than you remember, huh?”

“Ugh.” Hunter grunted with a laugh.

Marcie held his gaze with a serious look. “I can guess why you’ve been so anxious. But talk to me. What can I do to help?”

“I don’t know.” Hunter sighed, “I think I would appreciate it if you weren’t so ready to run so quickly into dangerous situations. You’ve nearly given me a heart attack at least ten times in the last week. Seeing as we are a team, I kind of need you in one piece.”

“But I’ve been trying to tell you, I can run into danger like that. My body–”

“Yes. Yes. I hear you and I’m so impressed. But for my own sanity, I don’t want to see your arm shredded or your head cut off.”

Marcie thought about how she’d react to seeing Hunter chopped into bits and put back together over and over. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, she had to admit. “Okay, fair enough.”

“And I know maybe the book might be a touchy subject. But I really need it back so I have some reassurance that you’ll be okay.” Hunter looked at her pleadingly. “After you left last night, there was this guy.”

“A guy?” Marcie echoed.

“Yeah. This guy. I’d met him before when I saw Grant in Vinny’s and I didn’t really think too much of it at the time. But he had his own book of spells. I think he wrote it himself.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Hunter gave her the details of the man he’d run into at the grocery store and how he’d managed to get home the night before. A man bringing his half-conscious body through space using some weird blood ritual. Why the police might not find any trace of Marty Gillman at the wharf. What this man might know about the occult. What he might know about them.

“Woah-kay,” she said, taking it all in. Then groaned loudly as the gears of her mind were catching and smoking attempting to make it all make sense. “Okay, so now we have two open investigations: Operation Figure Out How I Died and Operation Get The Book Back.”

“Hmm.” Hunter agreed.

“Okay, let me think.” Marcie said, lying on her back. It was all so much. She felt like getting it all in order would take the rest of her zombie life.

“Nevermind,” she said. “No thoughts right now.”

Marcie rolled over so she was on top of Hunter. His puffy red eyes had become less puffy and less red. He was even smiling. And she thought it was strange that when she bent down to place her cold lips on his, that it was the first time they’d kissed since she was resurrected.

It felt like all the kisses they shared before. All of her insecurities and all of his anxieties shedding away. The sensation flooded her with warmth. She felt his hand reach her cheek to hold her. Hunter pulled away only to pepper her whole face in kisses. Marcie let out a genuine full-chested giggle. The kind only a schoolgirl does with her first boyfriend in freshman year of highschool. Thought, that’s what Hunter was. Her first in so many ways. Her first friend. Her first boyfriend. And her last.

It took both of them several days to recuperate. Whether it was the emotions, the stress, or the exhaustion, they needed rest after so much happened. But soon, the desperate clawing thirst for clarity returned.

Marcie and Hunter stood at a gate that led to a courtyard. Marcie was relieved to remember most of the details of Grant’s family situation, including where his mother had moved after his parents’ divorce. Near the end of highschool, Grant’s dad moved back to Korea, leaving Grant to live with his mother again after so many years. He rarely talked about it and he certainly didn’t talk about it with them.

The apartment complex was pretty nice. Nothing in Redwood Cove was taller than three stories and so the row of buildings was organized like a motel. The warm midday sun did a lot to make the old building look lively. Though, compared to where Grant used to live, this would probably best be described as modest. There were small cracks in the concrete steps leading up to the gate and around the parking lot. The doorbell was connected to an old plastic device that looked like it was from the 90s—certainly nothing like the futuristic Lov-Tech doorbell connected to his old house. They pressed the bell and a rattling buzz rang from the apartment complex intercom.

Marcie heard Kristin Jeong’s voice come crackling out of the plastic speaker. She sounded frail and wary, like she was waiting for the right person or rather, the wrong person to buzz her door. “Ne, nuguseyo?”

“It’s Hunter Campbell? I’m here with our other friend…” Hunter looked down at Marcie, prompting her.

“Maria…uhh…” Marcie blanked. Her pause was plainly noticeable. She didn’t previously think of a surname and she certainly couldn’t use her real one. The feeling of Hunter's hand resting gently on her back broke through her thoughts and comforted her.

“Ramos,” she finally chose.

“We were hoping Grant was home,” said Hunter.

Silence came from the other side of the buzzer for quite some time.

“He just came from the gym. I swear it will not be the first time he goes today. He’s in the shower right now. But come, come. You can wait for him inside,” Kristin said.

The interior of the Jeong family residence was nothing like its exterior. The unassuming gray stucco of the outside walls was contrasted by a minimalist modern design on the inside. Everything from the shoe rack, to the decorative frames that held folk paintings, to the dining table Kristin eventually led them to was all made out of sharp corners and matte off-whites. Any wood was a bright tan and perfectly smooth. Anything patterned, glossy, gaudy, or gauche, was absent from the apartment, except for several pictures of Grant and who Marcie remembered as his brother, standing in a mishmash of different frames with wildly different aesthetics. It was a far cry from Grant's father’s house, cluttered with the most horrifically fancy decor known to man. But both aesthetics, in Marcie's less-than-humble opinion, were an assault on her single poor eye.

“Please take a seat,” Kristin offered before heading to the nearby kitchen.

She returned with two cups of tea, serving them to Marcie and Hunter before going back again.

“Oh, thank you.” Marcie said graciously. “You really don’t have to–”

“–I haven’t seen you in so long, Hunter,” Kristin said, conspicuously ignoring her.

The calling of his name seemed to snap him out of some sort of daze. “Yeah. It’s been a while Ms. Jeong.” He responded a few seconds too late to sound natural.

The sounds of rushing and then slamming came from a hallway near the front door. Grant rushed out of the hall, patting a small hand towel to his cropped hair. He was in damp athleisure, as though he’d thrown it on before he’d fully dried himself off.

A large part of Marcie wanted to bolt for the door. She clenched her fists under the table anticipating Grant’s reaction. No matter how Hunter explained it to her, she couldn’t remember making up with her tormentors. Whatever latent memories of an apologetic Grant she could pull from were beyond her recollection. She thought she was stronger than this.

“Hey,” Grant said simply. His brows furrowed and he’d stopped drying himself. Their eyes met with an unease like animals looking into a mirror for the first time.

Kristin swatted lightly at Grant’s forearm. “Aigoo, what did I tell you about doors? Be gentle.”

Grant too, seemed to come out of some sort of trance at her touch. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Mom, could you give us a moment?”

“You don’t dismiss your mother like that. They are guests of my house. Did you offer them snacks? If I’m not here to be a good host, then–”

“–Mom.” Grant looked down at his mother.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she gave in. “Fine. Fine.” She rose from her chair and made her way out of the dining area, leaving the three of them in terrible silence.

“Uhh, hello,” Grant said, holding out his hand. “I’m Grant.”

Marcie felt herself recoil before she could tell her body not to. In her distant memories, she faintly recalled Grant’s hands forming fists. Not to hit her, but the loud pounding on lockers and loud chest-pumping chants of the jocks around her always hinted at the threat of violence. She knew it was a common tactic among bullies and abusers.

“Alright.” He pulled back as well. “Not a hand shaker.”

Hunter looked to her, asking for last chance permission to abort this risk, one last confirmation that this is what she wanted and how she wanted to go about it. Absent lungs couldn’t breath absent breath, so instead she clenched her boney toes and gave Hunter a single reassuring nod. She needed answers.

“Grant,” said Marcie. “It’s me.”

“I’m sorry, am I supposed to know you?” He looked truly puzzled.

“Of course you should know me!” She leaned across the table so Grant could get a better look at her face. She stopped short of lifting her eyepatch, lest she give the guy a heart attack. However, after several long moments, it steadily began to seem like a necessary option.

Hunter leaned over conspiratorially. “I don’t think he’s getting it.”

“Getting what!” Grant threw up both hands, the one holding his still-damp towel sending droplets spraying across the table.

Settling on the straight-forward approach, she reached out her own hand.

“Marcella Portillo. It’s nice to see you again, meathead.”

The first bang was Grant flinching back, inadvertently kicking the chair into the table. The second was Grant hitting the floor. The third was Kristin thrusting the door of her room open, already berating Grant only to find Marcie mid-explanation. Maybe, in retrospect, it was not a very good idea to lift up her shirt to reveal the hole in her torso. What she thought may have been the best way to explain things, quickly became a grave mistake. The fourth and fifth bangs were Kristin running, throwing open another door, retrieving a handgun, and returning to shoot Marcie in the chest.

Six was Marcie hitting the ground. And seven was Kristin fainting when Marcie got up, completely unscathed from the bullet that had pierced her body.

Marcie, Hunter, and Grant stood around the table in stunned silence. All three of them had risen to their feet at that point and the two boys were about ready to pass out from hyperventilating so heavily. Hunter still had his hands out from trying to calm down the panicked Kristin and Grant had his head gripped tightly between his hands.

Grant swallowed hard. “Okay, I’m going to get her to her room,” he said, gesturing to his mother. “And maybe you guys should get out of here before the cops come? Yeah? Yeah.”

“Uhh yeah,” said Hunter.

“Yup,” Marcie agreed.