Wilfred was agitated by the blaring light above the room door, littered in a pink neon that reminded him that maybe he didn't need glasses for everything.
He rubbed his aching head with two fingers, pressing his temple together in hopes that if he kept this up, he would get a moments relief. He inhaled deeply, reminding himself continuously that he was in the air – he wasn't drowning.
Every time he shut his eyes, he felt that same clawing sensation on his neck which made it unbearable to function.
Keeping himself sane by counting the various new grey figures that passed through the wall of the waiting room, he managed to watch the figures entertain themselves with conversation to each other like they generally would, unaware that Wilfred could see them. He was far too annoyed to establish his presence, so he just let out a deep sigh and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees so he could easily prop his head up without it continuously feeling the urge to collapse.
Wilfred glanced around the brightly decorated room, seats pushed to the side of the vividly painted wall – he couldn't even pinpoint the image fully and depicted it as abstract. There were two doors, one on his left that he entered through, and a room entrance covered from head to toe with brightly coloured beads, causing Wilfred to cringe slightly. He swore he saw this before in an episode of SpongeBob.
Resting his head in his palms, he shook himself slightly and looking upwards to try focus on something more... calming. His eyes frantically scanned the room until it rested on various spirits, mingling and chatting to each other without a care in the world, their grey figures eager to step inside the room, which made Wilfred realize that they were waiting for the psychic as well. This got him curious, utterly baffled – they could just walk through the walls, right? Why not now?
He felt claustrophobic with the various entities in the room, despite the fact that there was no physical being in their other than him. Of course not, it was night, everybody was off work and getting drunk out of their mind. Wilfred was the poor, miserable figure in this all, nodding off slowly but then forcing himself awake by staring at the cuckoo clock across the room, ticking away ominously on the vividly painted wall.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Wilfred's leg was bouncing fervently up and down, tapping his knee with his index finger, growing more impatient.
Where was Sarah when he needed her?
That insolent child motioned to the building and grinned wildly a few minutes prior to this.
"You ever heard of psychics?" She enquired.
"Yeah, duh, but what do those deranged people have to do with this?" Wilfred snapped, pausing for a moment once Sarah shot him a harsh glare through her hollow eyes, following this with a mumbled-out apology.
"There is a genuine psychic in this side of town who helps us get to the beyond much quicker."
"W-what? Beyond what? Who?" Wilfred stumbled out, unsure what to make of this due to the absolute nonsense she was spewing out all at once.
"Ah, just go inside and she'll explain it!" She tried to push him in yet fell right through, stumbling a little bit and catching herself mid-air. Stunned, she turned around to Wilfred who was shuddering due to the girl walking through him and sent her a despondent look. She frowned and apologised.
"Aren't you coming?" He enquired when she stood outside.
She shook her head.
"A little out of my limits."
Out of my limits?
Wilfred confusedly looked up, about to stop her yet she already had her back to him, walking down the street. He last spotted her leaning against the blaring, ravaging bar. Wilfred chuckled lowly under his breath as he recalled her eager face stating that she could now spy on everyone.
Now, he was seated patiently with his foot bouncing up and down at a rapid speed.
He'd never admit it, but he wished Sarah could be there. She had a nonchalant, diffusing attitude that Wilfred often found agitating since she had no worries. She had no work, didn't have to worry about sleep schedules or money – Hell, she didn't even know what she should be worried about.
But her persona helped Wilfred forget quite easily.
Forget about his crippling mental state and Lottie. Oh, Lottie. She had completely slipped his mind the past week. He had genuinely forgot what it felt like moments after he left her place, yet another heartbreak. But Sarah was there.
Snapping out of his reminiscing, he rubbed his sweaty palms together, immediately being repulsed by his own figure.
"Okay, next?" A voice chirped from the room, pushing the beads aside to reveal an elderly, Jamaican lady, her frizzy hair pulled into a somewhat bun, shades covering her eyes and a full-lipped grin. Immediately behind her was a figure – a person? No, that's a spirit. Yet unlike Sarah, that ghost had a vague, white outline around him and grinning sadly.
"Thank you so much, ma'am!" The ghost croaked out, on the verge of sobbing – from what Wilfred assumed. Could ghosts cry? Does it come out like ectoplasm?
The lady nodded at him, pulling her sleeveless coat closer to her figure and sending a tight-lipped grin.
Wilfred snapped back to reality, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers and stumbling to his feet, inching closer to the lady. She didn't shoot a glance at Wilfred, causing him to feel slightly awkward. Should he say something? Establish his presence?
"Oi, boy, come in." She sternly joked; her face tilted to face Wilfred with a tiny grin which he could assume reached her eyes from beneath her dark glasses.
Wilfred muttered a 'yes ma'am,' before following her into the tiny room beyond the beaded curtains, falling occasionally onto his eyes which caused him to furiously whack it away.
Upon entering the room, he let out a huge sigh due to the classic stereotype of 'psychics' being so blatantly obvious here. He shook his head as the lady motioned to the seat across of her large, throne-like one at the back of the circular table.
Wilfred hesitantly sat down, peering curiously around the room and pinpointing obvious things. The walls were still vividly painted in bright colours, with charts and charms hanging everywhere like prized trophies. He scoffed slightly whilst glancing at the various astrology books tucked onto the bookshelf behind the throne-like chair, immediately forgetting what his zodiac sign was. Either way, he found them so vague and blatant, it was basically a fortune cookie.
As expected, Wilfred 'I-spent-high-school-tormenting-the-occult-club' Wilson didn't believe in psychics – for good reason too.
Clearly they were all frauds, claiming that misfortune or good things occur due to a vague set of characteristics established to your birth month or just picking and choosing random bad events that could occur if the person tormented themselves with the mere thought of the bad event.
"So, how may I be of assistance? Love problems? Future sight? Want to communicate a departed one?"
Wilfred sighed.
Why was he even here again?
"I-uhm..." Wilfred trailed off, tapping his knees with his fingers as another nervous habit, "A, uhm, a-a friend sent me here, said you could help?"
Wilfred let out a yawn, involuntarily of course since his mother had always taught him basic manners and etiquette which generally involved not to yawn when talking to someone as it made you seem disinterested in the conversation, but he was just too tired.
"When was the last time you got sleep, sugar?" The lady's prominent voice roused him awake, causing him to tilt his head slightly with his face burning red out of embarrassment.
"Uhm, yesterday ma'am." He lied – technically not lying though, he did sleep, yet kept waking up due to the incessant voices in his ears and the constant fear that he'd wake up beside that goblin creature.
She furrowed her eyebrows from beneath her dark shades – It got Wilfred confused as to why she was wearing that indoors and at night.
"Proper sleep?"
Wilfred sighed again.
"About a week?"
That's around when he started to see ghosts.
"Oh, honey." She cooed, causing Wilfred's face to burn. She had such a comforting voice that reminded Wilfred of his grandma, and somehow wished he knew this lady. He adjusted his glasses as she continued, "What's been keeping you up?"
"Uh... just… um… lots of voices." He stuttered out, rubbing his sweaty palms on his knee, shaking his head as a form of waking himself up.
Internally, he face-palmed. What an odd response he gave!
"Is that why you came to me?"
"Ah, partially?"
Initially, he wanted to ask about the ghosts, yet the sickening feeling of drowning was at the forefront of his mind. Seeing ghosts from the moment you wake to the moment you sleep was just about what Wilfred could handle – not visions during the day of death.
He opened out his palms on his lap, examining the sweat beading off of it and immediately recoiling.
Don't be disgusting Wilfred, he thought.
He carefully examined the lady's face scrunch up, contorting in a state that Wilfred could only identify as thinking – but what about?
Wilfred often had a habit of looking to the eyes as an indication of emotion. People's mouths can often lie, his mother would tell him. Always look to the eyes, she'd say, bending over to ruffle Wilfred's thickets of brown hair, the eyes show a form of intimate truth. To Wilfred's unfortunate luck, she had glasses on, those dark shades that made it practically impossible to even fathom what she was thinking. So, he relied on the mouth.
"Tell me then, boy," She began tapping the tarot cards on her desk into an orderly fashion, placing them away, "Who told you to come here?"
"Just a friend, ma'am- "
"Stop lying, boy." She sternly interrupted, causing Wilfred to sink down into his seat and frantically intertwine his hands together. He muttered a lowly, 'my name's Wilfred', due to the fact that he continuously called her 'boy' in a tone his mother would pull whenever he was caught doing something he shouldn't, which was rare since he was a goody-two shoes from the day he hit puberty.
"It really was a friend, ma'am!" He wasn't entirely lying – that ghost had been lounging around his house freely and Wilfred had stopped minding the two ghosts playing poker. They had to be some form of friends.
She raised one eyebrow which caused Wilfred to gulp.
"Um... well this friend wasn't exactly... alive?" He trailed off, questioning exactly how ignorant he was from a scale of one to very. The lady then made an 'o' shape with her mouth, nodding slowly and then beginning to compute.
"Hand me that book on the left side of the shelf?" She pointed to a shelf behind Wilfred, just beside the entrance, that was probably the least colourful thing in the room due to it being a simple mahogany. Wilfred realized the left side seemed to have merely boxes, so he turned his attention to the left and found a pocketbook on the side, sticking out in such a way that it almost collapsed off the bottom.
"You mean on the right?"
It was so clearly visible from her perspective, causing Wilfred to be curious as to why she incorrectly judged it.
"Oh, yes, apologies, I must have misplaced it," She let out a hearty chuckle, adjusting her glasses so much so that it made Wilfred curious, stumbling back to the table and placing the book directly in front of her. She reached out her hand to touch it, but faltered a few inches, clarifying Wilfred's assumption.
"Are you blind?"
She looked unsurprised at his rather rude bluntness, as she broke out into a toothy grin, a warm smile that caused Wilfred to feel momentarily upset.
"Yes, I am, incident a few years ago," She shrugged lazily, "Moral here, kid, be careful when driving."
It went from 'boy' to 'kid'? Could this be considered a demotion?
Wilfred tilted his head, curious to figure out how a car accident would lead to her being blind but decided not to press on further to a woman he barely knows – perhaps she had just injured her eyes. Picking up on this, she opened up the book to pages of loose paper and sprawled writing. He peered over and could read the date on bold writing, He assumed it was the date since it seemed to be around ten years ago.
"This was my notebook, years before I lost my vision, when I began seeing spirits."
"Wait, does that mean you only hear them now?" Wilfred exclaimed.
She sighed.
"Can you let me finish, boy?"
"Sorry." He sheepishly grinned, adjusting his glasses tiredly.
"I began dreaming of the same person repeatedly, nights upon end, but more specifically, someone's death." She paused, "Have you been dreaming of a death? Or had visions of death?"
Wilfred looked down and nodded.
"Mine was a fire, gruesome and bloody."
"Drowning." He choked out, fragments of that dream swallowing him up.
"I grew tired of that dream," She continued, "So I decided to investigate. Turns out there was a man, Henry Fischer, died in a fire near where I lived at the time, so I went there. I found him, as a ghost of course, who was adamant that the fire was set by someone. I dug a little deep, stole a few police files, realized it was his wife. She was still alive but wasn't arrested for it."
"So, what did you do?" Wilfred was practically on the edge of his seat, hunched over with his elbows resting on the circular table as well as keeping his propped up.
"Well, gathered evidence against her of course, got her arrested and Henry Fischer was at peace, got taken by the Reaper."
"Reaper?"
"Grim Reaper." She specified, causing Wilfred to shudder.
"Where does he take them?" He murmured, barely audible due to the fact that this myth was practically confirmed.
"Don't know, neither do all the ghosts," She shrugged, "But it's where they're meant to go."
Wilfred looked down for a moment before glancing directly into her darkened shades.
"Did the nightmares stop?"
She smiled.
"The dreams of Henry Fischer's body being burned horrendously? Yes, but then new dreams set in."
Wilfred narrowed his eyes beneath the rims of his rectangular glasses in utter confusion, causing her to lean forward.
"Boy, you can see ghosts."
'No shit, Sherlock,' he thought, despite knowing she paused for dramatic affect.
"When people die with pure and utter resent or just… have a strong attachment, they cannot leave until this is dispelled. Usually they latch their resent onto objects right before they die."
"How does that work?" Wilfred enquired with a tilt of his head.
"Take Henry Fischer for example, as the fire set in for his dying moments, resent filled him and he hit his head repeatedly on the floor as a way of getting rid of the pain."
Wilfred winced as she continued.
"A few years later, I had dropped a coin on that same floor and upon touching the floor, I felt the resent and visualized the few moments before death. I was… a little bit haunted, attempting to ignore it, but the nightmare followed until I solved the case."
He nodded slightly.
"The ghosts need help, a majority of them are victims who had an unjust death and demand clarity or confirmation."
"Why should I do it?" He muttered, burying his head in his palms, his dishevelled hair falling onto his face. This was the last thing he needed.
"Because as humans, we have empathy, yes?" She laughed lightly, "And if that doesn't persuade you, just realize you won't be able to sleep until you help the ghost. This will plague you."
She slid the book closer to him.
"Take it, take some examples from experience."
"Thank you, ma'am." He nodded slowly, slipping the pocketbook into the large pocket of his navy-blue blazer. He then turned up to her with a scrunched-up expression.
"You said most ghosts were victims," He then tilted his head with a form of ticking anticipation, "What are the rest?"
She heaved a sigh.
"The grey and blue ghosts, they're normal and conscious of their decisions, but then there are black ones. Dark figures, you seen in movies?"
He nodded.
"They're quite hard to notice in the dark, but they, unlike the victims, can manifest a more physical presence and can actually seem visible to the naked eye. They can harm you. Ghosts get more pent up with resent the closer they get to the area they died, which is why they often avoid it, but sometimes, figures are black because they're evil."
"Evil?"
"They're evil because they did some horrific things when they were alive and remain due to resent from the victims. When the victims are avenged, they will go with the reaper," She then mumbled, "Hopefully to hell."
"Wait." Wilfred needed to process this. He was grateful that Sarah wasn't like that, but would he encounter one? He then continued with a simple confirmation, "How do I… get information on these ghosts? It's not exactly something you can google."
She laughed.
"Befriend an officer of the law, they have all sorts of evidence."
"Did you do that?"
Laughing once more, she held up her ring finger which was decorated with a gold ring circling an emerald stud.
"I married one."
Wilfred frowned.
How was he meant to do this now? Marrying a cop was out of question, so befriending them was his only option. But how the hell would he bring up a conversation about confidential files over a beer? It's simply not something friends could do.
Perhaps he truly was alone on this.
"I find out more about the ghost from my vision, about their death?" He summed up, examining her nod.
"And if the ghost wants revenge, I get the person who did the killing to have some sort of punishment if they're alive… but what if the person who killed them died?"
"They're spirit would still latch on, so make sure it doesn't kill you, that's what holy water and the bible is for, strays them away momentarily. And then, you get it to confront the witness… let their spirit pull them down and make them suffer equally."
He hated to say this, but he sincerely hoped the person who killed the lady in his vision was still alive – he could simply place evidence for the police to conveniently 'discover'. But if the killer was dead, he'd have to deal with it himself due to nobody else being able to see it.
"Fuck, what have I gotten into..." He mumbled tiredly, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose up to his forehead in a circular motion, sighing.
The lady leaned over the table, grabbing his hand and holding it between her calloused fingers, causing Wilfred to look in her direction with a sheepish look.
"Listen boy, I'm too old to help ghosts now... all I can do is give them advice on how to get clarification themselves, but you," She pinched his cheek lovingly, "You can do it."
He grinned sadly.
"I'll try my best ma'am."
"Call me Linda."
"Okay."
An hour passed and Wilfred wrapped his blazer around him further, struggling to walk through the crowded streets at midnight. If he thought there was a lot of people here earlier, he was sorely mistaken. He rubbed his head slowly, attempting to ease the blaring headache that lay waste in his mind, taking slow and careful strides to where he vaguely recalled his apartment to be.
There was far more chatter around him than what other people would expect due to the other world. Frankly, he grew tired of distinguishing ghost from human and often bumped into random, drunken strangers or feeling immediate cold spots and mumbling an apology.
He slammed his head onto a streetlamp, assuming it was a person and tiredly apologized.
"Did you just apologise to a lamppost?" A voice chirped from beside him, causing him to turn his head and see Sarah leaning against the bar they passed earlier, one leg propped up on the brick wall with the other on the floor, her arms crossed over her chest and covered the familiar sweater reading 'OSLO'. Wilfred grumbled a small 'yes' and then leaned against the brick wall beside her.
"You were waiting for me?"
"Duh." She looked pointedly at him, her empty, hollow eyes dancing with a sort of amusement, "Oh, shit, Wilfred- "
"Oi, language." Wilfred glared at her harshly from beneath his rims, examining drunkards stumble in and out of the bar since they were inches away from the entrance, "You're still a kid."
"Oh, sorry, your fault though," She grinned and spoke up before Wilfred had a chance to retort back, "I just watched a few people get divorced! Well.. not literally, but she called him out for cheating and threw the ring!"
Smiling wildly as she recounted all the dramatic drunk tales, Wilfred could only send her a strange look.
"Don't spy on people, kid, that's mean." He smiled warmly at her, causing her to grin back confusedly, "C'mon, let's go home." He attempted to wrap a hand around her and mistakenly rested all his weight under the assumption she would catch him, yet passed straight through and stumbled around momentarily, trying to regain his balance.
She laughed hysterically.
He no longer felt like he was drowning for a few moments.