1 Chapter 1

“Maybe it’s one of your ghosts,” Ray said. He’d come up behind me as I stared at the large puddle in front of the dishwasher. The appliance had issued a loud groan before stopping and dumping its water. This was doubly annoying because the garbage disposal had ground to a halt just an hour before. When I offered no comment on Ray’s statement, he prodded further.

“I kinda like the idea,” he said, chin on my shoulder. “Appliance ghost.”

“Stop it,” I snapped.

I already had a call in to the super and wondered if another breakdown required another request. Ray, still caught up in teasing me, waved his arms and swooped about the room as if in flight. “Spirits of the kitchen,” he sang, “release us from your torment. Set our appliances free.”

He grinned, but I didn’t appreciate his needling. I blew out a sigh and went into the living room.

“I’ll mop it up,” he called.

“Do that.”

Ray and I had been together twelve years, and now, well into our forties, enjoyed a good relationship, despite our differences. He’s a classic Capricorn—disciplined, efficient, responsible—while I, an earnest Pisces, am much the opposite—compassionate, gentle, and trusting. When I’d first learned of his January birthday and noted him a Capricorn, he’d dismissed the idea of astrological signs. Fortunately, I liked him enough to let this pass. I liked his strength, formidable at times, and I believe he liked my softer side because Caps need that, though they’ll never admit it. In our years together, we’d found balance. I don’t get too mushy and he lays off his authoritarian streak.

The one mistake I made early on was telling him about my grandfather’s ghost. Gramps had lived with us when I was growing up, and after he died when I was nine, he still lived with us. He appeared in my bedroom in the same chair where he’d sat to read me stories, only now he had no book. He didn’t speak, he didn’t do anything but sit, which I took to mean him keeping watch, which I appreciated since I was small for my age and tormented by my older brothers. Sometimes Gramps would appear in a doorway while we ate dinner, as if to remind me he was always around. Other times, when my brothers piled on me, pinning me unmercifully, he’d appear but not help, and I grew to realize he had limits. All he could give was his presence.

I once asked my mother if she believed in ghosts, and she grew thoughtful, then said she wasn’t sure. “There are things nobody can explain,” she said, “which is good, because some people think they know it all.” I didn’t press for more, fearing a reveal of Gramps might get me a pat on the head.

I never asked my father because he was the know-it-all type, much like Ray. So Gramps remained mine alone, with me until I left for college. I looked for him in my dorm room, then reminded myself he had limits. Or maybe he just wanted to stay on with Mom, his daughter.

Until Ray, I’d never told anyone about Gramps and got along fine without discussing supernatural companionship. Then, beset by the early throes of love where we’re eager to know everything, I told him. And he laughed. It was a loving and indulgent laugh, but it set the future tone. I was to be humored.

Other sightings happened over the years, but I’d said nothing, not wanting to be indulged. Then one day, I was doing laundry in the apartment house basement, a damp concrete, windowless room, when someone appeared, and it wasn’t Gramps.

Until then, I’d seen only fleeting glimpses of what I came to call “almost-people,” as if I’d stumbled onto some play only to catch the players exiting the stage. Always just glimpses. Someone’s back, there for a second, then gone.

I avoided the basement at night, but one time when we were going away for the weekend, I’d had no choice. Ray was working late, and as I’d descended the stairs, I’d hoped another tenant would be down there, but no such luck. I had just gotten everything going when I felt a presence. Expecting another glimpse of someone departing, I was surprised to find a woman at the foot of the stairs. Thin and pale, she wore a green dress clearly of the flapper era and had no discernable breasts. Her green cloche hat covered what appeared to be red hair and I wondered if she’d owned the building, which dated from the twenties, or was she some wronged tenant cursed with unresolved landlord issues? Could faulty plumbing or lack of heat anger a person to the point she couldn’t move on?

I’d never spoken to ghostly Gramps because it didn’t seem appropriate, but since this woman was blocking the stairs, I had to speak up. “I need to get past you,” I ventured. When I got no response, I cleared my throat and repeated myself, but she didn’t move.