Chapter 1

It’s too fucking cold to be outside right now. The sun went down at least ten hours ago, leaving the frost-covered houses of the Newark suburbs alone with the November winds. On mornings such as these, anyone with access to a nice, warm bed would need half a brain cell to ensure themselves a spot under the covers.

Dr. Gabriel Weston, on the other hand, stands proud amidst the morning fog- despite being very, very naked.

“How much longer is this going to take?” Cara Robinson, owner of the apartment complex Dr. Weston is currently standing behind, peeks her head out from beneath her quilt. Her eyes are a bright, piercing blue, the kind seen only in beauty pageants and advertisements. The crow’s feet that frame them only make them more noticeable, giving her a distinguished sort of beauty.

Dr. Weston holds up a hand. “I know it’s been awhile, Ms. Robinson, but I promise we’re almost done.” It’s the same thing he told her an hour ago, but this time he knows it’s true. He can feel it in the balls of his feet, which are planted firmly in the frozen grass. It’s either that or frostbite- kind of a toss up at this point.

Cara sits in silence for a moment before giving him a short, disgruntled huff. She pulls the quilt back around her face and burrows further into her forest green lawn chair.

This isn’t Weston's first experience with an impatient customer. Exorcisms take time, and very few are willing to stick around once the initial excitement of getting to see a ghost wears off. If there’s anything Dr. Weston has learned about Cara Robinson, however, it’s that landlords like her have the tenacity of a rabid bulldog once their profits take a hit.

Considering it’s through those profits that he’ll be getting paid, he probably shouldn’t be so amused by that notion.

Okay, okay, it’s time to focus. Weston closes his eyes, letting his consciousness sink into the web of magic he’s built within this circle of trees. As much as magic can be a pain in the ass most of the time, there’s something satisfying about the sudden click of tapping into a freshly made circle. His heartbeat slows to about half its normal pace, right as a low, constant droning fills his ears. The feeling is intoxicating- or, it would be, if he weren’t so aware of Ms. Robinson’s eyes boring into the back of his head.

Bright eyes, whispers a voice against the nape of his neck, too bright.

Weston smiles. There’s the ticket.

“You got a problem with my friend over here, buddy?” he asks. He keeps his voice low, trying not to catch his host’s attention.

“What?” Cara pops out from under her blanket once again, looking around. “Is something happening?”

Problem… not mine. A cold breeze blows against Weston’s back. Hers.

Dr. Weston dismisses Cara with a wave. He focuses back on the voice that ears can’t hear. “You willing to tell me more?”

He feels his head sway from side to side, moved by someone else’s intentions. Eyes, the voice urges. No more eyes.

“Gotcha, bud.” Weston lets out a deep sigh, allowing the ghost to exit his body along with the air. He twists around to face Cara, careful not to surprise her by turning around too much. “Weird question, but would you be willing to look the other way for a little bit?”

Cara stares. “I’m sorry?”

“Y’know.” He points towards the building, which looms over its owner. “Take a jolly gander at your property for a hot second.”

The woman with coke commercial eyes wrinkles her nose. “I’m sorry, but I’m really starting to think that Rachel was playing a dumb joke on me when she recommended you.” Her eyes drift to his completely bare ass, which prickles with goosebumps.

“It’ll get the naked man out of your tenants’ back yard sooner.” Weston shrugs. “If that’s something you care about.”

It takes a moment of consideration for Cara to turn her little lawn chair around, throwing in an eye roll for good measure. What a delightful gal, Weston thinks to himself. With the landlady’s eyes out of the picture, he stamps his feet into the dirt and draws up the invisible thread of spectral communication once more.

“Okay, buddy,” he murmurs, opening up his chest to the spirit world. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

With a small gasp, Gabriel Weston returns to the forefront of his own mind.

Even after years of practice, his hands still shake. It’s never easy to hear about someone’s last moments, and it likely never will be. Nevertheless, he’s a professional, and that means he has only a few moments to regain himself. He pinches the space between his left thumb and forefinger, swallowing down the bile that threatens to rise up his throat.

“I’m… sorry,” he chokes out, keeping his voice at a hoarse whisper. “You didn’t deserve to die like that.”

A frozen hand rests on his shoulder before dissipating. I know, breathes the ghost.

Dr. Weston nods.

Up above, the leaves of the trees rustle as a great gust of wind blows through. Weston clutches his arms, suddenly very aware of how too fucking cold it is outside. The old man had been more receptive to his psychospiritual proddings after he’d taken his clothes off. The cold seemed less important after that first success.

“You telling me it’s time to wrap up?” he asks. The air around his shoulders grows heavier in response. It feels like a yes. “Okay, I’ll be honest with you. I’m here to help you move on.” Dr. Weston pauses, gives the ghost a moment to process. “What can I do?”

The leaves go quiet. A generator whirs nearby.

Right as Dr. Weston considers repeating his question, a protest wraps itself around his neck. I can’t leave, it begs. I am home. It squeezes gently. Not enough to choke, but enough to threaten the doctor’s eyes with tears. Someone else’s grief wells up in his chest. Home is me.

Shit. Weston throws a look over his shoulder. Ms. Robinson is wrapped up tight in her quilt, sleepily scrolling through something on her phone. Exorcists aren’t exactly a unionised workforce; if this ghost isn’t gone by sunrise, it’s likely that Weston isn’t getting paid today. He chews on the inside of his cheek. This isn’t quite where he expected the night to go.

“Something wrong?” Ms. Robinson doesn’t look up from her timeline, her voice tainted with a bitter aftertaste. “I’m not paying you by the hour, you know.” Her eyes reflect the light of the device in her hands. Hungry eyes, just like the ghost showed him.

He inhales slowly, through his nose. “How high is the rent around here?” he asks.

His question elicits a pause from Ms. Robinson, who blinks. “Sorry,” she says, “is that necessary?”

“I’m ass-naked in forty degree weather,” he responds. “All questions are necessary at this point.” The intangible wire wrapped around his neck squeezes tighter. He brushes his thumb up and down against his artery in an effort to loosen the tendril’s grasp, but fails to get a hold of anything physical.

For a moment, Ms. Robinson’s rosy lips purse with distaste. She eyes him up and down, still absently swiping her fingers down the screen. “It’s completely standard for the area, only exception being the Grandfather apartments. Those won’t be going on the market for another year, though.”

“Grandfather apartments?” Weston asks.

“It’s on the website,” she explains. When he looks back at her blankly, she flashes him a smile that oozes with false patience. “The building’s website. Rachel said she sent it to you.”

“Right,” Weston says. “I read that.”

“I don’t think you did.”

“This was a rush job.”

“Evidently.”

“And the name of the building,” he continues, “‘Maple Village.’ I don’t see any maple trees on the grounds.”

“It’s a family name, Mr. Weston.”

Dr. Weston does not bother correcting her on the misplaced honorific. With the ghostly tendril still constricting around his throat, there’s little time for pettiness. I’m trying to help you here, buddy, he silently urges the specter. Still, he keeps his focus on Cara. “Mother’s maiden name, I’m guessing?”

“If that matters, yes.”

“Gotcha. So these grandfather apartments- how much are they going to net you once you renovate them?”

To Weston’s surprise, Ms. Robinson unslouches herself at the mention of renovation. “Quite a bit, actually. The initial cost of fixing them up will be a bit of a pain, but even the difference between the previous rent model and the updated one will cover that all fairly quickly.”

“You seem excited,” he says.

“Oh, very much so,” she confirms. “The Grandfather apartments haven’t been touched since they were first leased out in the ‘70s, and even then, they were hardly any different from when they were first made fifty years prior.” She shakes her head, eyes going back down to her phone screen. “Everything about them is an eyesore.”

“Even the families?” asks Weston in a withered, raspy voice. He coughs. Freezing liquid drips from his sinuses down his throat. The force squeezing at his windpipe relaxes, clearly having found another way in.

“You mean my tenants?” Ms. Robinson asks, pulling the quilt a bit tighter around her shoulders.

Weston tries to swallow back the burning cold fluid that slides behind his face. He chokes.

“I mean the people who live in your building.” The old man’s voice resonates beautifully against Weston’s teeth. Ichor dribbles down the sides of Weston’s lips- his lips. “Or do you only see them as bodies?”

Cara Robinson, owner of Maple Village apartments, braces herself against the recognition that sparks when she hears the old man’s subtle, lilting accent. She swallows it down. “Get off my property,” she spits. “I don’t know what sort of trick you’re playing, sir, but I don’t appreciate-”

Crack-ck-ck.

In an instant, the ground at Weston’s feet shrivels. The once green grass curls in on itself, fading to an autumnal brown and then an ashy black. Small, lightning-shaped paths branch out across the earth as the dirt itself crumbles into thick, dark powder.

A sharp squeal tears itself from Ms. Robinson’s chest. Her fragile, feminine hand shakes as it covers her trembling lips.

Watching this from behind his own eyes, Weston’s stomach turns. He pulls back, attempting to put as much space as possible between himself and Ms. Robinson.

His body does not move with him.

A sharp pain grips the spot between Weston’s lungs. He coughs, only to find that there is nothing in his lungs. Ahead of him, his naked, frostbitten body stands firmly where he left it. Faint, wispy layers of bright blue smoke undulate around it- signs of the old man’s soul burning within.

“Please don’t hurt me,” whimpers Ms. Robinson. She kicks at the ground beneath her, her legs instinctively trying to push her away from the man in front of her. Her very being fights against itself, unsure of whether to fight or flee. “I- I didn’t want him to die.”