Another story for a Twilight Tales anthology. This was the first story of mine they ever accepted, for the collection Spooks. I’m mixing genres again, this time PI noir and ghost stories.

“Let me get this straight — you want me to murder you tonight?”

She nodded. “At midnight. As violently as possible.”

I leaned back, my office chair creaking in distress. The woman sitting across from me was mid-thirties, thin, well groomed. Her blonde hair, pulled back in a tight bun, held a platinum luster, and the slash of red lipstick she wore made her lips look like a wound. There was something familiar about her, or maybe it was my whiskey goggles.

I blinked at my watch. 11:00am. I’d been soused since breakfast.

“And this decision is because of your dead husband?”

“Yes.”

“You want to be —” I paused. “—reunited with him?”

A tricky word to pronounce, reunited, even when sober. But being a semi-professional drunk with some serious pro potential, it came out fine.

“I need to die, Mr. Arkin.”

“Call me Bert. And you haven’t offered your name yet, Miss…”

“Ahh…Springfield. Doris Springfield.”

“Are you trying to atone for some sin, Ms. Springfield?”

Another tough sentence, but it slid out like butter.

“No. The death has to be violent, because a person needs to die violently in order to become a ghost.”

I blinked. Then I blinked again. Before my face gave anything away, I broke her stare and went looking through my desk drawer for the Emergency bottle. I took two strong pulls.

A frank look of pity, perhaps disgust, flit past her eyes.

I shrugged it off. Who was she to judge me? She was the one who came in here wanting a violent death.

The bottle went back into the drawer, and I wiped my mouth on the back of my jacket sleeve.

“It’s medicinal.” I didn’t care if she believed it or not. “So…you want to die to become a ghost?”

“Yes. He haunts me, my husband does. Not in any of the clichéd methods you’ve heard about; I mean, he doesn’t break dishes or rattle chains. Instead, every night, he comes to me and holds me when I’m in bed.”

Her eyes went glassy, and I frowned. Tears made me uncomfortable.

“We’re both so very alone, Mr. Arkin. I want to…I must…be with him.”

“Ms. Springfield, I’m sorry for your loss. But murder is —”

“I have thirty-six thousand dollars.”

The number gave my weak resistance pause. I could put money like that to good use.

Since I’d gotten kicked off the force, a grievous wrong since half the guys in the CPD are alkies, employment opportunities nowadays were slim. I work as a night watchman four times a week at a warehouse, and do the private investigator thing in my free time, mostly lapping up scraps that my friend Barney throws me. Barney is still on the Job, and whenever something minor comes along that the cops don’t have time for, he funnels it my way. Mostly cheating spouses and runaway kids.

But Barney never sent me anyone who wanted to die.

“Just how did you find me, Ms. Springfield?”

“I…I heard about your problem.”

“Which problem is that?”

Her eyes, tinged with red, locked onto me like laser sights.

“You’re being haunted, too.”

This time there was no hiding my reaction, and I recoiled as if slapped. My shaky hands fumbled with the desk drawer, unable to open it fast enough.

The whiskey burned going down, but I fought the pain and sucked until my eyes watered.

Rather than face her, I got up and walked over to the window. My third floor view of the alley didn’t change much from winter to summer, but it did offer me a brief moment to collect my thoughts.

“Who told you?” I managed to say.

“I’d…I’d rather not say. I’m asking you to do something illegal, and if something should happen…well, I wouldn’t want it getting back to him.”

I searched my mental Rolodex for people I’d blabbed to about my problem. Hell, it could have been any bar jockey in any of three dozen gin joints going back two years.

When I drink, I talk.

So I wind up talking a lot.

“Does this person — the one who sent you here — know that you want to die?”

“No. I simply asked around for someone who believes in ghosts, and your name came up. Who haunts you, Mr. Arkin?”

I shut my eyes on the view.

“My mother,” I lied.

“She died violently?”

“You could say that.”

The booze made my tongue feel big in my mouth, and I began to forget where I was. Usually a good thing, but now…

“I can’t do this, Ms. Springfield.”

“There’s no way to link it to you. You can use my gun.”

“That’s not the problem. I just don’t want this kind of thing on my conscience.”

“Is thirty-six thousand enough?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“I also have these.”

I turned to look at her. She opened her purse and took out a small, white envelope.

“Diamonds, Mr. Arkin. About six carats worth. My husband was a jeweler, and he assured me they’re worth over twenty thousand dollars. I was going to leave them to charity, but…”

“Look, Ms. Springfield —”

“I’ll leave you the papers on these. That’s almost sixty-thousand dollars, Mr. Arkin.”

Sixty grand for my conscience?

Who was I kidding? My conscience wasn’t worth sixty cents.

“Congratulations, Ms. Springfield. You’ve hired yourself a killer.

I stumbled out of Harvey’s Liquor on Diversey and took a nip right there in the middle of the street.

Chicago winter wind bit at my cheeks and face, making all the broken capillaries even redder. I stuck the bottle in my jacket and climbed into my car.

Driving was a blurry, dreamlike thing, but I managed to make it home. Truth be told, I’d driven a lot worse. At least I could still see the traffic signals.

My apartment, a little shoe box in Hyde Park, had the smell to go along with the ambience. Checking the fridge revealed just a dirty pat of butter and some old pizza crusts.

So I had a liquid lunch instead.

Part of me wanted to sober up so I wouldn’t make any mistakes tonight.

The other part wanted me to get drunk enough so I wouldn’t remember the details later.

I took a spotty glass from the sink and poured myself three fingers and sat down at my cheap dinette set and drank.

I had to admire the lady. She had guts, and her plan looked like it would work.

At 11:45pm I arrive at her house on Christiana off of Addison. Park in the K-Mart lot across the street. Access her place from the alley; she’ll leave her gate and her back door unlocked. The house will look like it had been robbed — drawers pulled out and pictures yanked off the walls. She’ll be in the bedroom, hand me the gun. A quick blam-blam in the brain pan, and I can leave with the diamonds and the cash. No witnesses, no muss, no fuss.

I got to pouring another drink when the screech of tires raped my ears and made me drop the bottle.

There was a room-shaking, sickening crunch of motor vehicle meeting flesh, followed by the thump-thump of a skull cracking under the front and rear tires.

“Leave me alone, you little bitch!”

She came out of the wall and hovered before me. Her glow was soft and yellow, a flashlight bulb going dead.

I avoided looking at her face, even as she moved closer.

“You’re a bad man, Mr. Arkin.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, refusing to be baited.

“A very baaaaaaad man.”

She touched my arm, and I jerked back, slopping my drink all over the table. Being touched by a ghost was like getting snow rubbed into your bare skin — so cold it was hot.

“Go away!”

I turned to get up, but she already stood in front of me. No more than five feet tall, her head a crushed pumpkin leaking brains instead of stringy seeds. One eye was popped out and dangling around her misshapen ear by the optic nerve. The other one stared, accusing.

“You can still turn yourself in.”

I stumbled away, heading for the bedroom, bottle in hand.

“Call the police, Mr. Arkin. Confess…confess…”

I pulled the door open and screamed. My bedroom had become a winding stretch of suburban highway. Speeding at me at fifty MPH, a swerving, drunken maniac unscrewed his bottle cap rather than paid attention to the road.

Me. It was me driving.

The car hit like a slap from God, knocking me backwards, smearing my face and body against the phantom asphalt in a fifteen foot streak.

I lay there, in agony, as I watched myself get out of the car, look in my direction and vomit, and then get right back into the car and drive off.

The image faded, and I found myself lying on my stained carpet.

“Confess, Mr. Arkin.”

I sought my dropped bottle, the worst of the nightly terror over for the time being.

“Confess?” I spat. “Why should I? Haven’t you tortured me enough for the last two years? I ran you over once. You’ve done this to me how many times? Two hundred? Three?”

She stood next to me now, the loops of intestines hanging out of her belly giving me cold, wet slaps in the face.

“Go to the police and confess.”

“Go to hell, or heaven, or wherever you’re supposed to go.”

I rolled away and struggled to my feet.

“I can’t go away until my business here is done.”

I drank straight from the bottle now, trying to tune her out. Confess? My ass. Going to the cops meant going to prison. And that just can’t happen. I couldn’t survive in prison.

They don’t let you drink.

“You can’t die without resolution, Mr. Arkin. If you do…”

“I know! You’ve said it a thousand times!”

“Your soul will be mine if you don’t atone.”

She cracked a bloody smile, all missing teeth and swollen tongue.

“I don’t think you’ll like eternity with me in charge.”

I spun on her, jabbing a finger into her spongy head.

“I’ll have money soon! Lots of money! I’ll hire someone to exorcize your preachy little ass!”

She laughed, a full, rich, deep sound that made the hair on my arms vibrate.

“I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Arkin. Soon.”

And then she faded away, like a puff of cigar smoke.

I drank until I started to puke blood.

Then I drank some more.

My hands perspired in the latex gloves Ms. Springfield had provided. The alley behind her house was deserted, except for a rat scurrying into an old Pepsi box.

I walked up to her gate — it was the only one that was unlocked — and let myself into her modest backyard.

Dark ,silent, porch light off. Her back door opened with a whisper.

“Ms. Springfield?”

The door led into her kitchen. Drawers had been pulled out and silverware scattered along the floor. I avoided stepping on anything sharp, and made my way through the kitchen and into a hallway.

“Ms. Springfield? It’s me.”

Silence.

I took a pull from my flask, to calm my nerves. Then another, for luck.

“Ms. Springfield?”

She said to meet her in the bedroom. There were stairs to the right.

I ascended slowly, cautiously. The higher I climbed, the more this seemed like a very bad idea. Even if I could bring myself to murder her — and get away with it — who was to say she wouldn’t haunt me too? One ghost was bad enough. Having two…

“Mr. Arkin?”

Her voice came as such a shock that I almost lost my balance on the steps.

“Ms. Springfield?”

“Second door on the right.”

Her voice was terribly relaxed.

I took a deep breath, blew it out. Reflexively, my hand went to my hip holster, and I haven’t worn a hip holster in years.

“I’ll be right there,” I said, more for myself than for her.

She was sitting on her bed, dressed in a white night gown. Her blonde hair hung over her shoulders. In her hand was a .38 police special.

I had a momentary flash of panic, but she turned the revolver around and handed it to me, butt first.

“I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

“Money makes a man do strange things.”

I looked on the nightstand, next to the bed. Stacked in a neat pile, so many twenties I’d need a bag to carry them out.

So much money.

“It’s almost midnight.” Ms. Springfield’s voice had a pleasant, almost cheerful lilt. “I want you to shoot me in the heart.”

I shuffled from one foot to the other, uncomfortable.

“The head would be better.”

“I don’t intend joining my husband without a head to kiss him with.”

Good point.

“The heart it is.”

I moved closer, my gaze flickering between her and the money. Part of me wanted to just take the cash and run. I could make it to Mexico before the cops got on me.

“It’s almost midnight, Mr. Arkin.”

Her face — calm, so sure.

“This is what you really want, isn’t it?”

For the first time since I’d met her, she smiled. “This is all I want.”

She tilted her chin upward, thrust out her chest.

I extended the gun.

“This might hurt.”

“Just keep firing until it’s done. I want messy, remember?”

I chewed my lower lip. The gun shook in my grasp.

A drink. I needed a drink.

My free hand reached back for my flask, and Ms. Springfield’s features erupted in pure anger.

“Shoot me, you worthless drunk!”

I fired.

The bullet took her in the center of the left breast, her white nightgown exploding in red fireworks. She pitched to the side, gasping like a landed fish.

I shot her in the back.

Twice.

Three times.

Still twitching. And a high-pitched, whistling wheeze from the sucking wounds in her chest.

“Aw, screw it.”

I put the last two slugs in the back of her head.

She stopped moving.

Shoving the gun deep in my jacket, I went for the money. I took a bloody pillow case and began stuffing it full of stacks. The diamonds lay there too, and the papers. I grabbed them and turned to get the hell out of there, but the bedroom suddenly transformed into a highway, and for the second time today I ran myself over.

I tried to brace for the impact, but you can never brace for that kind of thing.

Even knowing it wasn’t real, I screamed at the very real feeling of the impact sluicing through every nerve and fiber of my being. Spectral or not, it hurt like hell.

When I was able to move again, the pumpkin head ghost floated above my head, staring down with her one good eye.

But this time she had company.

“I believe you’ve met my daughter,” said the ghost of Ms. Springfield. Her nightgown glowed white, peppered with ugly red starbursts. Bits of brain and bone floated above her hair like a halo.

She held a glowing .38.

The ghostly gun fired, and I felt the bullets rip into my body, gasping in pain and shock.

“It’s not real,” I told myself.

I lay there, listening to the slurping, keening sound of my lungs leaking air through the holes in my chest. Even though I wanted to move, I couldn’t.

Even when I heard the approaching sirens.

Killing me? It would have been too easy.

Ms. Springfield knew I was the one who ran down her daughter. Her daughter told her.

The only thing stronger than the woman’s grief had been her lust for revenge.

She truly did want to die, so she could join her child on the other side.

So they could be together.

So they could haunt me together.

I sat on the cold floor of my cell, hugging my knees.

I’ve been dry for over a month now, and it’s been as bad as I thought. Shaking, vomiting, delirium tremens, pure hell.

But none of it’s as bad as the ghosts.

Every day I am treated to an agonizing smearing across the highway, or having large holes blown out of my chest and head.

On some days, I get both.

And without the booze to deaden the pain…

In hindsight, I should have turned myself in after I hit that little girl.

I try to explain that to them. Try to get them to understand that I was just a scared drunk.

They show no mercy.

“And this is just a taste,” Ms. Springfield repeatedly tells me. “When you die, your soul belongs to us. We have plans for you, Mr. Arkin.”

They have shown me their plans.

Sometimes I cry so hard the prison doctor has to medicate me.

Life now centers on diet and exercise. I watch what I eat. I work out three times a day.

I’m in the best shape of my life.

Which is a good thing.

Because as horrifying as my life is, I want to live as long as I can.

The ghosts can run me over and gun me down a thousand times a day, and that is nothing compared to what they have in store for me after I die.

I don’t want to die.

Please, God, don’t let me ever die.