Page 77 of Mourner for Hire
She looks thoughtfully at the closet. “I hope you find it.”
“Please, don’t be cryptic.”
“I’m allowed to be cryptic. I’m a ghost.”
I don’t laugh. It’s not funny—it’s beyond frustrating.
“I’m being honest,” she clarifies. “I’m dead, wandering around this town I called home, and apparently, I can’t leave this purgatory until…” she swallows, a tearless well in her eye. “You find it.”
I stare at her. “Find what?” I shout, the words scraping out of my throat.
The pause screams louder than the ocean waves crashing against the shore outside the window. I squeeze my eyes shut, tired of hallucinating, and stomp into the bedroom, wishing I had a door to slam instead of these stupid beads.
My alarm screamsat me at four a.m., reminding me that the idea of a sunrise hike always sounds better at night and not when the world is still meant to be sleeping. I roll out of bed and slip on the outfit I laid out last night. I weave my hair into a loose braid and throw on a black baseball cap. I collect my notebook and pen in my backpack I packed last night.
The sky is inky, and the road past the driveway seems extra dark. I used tohate this hour. I once remarked to my best friend, Morgan, that the only thing that happens between three and five in the morning are kidnappings and murders. Her mom told me that’s not true—that’s when all the bakers wake up and start prepping the dough and baking fresh pastries covered in powdered sugar and cinnamon glaze.
That stuck with me. I started seeing the earliest hours of the morning as a special and sacred moment of the day and not a threat of danger.
Even still, I make sure I have a knife within easy access on my pack as I set out on the trail. The footpath is crushed gravel at the beginning then slowly shifts to dirt, wet with the dew of the morning, surrounded by evergreen trees and poison ivy. Roots tangle the smooth surface of the path so I’m careful to watch my step as the grade grows steeper. The ocean roars in the distance, beyond the blanket of the trees. The birds are chirping louder as the gray sky turns, whispers of dawn rising.
“The weather’s nice, huh?”
I startle for a split-second at the sound of Annabelle’s voice.
“What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know. I just kind of appear, and I knew it was Mondayyou were here so I wanted to make sure you don’t die or get eaten by a bear or attacked by a deer.”
“Deer don’t attack.”
She lets out a loud laugh. “Oh, sweet, city girl. Yes, they do.”
I eye her suspiciously. The sounds of animal-like screaming in the distance echo all around me and make me pause.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Coyotes.”
My gaze snaps to her. “They sound angry.”
“No, they’re just hungry. Coyotes are dramatic like that. But by the way they’re hooting and hollering tells us they’ve already found something fleshy to eat.”
“Disgusting.”
“Yeah, just keep going. Coyotes don’t usually attack people.”
“Fantastic. Do they attack ghosts?”
She laughs again, but says no more in regards to the form her body has taken.
“Do you know who you’re going to write the letter to?” she asks.
To be honest, I’ve wondered who I’d write the letter to since she specified I leave one in the mailbox at the hike’s summit, as specified in my list of duties.
“Hm-hmm.” I press my lips together.
“Do I get to know?”
