Sherry Ficklin - Losing Logan

She points to the stairs. “Look for the shelf labeled reference. The boxes will be in alphabetical order by author.”

Nice, way to send me to a rat infested basement on my own you crappy excuse for a librarian. The phone lights up, indicating a call. She hands me back the paper and quickly answers it.

Stuffing the paper in my back pocket I head for the elevator at the far end of the room. I tap Carlos on the shoulder as I walk by.

“Hey, I have to go play Where’s Waldo for this stupid book. If I’m not back in five, send in the National Guard.”

“Can do.”

The sub-basement is brighter than I expected. Rows of overhead lights flicker on as soon as I step off the elevator. Of course it stinks like stale cigarettes and old books. It’s a large, concrete room with rows of grey metal shelves and white boxes. At the front of each row is a small sign. Fiction, Non Fiction, Audio, and Reference. Making a bee line down the reference aisle I start scanning for books, looking for the S shelf. Saunders is the author’s last name.

The lights overhead buzz with electricity and somewhere I hear the tell-tale squeaks of a mouse. Or with my luck, an army of mice. With rabies. And knives. Yep, rabid, ninja mice. That would be my luck. I finally find the S boxes. A whole freaking shelf of them. I decide to start at the top and work my way down. Grabbing the first box off the shelf I let it fall to my feet and pull the lid off. A moth flies out and I let out a nervous shriek.

“Hey, let’s go down to the creepy ass basement. That sounds like a great plan,” I mutter to myself feeling like a complete wuss.

Worst. Plan. Ever.

It takes me all of three seconds to realize this isn’t the right box and return it to the shelf. Grabbing the next box I repeat the process. Finally, three boxes later, I hit the jackpot. Pulling the ancient, tattered book out of the box I fold myself cross legged onto the cold floor and open the book up in my lap. The pages are musty and faded, even the glue binding the spine is failing, and loose pages out of order are stuffed haphazardly inside the cloth cover.

I examine the pages carefully, looking for any mention of the Mintle. Finally, I see it.

“The Mintle…blah, blah, blah, death spirit. Blah, blah, blah. Usually depicted as a female with hollow eye sockets and skeletal features. Ugh. Can rotate head completely around. Eeew. That’s just unnecessary. And…always accompanied by a large black dog. Sorry Mintle, you aren’t my ring wraith.” I slam the book closed with a dusty puff and return it to the box.

I’m making my way back to the elevator when I feel it. A chill air blows past me like someone’s switched on an air conditioner. I turn slowly, praying that it’s just Logan, even though I know it isn’t. Logan, despite being very, very dead, still somehow smells like rain and water. I don’t smell that now.

I just smell musty books and death.

It’s at the far end of the stacks, hovering there silently. If not for the subtle movement of its robe, I would think it was just some ass-hat in a costume playing a prank. But its feet aren’t touching the ground.

I don’t scream. I just sort of tense up, my muscles locking in terror as it watches me from under its large hood. Its face is shrouded in shadows, and part of me is really glad. I have the distinct feeling this is not a creature I want to be eye to eye with.

Slowly, as if carried by a breeze, it floats toward me. I straighten my back, my feet firmly planted. I’m not going to run. It doesn’t even feel like an option. Whatever this thing wants from me, I just want it over with. Lowering my chin I ball my hands into fists. I doubt that beating this thing violently about the head will do any good, but hey, what’s the harm in trying?

It gets to within three feet of me and stops, its hands folded into its sleeves.

“What are you waiting for, a freaking invitation? Come on!”

I stand there, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel the ache in my teeth, challenging the spirit. It doesn’t move.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. So tell me what you want or get lost.”

A deep rattling breath fills its robes, words escaping from under the hood with a sour hiss.

“You. It’s you.”

“What’s me?” I demand.

“It’s you. It’s you.” The voice keeps repeating, growing louder and steadier each time it repeats. “It’s you. It’s you. It’s you.”

Soon the voice is deep and echoing inside my head like a bell. I drop to my knees, pressing my hands to my ears to try to block out the sound, but I can’t. It’s coming from inside me, resonating through my body and bouncing around inside my skull. The voice is like a vice in my head, squeezing my brain. Pain shoots through my skull like shards of glass, shattering inside me.

I squeeze my eyes closed. “Stop it. Please stop.” The pain is unbearable, blinding. It’s like I’m going to explode. “Please. Logan help me.”

And just like that the voice is gone. I’m shaking, my heart pounding. My head aches and I feel a trickle of something wet roll down the side of my neck. I touch my fingers to it and they come away bloody. Pitching forward on my knees I press my head against the cold, cement floor and just breathe. Logan appears beside me in the blink of an eye.

“Zoe, I heard you call out for me is everything—“ He stops, dropping to his knees beside me. “Zoe, what happened?”

I don’t know what to say, or if I could even form words. My throat is raw, the pain still ebbing from my body. I look over at him. His eyes are wild, desperate. He’s trying to touch me but he can’t make himself solid enough.

“I’m fine,” I manage weakly.

But there’s something in his expression, something broken and defeated and afraid. I think Logan is realizing, maybe for the first time, that he can’t protect me. And I think it’s killing him.

Using the shelf for support, I climb to my feet, wiping the blood away with the sleeve of my shirt. My knees are still weak, but I manage to make my way to the elevator with Logan beside me the whole way.

“What happened?” he’s asking. “Did it attack you?”

I take a deep breath and hit the up button.

“Yeah. Sort of. I don’t think it meant to hurt me. It was trying to tell me something.”

“Trying to tell you what?”

The doors slide open and I step inside, resting my head against the wall.

“That somehow, all of this is my fault. Logan, I think that somehow, it’s my fault you died.”

I gather Carlos and my stuff and head home for a long, hot shower. I fill them both in on the full details during the ride back to my house. They are both too worried to leave my side, even when I tell them I’m fine and just really need a shower and a nap.

The hot water pounds on my back, relaxing away the tension as I stand in the shower, rinsing the sweet smelling soap off my skin. When I step out, wrapping my towel around me I freeze. In the mirror fog someone has written my name over and over. And I know it wasn’t Logan. I shiver, even though the room is hot and my skin is nearly burnt pink, wiping away the message with my hand.

I comb my fingers through my wet hair, tugging out any tangles. I stare at myself for a minute. No way am I going to let some stupid wanna be Reaper get the best of me. I refuse to be afraid. I refuse to let the people I love be afraid for me.

After drying off I step into a fresh set of clothes, this time black leggings and a long dress shirt with green lace and a thick belt. Taking my time I blow dry my hair, apply a layer of lotion to my face, and just a little bit of lip gloss. By the time I’m done I look like I’m ready for a night out instead of looking like I’ve just been attacked by a freaking ghost. I toss the hairbrush in the sink and walk back to my room where my boys are waiting for me. Logan is stretched out across my bed and Carlos is sitting in the chair flipping through channels on TV.

“You look better,” Logan says calmly.

“I feel better,” I admit. Nothing like having your brain nearly squeezed like a grape to put things in perspective.

Carlos spins around in the chair, holding out a stack of papers for me.

“Here’s everything I found on Death Spirits, Reapers, and haunting. I didn’t see anything that looked quite like what you described, but who knows? Something might jump out at you.”

I take the papers, forcing a smile.

“Thanks.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He asks, his face twisted with concern.

“Fine.”

“So totally not fine then.”

I shrug. “Pretty much. But I’ll survive.”

“For now,” Logan cuts in. He has his hands tucked behind his head and he’s glaring at me.

“I told you, Logan, it wasn’t attacking me, not on purpose anyway.”

He sits up, “Exactly. Imagine what it could have done if it was trying to hurt you.”

“Well, what exactly would you like me to do about it, Logan? I can’t carry an iron pipe around with me all the time. Short of figuring out what it is and how to ship it back to wherever it came from, how should I be spending my time?”

My voice is sharp, crueler than I mean for it to be and he flinches.

“Well, how about you start by not wandering off alone to deserted basements? I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Excuse me, but I was trying to figure this mess out. I mean, for shit’s sake, I’m here, doing all the work, trying to help you fix your screwed up afterlife, and all you do is mess with my head and drive me insane. You wanna talk to me about being stupid, you couldn’t even die right.”

Carlos stands up, holding up his hands. “Okay, I’m only getting half this convo, but Zoe, your bitch meter is hitting a twelve. I need you at a six, okay? And Logan, whatever buttons you’re pushing, you’d better back off before she goes nuclear.”

Logan glares at him.

“She started it.”

I snort. “He can’t hear you, polterdouche.”

“Zoe,” Carlos almost growls my name. “Knock it off. We are all on the same team here, okay.”

“Yeah, listen to your friend.”

I lunge for Logan, who skitters off the bed like he’s actually afraid I might try to pummel him. Carlos grabs my arm.

“Look, I have to get going. I’m supposed to be helping my mom set up for dad’s surprise birthday party tonight. Can you two get along or should I hose you down before I go?”

I huff and pull my arm away.

“We will be just fine.”

Kissing my forehead Carlos whispers.

“Zoe, play nice. And call me if you need anything.”

I nod, folding my arms across my chest.

As soon as he’s gone Logan starts in again.

“You know, you’re like a lollypop triple dipped in crazy.”

“Somewhere, the magical kingdom of Douche-Bagistan has lost its king. Because here you are.”

He chuckles. “Okay, that was a good one.”

I flop down in my chair, kicking my legs over the arm. “Thanks.”

“What now?” he asks after a minute of silence.

I hold up the papers. “I have homework. And you should probably go back to retracing your steps from the night you died. We are literally out of leads now. Your memory might be our only shot at getting you back where you belong.”

Logan sits near my feet, resting against the end of my bed. “Zoe, what happens if I go, and that thing is still here?”

I look up at him, not sure what to say.

He runs his fingers through his hair, looking away. “I’m just saying that maybe we shouldn’t be so focused on my moving on. Not right now. Not when you’re in danger.”

A long, jagged spike of fear stabs into my chest. I clutch the bottle cap necklace still dangling from my neck.

“The thing is, whatever The Reaper wants, whatever it’s here for, it’s on me. Maybe it’s fate. If so…I’m not going to fight it Logan. If it’s my time, then it’s my time. Maybe it should have been me all along. Maybe that’s what it’s trying to tell me.”

He shakes his head. “You can’t really believe that?”

I shrug. “Maybe I do. Maybe I’m just tired of trying to keep moving, keep living every day like I’m not already half dead inside.”

“Zoe—“

I hold up my hand.

“Let me just say this. If it’s my time or not, whatever happens, I want to help you first. I want to know that you are in a better place, that you aren’t trapped here. Because if something did happen to me, you’d be all alone, and I couldn’t bear that.”

“And I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”