Keep the Ghost

10. Banks

“Mom, I’ll be home soon. Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet.” 

Four AM. I got a few hours’ sleep, but my troubles chased me down. It’s ten in Ireland, though, and Morgan bought me a calling card when we went shopping.

Mom’s voice is frantic, angry. She’s demanding things I can’t give her. Demanding I come home immediately, demanding I tell the police they’re wrong about me. 

Wish I could help you. Seriously. 

“Mom, I’m trying. Trust me. I want to come home more than anything in the world, I —” 

There’s a series of knocks on my hotel room door. No one seems willing to leave me alone.

“Mom, listen, I have to go. I’ll call you again later, I promise. Mom, someone is at the door. I love you.” Not sure if she hears me through her own rebuttal, but I hang up anyway.

There’s another set of knocks as I stumble to the door and open it. 

It’s Morgan. Black blazer over a charcoal dress, perfectly composed. Nude makeup lacquered; all paradox. “Get dressed,” she says. “We’re going to see someone.” 

Suddenly aware that I’m only wearing a pair of boxers. I watch her notice this, but nothing registers. Not embarrassed, or impressed, or laughing. 

“Okay. Who are we going to see?”

Morgan doesn’t answer me. “Knock on my door when you’re ready,” she says, then turns and leaves. 

The door shuts, cool night extinguished with it.

I get dressed, use the toothbrush and razor she bought me. My new wardrobe hangs in my closet—better than what I wore before. She picked up a thousand dollars of clothes, and she paid for them like it was an afterthought. 

Once I’m dressed, I grab my phone. Earlier, I turned notifications off, since the texts are constant at this point. Another fifty in the past six hours. 

I tap the screen. Today’s messages start decent enough. Some from Eric—I like Eric, we played soccer together. The first two sound normal, asking if I can talk, if I’m okay. Then he asks why I did it.

There’s three from Anna. She’s sweet, a pretty redhead. The sentences are perfectly crafted, with immaculate punctuation and spelling. And, they are mostly different ways of promising I’ll burn in hell for all eternity. 

Then, there’s a sharp decline. The rest of the messages are from numbers that aren’t in my phone, people I probably never met or spoke with. 

And they are bile. Words beaten with sledgehammers then sent tottering at me, suffering misshapen things. All capitalized, misspelled, misused. Shambling, tortured language. 

Torture me. Castrate me, burn me with hot irons. Brutalize my mother in front of me, murder my father, hope I get raped in prison daily. A litany of curses from four dozen voices, some howling discordant melody. 

Dinosaur minds, cold and dumb and certain. 

The door opens; Morgan stands in the frame. 

I stare up at her, wet-eyed. “Sorry, I just—my phone.” 

“Stop looking at it. Come with me.”

I follow her out of my motel room and across the night. She flows over the parking lot, long skirt swaying around hips. The single streetlight shines down on a rose red Cadillac, maybe ten years old, a sedan with clean angles like medieval armor. The lights blink in recognition as she presses the unlock button, then we’re inside.