When the soldier showed up in my apartment three days ago, his tattered uniform with a blood stain blossomed across his abdomen, I simply pretended he didn't exist. It was always easier this way. Usually, ghosts would get the hint and either leave because they believed I couldn't see them, or they'd go batshit crazy and up the ante in whichever way they could. I'd seen it all. Lights flicked on and off while I tried to sleep, coins tossed at me at all hours of the night, picture frames flung off walls and hurled at me, threats of non-stop fashion talk...until I'd just do one favor. But it never stopped with one favor. They always needed more.
Which was why I was still baffled that the soldier had somehow made it inside when I'd paid a lot of money last week to strengthen the wards on my apartment. So far, they'd kept Cheline and the rest of the gang out, but this guy had gotten in. He'd also not gone poltergeist after catching me staring at his nametag. No, Sanchez was completely different from the others. He was always silent and standing at attention in whatever room I'd migrated to, except for the bathroom, the one place that seemed off-limits with most ghosts. Thank God. I'd spent a lot of time in here the past three days.
As steam followed me out of the bathroom, my shoulders relaxed when Sanchez was not in the bedroom and a smile spread across my face as I realized he wasn't in my apartment at all. I turned the TV on to the newest Star Wars series and popped some popcorn, my attention seizing on an on-screen explosion a little too long. The smell of burnt popcorn permeated the air as I separated the bad into the trash.
"Oh, that reeks." The masculine voice sent me a couple inches into the air, the bowl of popcorn nearly slipping from my hands. I muttered about needing to be better at picking up ice that had dropped onto the floor, but the charade was up when the voice said, "I know you can hear and see me. The 80's chick outside your door told me so. She also says to say hello and if you don't help me, I should talk about fashion."
I whipped around to see Sanchez staring at me, hand covering his nose. "You don't have to be here, you know." I thought about popping another bag, this time letting it burn on purpose.
The soldier stood at attention once more. "Actually, I do need to be here, because I need your help. It's a matter of life and death." It always was with ghosts. Without fail. After I bristled at the words, he said, "Or we can talk about Oscar de la Hoya, Renta, whatever his name is. Not the boxer. The designer."
"Please don't." Although I was curious what he might have to say about the subject. "If I help you, do you promise to leave me alone afterward?" After Sanchez nodded, I asked, "What do you want?"
He inhaled deeply and then coughed, nearly gagging. "Burnt popcorn really is one of the worst smells. Pretty sure hell smells like that. Sorry." He stood at ease. "Today is the fifth anniversary of my death and some of my buddies are getting together at the Dirty Pelican. I need you to talk to them for me."
I shook my head. "That's too public of a place. People usually freak out when I start telling them stuff I shouldn't know. I either get threatened with a phone call to the cops or punched in the face, and I'd rather not take on a bunch of army guys."
"Look, I understand where you're coming from, and if I had anyone else to turn to, I would, but I'm afraid for a couple of my buddies. They're in a bad spot right now. I —they— need your help."
