Umbel (Terminal Trilogy #3)

4: An evening with Mr. Fear

The ghost was my ghost- uh, not of me. But mine. I knew him well, though had never had a real chance to examine him closely before. And he'd never communicated with me before either-

Wait, was I hallucinating him again? Maybe we were here to meet someone else, and I had just led Micky into doubting my sanity by pointing to an empty booth. It had happened before.

I had first seen the ghost when I was three, I think. I couldn't be certain. It was just one of those old memories, so displaced I couldn't really be certain of my age. But he had been standing there, watching me, and I had only taken note of it in hindsight.

It was only when I was ten that I saw him again, and took him to memory. He had been on my way to school. He had been at the school, briefly, by the school yard. And he had again been standing by my home.

I had told my mother about this, and described him while she furiously dialed the police department. But she stopped at one point. Asked me a few questions for clarification. And put the phone down.

'He's not real.' She had said. 'He shouldn't be.'

And when I saw him at my high school graduation, my first day of college, and the odd days in between, I kept quiet.

So he was a ghost. Angels and demons were real, after all. Why couldn't ghosts be? It had only taken one casual comment about him over lunch, expecting a friendly 'yeah, I see dead people too' response, for Micky to explain to me ghosts didn't exist.

And hey, I guess that's how I learned I couldn't trust myself. But now he was real-

Really real? "You think so?" Micky said, and he started walking towards the ghost, even sitting down next to him. Speaking with him? Was I somehow getting the image of the ghost and that of a stranger mixed up?

I dully sat down. He seemed real. He had freckles. He was speaking. His black hair had been slicked back and he wore shades like some sort of movie star. He even had a suspicious trench coat to boot. I would have made fun of him more in my mind if I had been able to properly relax.

"Who are you here for?" Micky said with a sort of dazzling smile, evidently trying to please the ghost. I had missed the beginning of their conversation, but this seemed like a good entry point.

"...Martin." The ghost said. I would have been startled if he had said anything else. I hadn't seen him in years.

"Robles, huh? Say, The Blues is a pretty secretive joint. How did you get in here?" He seemed less interested now that the attention was towards me.

"The murder helped. My name is Cecil... Fear."

"Fear? That's quite a last name."

"It comes from the old english word for friend." He spoke serenely. How had he followed me to Hell? Actually, that probably shouldn't have been my first question regarding him. 'Who was he?' ought to have been first. Not a ghost, evidently.

"You last name means 'friend'? That's so much worse than fear. Fear is a pretty cool name, actually." Micky was starting to sound resentful about Cecil being interested in me. Now was the time I had to speak up before he got any more rude.

"It's a far fucking better name than Withers." Cecil almost snapped, and I was taken aback. He cleared his throat. "I've come to speak to Martin."

"Yeah." I said. "Sure."

"I hadn't meant to seek you out like this, but the recent string of murders has made me worry for your safety. So I thought I should meet with you and- and ensure your safety."