Chapter 4: Aiden’s POV

"I'm deadly serious. Right now, you're trespassing on my property. Get the fuck out!" I yell at her, my mind instantly bringing an image of my grandma to mind. If she were here right now, she wouldn't hesitate before slapping me upside my head. I have never yelled at a woman before in anger, unless she was a criminal I was chasing and I was yelling at her to stop.

It is on the tip of my tongue to apologize, especially when I realize I have upset her. But I don't say anything, because this whole thing is freaking me out. So, when she disappears in front of my eyes, I just about pass out in shock.

I have seen a lot of weird shit in my life, almost all of it from being a cop, but never anything like this.

I'm losing it. I'm actually losing it.

I drive home quickly, noticing a slight shake in my arms. The entire drive, I can't help repeatedly glancing over at the seat next to me, waiting for her to reappear.

I touched her arm, and she felt real! She even touched me back, appearing just as shocked. How is any of this possible?

Pulling into my driveway half an hour and probably a few driving violations later, I stumble into my house. When I step into the living room, I glance around, expecting my brain to conjure that woman up again.

She's nowhere to be seen, though, and I'm relieved. Sort of. I'm still clearly going insane.

I move to my overcrowded desk, files and other crap everywhere, opening my top drawer and emptying the contents onto the floor. Crouching down, I search through every scrap of paper I have kept in there, totaling up to years' worth of shit, and find what I want—a business card for our department psychologist. I look over the number, pulling my cell out of my back pocket and letting my fingers hover over the dial pad I bring up.

If I call this number and make an appointment, it's a clear sign I need help. Which I do, right? Except, spitting out that I'm seeing a dead woman, and she's talking to me, is an easy way to get benched. I will be pulled from this case, and who knows, maybe I will spend some time in a psych ward. Chances are, I will never be a detective again. At best, I will go back to being a uniform cop directing traffic, mostly because they need all the bodies they can get.

What if what I saw was nothing more than a

combination of me being tired and overworked? What if a good night's sleep will keep me from ever seeing her again? Maybe I'm overreacting.

I consider my options, deciding to wait and see. If I keep seeing the woman, I will have no choice other than to bench myself. Besides, no one is likely to be at the psychologists' office at this time of night to answer my call.

I turn back and lock my front door, having not bothered to do it before when I was in a rush, and then make my way upstairs. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten enough today, and I wonder if that has factored into this momentary slip into insanity. Too tired to be bothered getting something to eat, I instead keep walking upstairs until I'm standing in my bedroom.

Without thought, I make my way into the shower, something that is part of my routine after being at a crime scene, and then I collapse onto my incredibly comfortable bed, barely bothering to get under the covers before falling into a much needed deep sleep.

As I slowly wake up to my alarm ringing next to me, I realize I smell food. My stomach grumbles as I wonder which one of my neighbors is cooking something delicious with their window open. Occasionally on weekends, I might smell the odd barbeque cooking, but never on a Tuesday morning. I open my eyes, unable to ignore my stomach any longer, groaning when I realize I'm going to have to actually get up to make myself breakfast. I hardly ever eat breakfast. When I'm in the middle of a murder investigation, the most I seem to manage for breakfast is a large cup of coffee. Perhaps, on the lucky occasion, I might stop off and grab a bagel, like yesterday.

After last night, I think I might need to make an exception. I need food, and a lot of it. Clearly, I have run my body down too far. I need to start taking care of myself.

I shove away my covers, and while swinging my legs over the edge of my bed, I stretch my arms up above my head, staring out my window to the sunny day outside. However, I quickly realize my window is not open.

How on earth do I smell such a strong scent of deliciously cooked food, then?

"Oh, good, you're up." A voice behind me startles the hell out of me. I jump up and grab my gun from the top of my nightstand in one quick swoop. I didn't even bother to lock it away in the safe when I got home last night. Normally, I would be annoyed at myself for such a misstep, but given the intruder standing in my bedroom doorway, I forgo the internal lecture.

"Who are you?" I narrow my eyes at the woman holding a tray of amazing smelling food that makes my stomach grumble again. She is still in the shadow of my doorframe, but when she steps in, I realize with a groan who I am seeing.

"You've forgotten me already?" She smiles shyly as she steps fully into my room and into my view. She places the tray loaded with a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast on top of my bed. There is also a glass of juice and coffee. "I'm not too sure about the eggs. They smelled fine, but there wasn't a use-by date on the carton, and I have no idea how often you go shopping, so I hope this is okay." She sounds casual, as if this situation is perfectly normal.

"I'm still crazy?" I question, although I'm now talking out loud to myself since there is no way the woman in front of me exists. I guess this is my confirmation that I have gone insane.

"Listen, I get that I freaked you out yesterday. Trust

me when I say I was freaked out, too. Let me explain what happened, and then maybe you'll believe me." As she moves the tray closer to me, I stare at the very real looking food. Did I cook up this food while I was asleep, or am I imagining the food and the smell? If I try to eat it, will I just be eating air? Will my delusion extend to taste?

"You should eat all of that; you look as though you could use it." She nods at my bare chest. When I glance down, I see how much weight I have lost over the last few years.

I used to go to the gym regularly, used to run for relaxation, but I have no time for any of that, just like I don't have time for regular meals.

Feeling uncomfortable with the scrutiny, even if it is just an imaginary person judging me, I grab a crumpled T- shirt off the floor and place it on, not caring that I am wearing it inside-out. My stomach again growls loudly, my body bombarded by the delicious smelling food, but I ignore the tray calling out to me. Instead, I keep my gun in my hand and walk towards her, again reaching out and touching her.

"How can I feel you? You're just in my mind, right?"

"I don't really have an answer for that. While I never actually believed what Santa was saying to me, I did think the idea of being a ghost meant I'd be able to go through walls and sort of float around. I mean, come on, I'm dead, but I still have to walk up the stairs like the rest of you?" She smiles weakly at me, but I see the pain in her eyes.

"You're telling me you're a ghost?" I didn't intend to touch what she brought up with her; however, my mouth dries with those words, so I grab hold of the juice and drink the whole thing in one long gulp. Juice that I didn't pour or bring into my room.

"Yeah, I guess I am. I chose to come back here, and this was my only choice to return. I mean, even though Santa warned me I wouldn't get a choice of who saw me, I did think it would be Flynn who would see me. I was hoping to be able to speak to him, be here for him, and help him through this. We're so close I didn't really expect to have someone else especially someone I've never even met before—see me. What a waste." She mumbles the last part.

"Wait, did you say Santa?" Oh, shit, not only am I hallucinating a dead woman, but I'm hallucinating a crazy dead woman. Awesome.

I grab a piece of bacon and munch on it, forgetting for a second that I didn't prepare this food and a ghost did. That isn't possible. Even if I'm insane and imaging this whole thing, how the hell did this food get here?

"Yeah, he was waiting for me on the other side, or whatever you want to call it. He wasn't actually Santa, but he looked a lot like him, and I can't remember what he told

me his name was."

Okay, the bacon tastes pretty good.

I put the gun down on my bed, away from the woman, even though she's absolutely not real, and sit down on the edge, taking the piece of buttered toast, ripping off the crust, and eat it.

"You made me breakfast?" I ask, not sure at all how I'm supposed to handle this. I definitely will need to be admitted to a psych ward.

"Yeah. I just sort of appeared here an hour ago while you were sleeping. I figured, if you're going to solve my murder, then you'll need to be rested up. I started looking around, found your kitchen, and boredom took over."

"So you can cook as a ghost?" I ask, deciding to humor the situation.

"I guess so. I think I'm sort of attached to you. When I tried to comfort Flynn yesterday, my arms just went through him. He couldn't hear or see me."

I rub my head, feeling my own headache coming on. "I've worked almost a hundred homicide cases since becoming a detective four years ago, so why the fuck am I going crazy now?"

"You still don't believe me?" She grows upset at my words, taking a step closer to me. I grab my gun and point it at her again, although I don't know why. I can't kill a hallucination with a bullet.

She holds her hands up, not moving any farther towards me, and takes a few steps backwards.

"Fine. You don't believe I'm real? How about I tell you some truths about me that I couldn't know if I was just a hallucination? I'm sure you have the basics from any files on me, but did you know I have thirty-eight kids in my class? Right now, I'm reading them Where the Wild Things Are, and I have a meeting with the parents on Thursday night after school. I hold them monthly during the school year in case any of the parents have questions for me. I volunteer to do those."

She looks wildly around my room, landing on my open closet. "How about I purchased a new pair of boots last Saturday, or that I have nine hundred and forty-three dollars in my bank account and four thousand in my savings account."

She taps her chin, her eyes twitching wildly. "Oh! Flynn and I rented The Goonies to watch when he first moved back here from New York. It is his favorite movie. Come on, if you check on any of that, you will find them all true, and your imagination couldn't possibly make that all up and be correct."

I shake my head, my headache increasing with every word spoken by her. "Tell me who killed you." At least, if any of this is true, I can go after the right person and end this case as soon as possible.

"That, I don't know. He was wearing a mask." She frowns, one to match my own.

I want to scoff at her words. Of course she doesn't know who killed her. Why would she? Either I am crazy and imagining this, which is basically proven by the fact that she conveniently has no idea who murdered her, or I'm crazy and this is real. Of course she can't make this easier for me.

"I can't actually remember what happened after he grabbed me. I don't know how he killed me." She glances at me, appearing uncomfortable. "I remember some things, but ... I don't know how my body ... It was so messed up. I was so messed up. Why would...? How could someone do that?"

She looks lost and sad now, and even though I shouldn't pity something I have created in my own mind, a part of me feels bad for her. Part of me thinks I should offer her some comfort, which is ridiculous. What is wrong with me? Comfort a ghost? Comfort a figment of my imagination?

I shake my head, ignoring how much worse that makes me feel.

I look down at the plate of food that I have nearly finished. I leave the egg, because I really have no idea when I bought those eggs, and I don't have time for food poisoning. I down the coffee next, finding it still hot. Could I have made all of this and not remember? Made it in my sleep perhaps? Why did I put milk in my coffee? I never drink coffee with milk. Even subconsciously, wouldn't I know that?

I don't know what to believe. I don't know a single person I work with who has seen a ghost before, though it's not like any of my colleagues would be spreading that about themselves. Sure, in the movies stuff like this happens, but not in real life. Not in my life.

"Where did you go yesterday? Are you just able to appear and disappear whenever you want?"

She looks thrown by my question. "I'm not sure where I went. I just started to disappear. Santa warned me that I wouldn't get a say when I leave here."

"Then disappear again," I demand.

"What?"

"I can't concentrate with you here. You're either really

a ghost, and I won't be able to focus on my job with you around me, or I'm going crazy, and seeing you only forces me to realize I need to step down from being a detective."

"You're not going crazy." She stares at me pleadingly. "Then go away."

She is upset again, and I feel the same urge telling me I should apologize.

"I don't know how," she finally tells me, holding out

her arms in front of her and looking down at them.

"Just make yourself disappear," I repeat, standing up and pacing along the side of my bed, the one opposite to the side she's standing on.

"That is about as easy as if I asked you to do the same thing. Besides..." She trails off. "Besides what?"

"What if I don't come back? What if I disappear and never get to help Flynn? This would have all been pointless."

I want to roll my eyes at myself because I'm seriously feeling bad for a hallucination. Is this some guilt thing or maybe just an overworked thing?

"Then my life will be a lot easier. Just go away and annoy someone else."

"I'm tied to you, remember? As far as I know, you're the only one who can see me. Santa said that, other than a few people with the gift of seeing the dead, I would be visible to only one person, and I had no say in whom that person would be. Obviously I wouldn't have chosen you."

"Just great. Why the fuck does this have to happen to me?" I whine, not really asking her, even though she snaps an answer at me.

"I don't know. Maybe for the same reason that I was just murdered. Life sucks like that."

My cell phone rings loudly, offering a welcome distraction from this insane conversation, but my cell is on my bedside table, unfortunately by her. While I watch it light up without making a move towards it, she leans over and glances at it, not caring at all about my privacy.

"It's your mom. You better get it."

"I'll call her back," I snap.

She narrows her eyes at me yet doesn't make further comment about it. "Fine. Are you going to start work today wearing that, or are you going to get changed first?" she snaps back, her arms crossing angrily over her chest.

"Actually, I'm working several cases at the moment.

I'm sure I'll get to yours later in the week, or maybe next week." I have no idea why I am winding her up or what to expect from her when I do.

She glares at me, anger flaring in her eyes, and her hands fist at her sides. "Are you kidding me? Are you always such a slack detective, or are you just being shitty for my case?"

"Lady, I am the most hardworking and dedicated fucking detective in my division. If you want this case solved, I'm the one who is going to do it."

"Then freaking do it already! Go investigate, talk to my neighbors, talk to my ex-boyfriend Nate, talk to the creepy cable guy who was in my house last week! Hurry up and get me some justice! Then take me to my brother. I need to check on him and talk to him."

"Oh, I didn't know I was your slave and you were a detective. It's strange because your job title—from what I was able to gather—was a profession often called a third- grade teacher. It's weird that they got that wrong in your file," I sarcastically snap at her.

"Well, considering I had a front row ticket to my own murder and my life, I think I'm someone you should listen to!" she yells angrily, tears gathering in her eyes that she doesn't allow to fall.

"You're not real, so fucking go away!" I yell back, my hand tightening over my gun. I'm seriously considering shooting the imaginary woman. I need to get off this case. I need to step down and probably admit myself to an insane asylum. My life as I know it is over.

Then, all of a sudden, she is gone.

Relieved, I collapse on top of my bed, feeling like I have just run a marathon. I try to loosen my muscles, but I can't stop feeling tense and stressed. Although I desperately want a shot or eight of bourbon, I get the feeling alcohol won't be making this go away or make me feel any better.

I need to get away from this case. Maybe that will be enough to stop me from descending any farther into crazy town.