They creep into Smoke Tree Trailer Village on a moonless night.
Normally, our desert community remains undisturbed, except when Palace brings food for Jenika. When the unfamiliar RV rattles into our lot, I come out of reverie to Jenika’s whispers: “Jason, someone’s here. Intruders.”
Across the lot, I feel my spirit friends snap to attention.
There are three people in the vehicle: a middle-aged couple and a teen girl. Elsewhere, disaster thrums in a familiar rhythm. Why are they on our lot? Palace is supposed to make sure the gates stay secure.
The success of any ghost/human commune depends on security, after all.
***
Our village is Palace’s brainchild, though she lives in town. She grew up hyper-sensitive to ghosts and believes we deserve our own spaces.
She approached me and the other spirits less than a year after my death. (I spoke to her since my two friends are no longer verbal.) Palace was sick of watching people willfully forget supernatural experiences. “They wake up the next day, and it’s oh, that didn’t happen, it’s impossible. When all y’all want is to share your memories.”
So far, our only living resident is my love, Jenika. She and Palace were friends at reform school before Jenika’s years as a homeless pickpocket. Palace was the group rebel, and though complicated, their human friendship runs deep. When Jenika’s PTSD made the rat race unbearable, Palace brought her here. Jenika belongs, is more suited to our quiet lives of thinking and dreaming.
Palace was surprised by our relationship. She shouldn’t have been. I may not remember much of my pre-death, but there’s no question I spent time on the streets as well. Like Palace, Jenika’s always seen ghosts; she says we have a telltale shine, like looking through bubbles.
Now, Jenika looks away from the RV. I know we’re thinking similarly. Sure, we want more like-minded human residents, but these people? With their expensive shampoo and new-smelling trailer?
“Family meeting,” she says in a low voice. “Right away.”
***
The other spirits manifest as red and blue wisps in Jenika’s trailer, vibrating rapid frequencies. I try not to feel inferior, still looking like an outline of my human self.
“What are they doing?” Jenika clenches her fists. “We can’t let these suburban cliches wreck our flow!”
“I understand.” I lift hair from her sweaty neck. “You’re vulnerable.”
Heat wafts off Jenika. “No. I mean, yes, they can do more damage to someone alive, but…”
Beyond the busted door, somebody coughs.
We go silent as the youngest invader, the teenager, pokes her head inside.
Here’s the awful moment we spend our afterlives trying to avoid: Can this human see us? What will she do?
But the kid’s eyes pass the wisps without surprise. “Thought I heard ghosts here.” She shrugs. “I have ghost friends. It’s cool. I’m Charlotte, by the way.”
***
Jenika powers up her cell for a late-night call to Palace. They argue until sunrise.
Even though Charlotte’s parents are lost, she thinks they’ll be cool with the ghost thing, ‘cause they’re all into reconnecting with nature now. Jenika thinks we should kick them out, period. Palace believes we shouldn’t bypass a safe opportunity for ghost/human discourse.
By the time the pair wakes mid-morning, Palace is onsite and making eggs over the firepit. She turns on the charm, waves off their accidental trespassing, listens to them rhapsodize about going off-grid, and takes them for an informed hike. By afternoon, she’s their best friend, and they might as well spend another night.
“We have a nice rosé,” the mother, Rosalie, says. “Where’s that corkscrew, Harold?”
“In my Army knife.” Harold slaps his pocket. “Where’d it go?” He fusses, pawing at shadows under folding chairs, until Palace finds her own bottle, a screw-top. Once it’s open, they fall back into easy chatter.
“The truth is,” Palace begins, “I bought this land for an intentional community.” Hidden nearby, the rest of us tense up.
“Other people live here?” asks Harold. “I thought these vans were abandoned.”
“One person, yes.” Palace nods. Jenika pushes open her door to reveal herself.
Harold frowns. “Are the others… not people?”
That’s my cue. I drift before the flames.
Rosalie’s eyes widen. “You look like a young man. But I can see through — and there. What is that?” She squints toward the other spirits, trying to focus.
“They’re beings,” says Palace, “just like us. And this is a place where we can coexist.”
Rosalie shields her eyes. “Harold, do you see them?”
Harold looks between Palace and me. “I see something, honey.”
“I don’t understand.” Rosalie backs up. “We’re both seeing things? Did they drug us?”
“Oh, God,” Harold blurts out. “The wine!”
“No!” Palace is horrified. “I would never nonconsensually drug someone.”
“You acted friendly.” The man’s voice rises. “Then you stole my knife, slipped us something—”
“Dad, they didn’t,” Charlotte pipes up. “Don’t freak. There are ghosts, okay? Almost like people. It’s fine.”
Rosalie bursts into tears. She grabs Charlotte and hustles toward the RV.
“This isn’t real.” Harold points a trembling finger at Palace. “I’ve heard of folks like you. Cult leaders thrive in the middle of nowhere. And you target kids?”
“They didn’t!” Charlotte yells across the lot.
“Quiet, honey. We’re leaving.” He spins on his heel and sprints away.
The RV peels out minutes later.
***
Palace frets about what the travelers will tell whom. I wait until she and my spirit friends drift into sleep/reverie. “Jenika?”
She sighs in her corner-bed. “Jason?”
“Where’s the corkscrew?”
Jenika reaches into her jacket, reveals the red plastic of a Swiss Army knife. “I’m sorry. I wanted to protect myself if they got aggressive.” She flips it open to reveal the contents: corkscrew, scissors, blade. “I didn’t mean to undermine the group.”
“You didn’t,” I say, remembering how quickly Charlotte’s parents denied what they saw. “They weren’t ready. But let’s not steal, okay? We can’t assume the worst of everyone.”
“Can’t we?” Jenika asks, but she’s already half-asleep.
Dev Jannerson is an award-winning author for teens and adults, represented by Lee O’Brien of Looking Glass Literary & Media. Jannerson is a two-time Tin House graduate, a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, and the author of three published books and counting. He’s inspired by horror, social justice, cats, puppets, and an excessive amount of reading. He lives in New Orleans.
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