Albany?

It’s haunted here.

I don’t know if they believe me, though. I don’t think it’s haunted in the way one would expect. None of the ghosts will listen to me when I talk to them, or shout at them, or scream at them in the middle of the night when it seems I’ve lost my mind. And maybe I have lost my mind. I wouldn’t know.

I should be used to this, you know. I should be a lot of things, but it seems that I am nothing in the eyes of both myself and those who wander the corridors ceaselessly. I wonder about them. The ghosts seem so tired, and the look in their eyes belongs to those who are in chains yet alive and tortured by this realm. I don’t mind.

I shut my book and leave it on the table. They see the book, surely? Of course, as always, a disgruntled glance at it before they hurry off to their next assignment. It’s the same when I try to step in front of them, they just shiver as they walk through me. There’s nothing stopping them from that, I suppose. How cold am I on the inside, that they would have to shiver like that?

“Albany?”

I don’t know who that name belongs to. Someone, I’m sure, I just don’t know who. All the names have owners, not all owners have names. I think I lost mine somewhere, let it fly away in the bumbling stream of what we know as time. No, we don’t know it. We’re acquainted with it, perhaps. But I digress, someone is talking to a person named Albany.

They have soft orange hair, like a sunset, and the way they move is warmer than I had expected. They must be a ghost, though- they bear that same look in their eyes. I have decided that I like Albany. I should talk to them. They won’t hear me, but I should. They seem nice, if such a thing is left here. Pity they had to die so young.

“Hello, Albany. You can’t hear me, but I’m here. It’s nice to meet you.”

See? They can’t hear me. They’re looking about anxiously, but that’s it. They can’t see me.

“Albany?”

I turn back to the ghost who was speaking to Albany in the first place. I shouldn’t have interrupted, that was rude of me. Their attention is snapped back to the person as well, and I’m sure I’ve met them at some point, just can’t remember when.

“Sorry, yeah, I’m here,” Albany replies.

“Don’t worry about it. Your room is just down there on the left, seven-zero-eight.”

“Thanks. I’ll be seeing you later?”

“Of course.”

I suppose they’ve started giving the ghosts rooms to haunt now. Okay, makes my job easier. They’re walking away now, and I don’t have anything else to do, so I might as well follow along and help them get to know the place. They shouldn’t be here long, though. I’ll take care of it.

Albany stops in front of a door at the end of the corridor, and I sigh, going to open the door for them when they mistakenly reach for the handle. They can’t have been dead long, or they’d not be making such mistakes as this.

I think they like the room, the way they smile at the window. They like windows. I’ll keep a note of that.

“That window looks out onto the gardens. There are a lot of people buried there, can’t remember who. I haven’t been out there in quite a while, you see.” I say, still in the hallway. 

Now, this is surprising. Albany looks unsettled, as if they could hear me. They can’t though, so I continue.

“It’s pretty out there. The graves are messy, but that’s okay. The people buried there were messy too. Oh, and that bit of floor to your left squeaks when you walk on it. I should know, I’ve lived here since… Goodness, I don’t know. Anyway, welcome. I’ll try to help you get out soon.”

They shake their head and go to put their bag down on the desk. It’s a strange thing, and I haven’t seen one of those before. It rustles, a bit like sheets of paper, and has the word ‘Walmart’ printed in blue on one side. Still, I should not judge their customs just because I do not know them.

“I’ll be seeing you later, Albany.”

They still don’t notice. I close the door for them, which really shouldn’t matter, but they can’t have been dead for very long and living people like to have the doors closed.

I’ll be seeing them later.

But it’s not later yet, so I go back to my place, pick up my book, and begin to read once more.

***

I’m not tired. I should be absolutely exhausted, it’s late. But it’s the only time I can do this, and the moonlight is more than enough to guide my steps. It’ll be fine, I’m sure. This door isn’t a creaky one, and it slides open without complaint. Albany isn’t asleep, though, they’re writing at the desk. That’s one of the things that ghosts do, they pretend that everything is the same for a little while after they die. I’ll wait for them, though, and it’ll be fine. I can get them out before they come to terms with their ghostliness. I hope it doesn’t hurt them much. My knife is a small one, it shouldn’t hurt much.

Then again, what's the point if there isn’t any pain? Everything is an equal exchange, and someone has to cash the check.

So I take my place by the bed, and wait for them. Let them take their time. The blue ink running from their fingertips as they pen their final words reminds me of the ocean, of cigarettes, of a person who shouldn’t have gone into the water.

They drop the pen in a moment, and sit up straighter, examining the cerulean mess of thoughts and idle whispering. Their last words are not to be spoken, and perhaps that fits them better. They run a hand through their hair and drop the slip of paper back on the table.

Now is as good a time as any, I think, so I get up and avoid the patch of floor that’ll squeak. Albany, you poor child. Let me help you. It’s raining now, dark, but they have a tablet-like sort of thing that lights up and fills the room with bluish shadows. I don’t like how it gleams off my knife, though, and it would be better for them to die once more in the dark. So I flip the thing over, which gives Albany quite a fright.

I didn’t mean to do that.

They don’t seem to panic, though, and I nearly bring my knife down from where it’s poised at their neck. Albany shakes their head and leaves the tablet where it is, face down on the desk. They take up their carefully written note and leave their place at the desk. I would admit, I am rather perplexed by this, that they would… oh, what now?

There’s no reason for them to jump out through the open window, was there? But that’s what they’ve just done, so I suppose there’s no point in looking for a reason.

The rain is wet and cold against my outstretched hands, the kind of cold that would willingly rip you apart, still warmer than the brisk haze that was left in the abandoned bedroom. I don’t mind it. Albany went out there, I might as well follow. 

The blade in my hand is slick with either rain or sweat as I trespass the boundaries I have set for myself. I’ve not been out here for a few years, I think. But I want to see where my ghostly friend is going, the grave they have taken occasion to visit, so I hop out after them. 

It’s not bad out here. 

They’ve gone across to the graves, and their shoes must be wet by now. Mine are. 

Albany is kneeling now, just in front of a grave I’ve never seen. They seem quiet, nearly sad, but the kind of sad that would promise everything was fine until it really was. I like that kind of sadness. 

I do not like how their shoulders are shaking, though, I don’t like that at all. They’re crying, their tears bleeding into every second, much like the blue ink running from their carefully penned words. 

The note is crumpled up on the ground, from where they’ve dropped it just before the headstone. The ink is escaping from the page in hurried rivulets, their words broken by the very rain they now seek refuge in. 

My gaze strays away from the person I had broken every thought in my mind for, trailing up to the stone that they’ve come all the way out here to visit.  I don’t know whose name is engraved upon it, the one grave I’ve never visited. I know all the others in the garden, as I was there when they were buried, but not this one.

I kneel in the wet grass, trying to read the name inscribed in the crumbling stone between flashes of lightning.

Oh.

Oh dear.

That name seems dreadfully familiar, I should think. It looks like my name. I don’t know, though, as I haven’t been able to remember my poorly stowed title in years. No, no, that’s not my name. It can’t be, I’m not dead. I’m not dead.

I’m not dead.

I get up and stagger back to one of the graves I know, my brother’s, and carefully examine his last name. It matches the one on the stone that can’t be mine. I never had another sibling, and he wasn’t married.

Albany has stood up now, staring oddly at the place where I am most certainly not buried.

“It’s okay now,” They’re saying, the rain is so loud I can barely hear them, “I came to see you. I don’t know why, exactly, but you seemed like you needed seeing.”

They smile through the tears that are mingling with the rain on their face, and it might be the most angelic thing I’ve ever witnessed, them speaking to the person who’s not me. I told you, I’m not dead.

“I, uh, I live quite a ways away. I think it was worth it, though, because I missed you. I’m not one for heartfelt speeches, you know that. I’m a writer. So… there. I gave you my words. You always liked the blue ink.”

I feel paralyzed, standing next to my brother’s grave, watching this person. They seem tired. They’re dead, it must be a tiring affair. 

“You always did talk about ghosts.”

Albany smiles, their soft hair plastered against their skin. They turn away from the grave, and they walk right through me. Away from the person they had just been so far to see, away from the words they had spoken with such a smile on their face. They still have that grin on their face, they still smile, as if the pain has been relinquished with the knowledge that whoever lies six feet underground knows what they have to say. They're still crying, though. I stare after them, thinking, sopping wet and perfectly okay with that. They're gone.

But allow me to take a step back for one moment.

They walked right through me.

Not I through them, they were a solid being, and they walked right through me.

I think I might be dead.