My Best Friend, The Ghost

Chelsea Pierce’s entire life had been focused around writing. Need someone to write an article about the tiger who just broke out of the zoo? Done. What about someone to write a blog review on the latest trends? Also done. If there was something that needed to be written, Chelsea would be the first to volunteer to write it. 

Ever since Chelsea was little she had been dreaming of the day she could share her work with the world, whether it be in poetry form, an essay, or a lab report. She didn’t care as long as she was able to write. In middle school her short story got nominated for regional awards, only adding fuel to the burning fire of a passion she had. During English class, her hand was always up and ready to dive into the fascinating world of literature.

Now, twenty years later, she found herself sitting behind a desk, working for one of the biggest newspaper companies in the world. Although she rarely had any free time, Chelsea wouldn’t have had it any other way. She found joy in the late nights spent at her small cubicle on the tenth floor of her office building, papers sprawled out all over her desk, and eyes red from staring at the computer for way too long. 

Chelsea Pierce was one of the writing pioneers, being able to adapt her style to whatever the task called for. Many people proclaimed she would become one of the best writers of all time, and they weren’t wrong. She would have if she hadn’t been taken from us too early.

I sit at my small wooden desk in my old apartment on the twelfth floor, staring at the sad excuse of a farewell speech I have crafted to say at Chelsea’s funeral in the coming week. The corner of the paper is stained by a single drop of salty water that I found dripping down my face. 

I keep replaying the image in my mind—Chelsea slumped over the steering wheel in the middle of the intersection, blood running down the side of her head. The car’s horn blasted loudly through the streets, alerting everybody within a mile radius that something wasn’t quite right. I could see the roughed up driver of that smashed red Chevrolet exiting his car and sprinting away, not even bothering to look back. 

The keys to Chelsea’s apartment dangle from my fingers. I hadn’t brought myself to muster the courage and enter her apartment since her death. The room where we spent countless nights throwing popcorn at the TV screen when a movie’s protagonist did something stupid was once a place of happiness and warmth. Now it would simply be a reminder of lost time.

My phone buzzes, letting me know my ride has arrived. I force myself to stand and exit the chair I’ve practically been glued to the past few days. When I step foot onto the cement sidewalk outside, the city feels so foreign despite having lived here the past few years. 

The driver opens the door to the silver Subaru, and I slide in, the black leather of the seats reminding me of the pair of leather pants Chelsea used to love to wear to nightclubs when we were younger. We drive in silence to the tall brick building Chelsea called home. Its once welcoming brown doors now feel ominous, as though I were walking into a haunted house.

My shoes echo through the lobby, as my heels strike the white and black tiled floor. The doorman doesn’t even make an attempt to stop me from reaching the elevator to ask if I lived there—he’s seen me walk through these doors too many times to count.

When I reach Chelsea’s door, my hand pauses on the brass doorknob. I take a deep breath, preparing myself to walk into the apartment I’ve been into countless times. The stack of books she keeps on the shelf above her desk would be collecting dust, and the unwashed dishes would still be sitting in her sink as though she were going to come back and clean them. That was how we left the place before getting into the car that fateful afternoon, so that was what would await me.

I push the door open and immediately gasp with horror. Every cabinet door is open, its contents thrown onto the ground. Her books are tossed left and right, the neatly kept pages now crinkled and ripped. The desk drawers, which were once filled with important files for work, are now empty, only a single manila folder with one paper remaining. Someone had ransacked Chelsea’s apartment.

My mind races as I try to imagine why anyone would break into a dead woman’s apartment. Chelsea always had a bubbly personality and was kind to everyone she met, so there was no reason to suspect she had made an enemy. 

My gaze falls to the last piece of paper in her file. Hands trembling, I flip open the folder to find a document titled “The Stanley Project,” with black lines all over the paper. A paperclip hugs the top of the paper, giving the impression that there was more to this document. I read the lines that aren’t blacked out, finding very little information other than that the project was aimed to embezzle funds by a major corporate company. A single name was readable, though I suspected there was more underneath the black. Devon Hughes. 

Devon Hughes runs one of the largest corporate companies in the city, often gaining the recognition of being one of the more ruthless CEOs in the business. What does he have to do with this project? And why was Chelsea in possession of these files? While she wrote in almost every genre possible, the one topic she always avoided were scandals. Surely this project wouldn’t be big enough to get her killed? 

My heart thuds against my chest. Suddenly the Chelsea I had known since the third grade seemed to be a completely different person entirely. Is this what she had been working on during all those late nights at the office? I search my brain for any signs that hint she may have been hiding things from me. My eyes widen as I recall her telling me her desk was off limits—that I was not to touch anything or even go near it. I hadn’t thought much of it at first, thinking it was probably some writer’s superstition, but after seeing all her files missing, I wonder if she wasn’t just working on her assigned article.

The door rattles behind me and I spin around, nearly dropping the file. I feel all the color drain out of my face and my legs turn to jello as I see who is standing there. I think I’m staring at a ghost, although the ghost looks just as surprised at my presence as I am at hers.

“Chelsea? Y-you’re alive?” the words barely come out as a whisper. The blonde haired woman wastes no time snatching the file from my hands and racing towards her desk, slamming her fist down on its smooth wooden surface.

“Who did this?” she asks, her face contorting into a snarl that I’ve never seen before. 

“Slow down,” I tell her, raising my hands. “How are you alive? I saw you at the crash—you weren’t moving.”

“I was knocked unconscious for a while, but came to my senses before the paramedics arrived. You were being helped by the side of the street and I slipped away before anyone noticed I was gone,” Chelsea explains.

“So you let me and everyone else think you were dead?” The words come flying out of my mouth. “I’m your best friend, or so I thought. What else haven’t you been telling me?” My hands fold across my chest before I even realize I’m doing it. 

“Tell me you haven’t read the file,” Chelsea pleads, ignoring my questions. I ball my fists up so that my knuckles turn white.

“Of course I read the stupid file,” I tell her through gritted teeth. “Now tell me what’s going on.” Her eyes widen and she lets out a sad sigh, so much so that her shoulders seem to droop and her face sinks. She reaches for her right pocket and pulls out a wallet, opening it to slide out an ID.

“I didn’t tell you for two reasons. One, I didn’t want to endanger you, although now that you’ve read the file, I guess you’re in just as much danger as I am. Two, it’s classified information that you’re not supposed to know. So since you’ve read the file, you’re kinda inclined to help.” She raises the ID badge to my face and I can only imagine that I looked like a little kid that was just told that Santa isn’t real. “Welcome to the FBI.”