Sightseer

by Iris Skye Veasey 

When I come to, my legs are tangled between heavy blankets. I’m flushed and damp with sweat and my throat is dry. Last night’s rain has ceased and sunlight pours through the open window. The glare summons small sparks to the forefront of my vision and causes tiny diamonds of light to dance unbidden around me. I squeeze my eyes shut in resistance.  

Under the cloak of night, my friends have drawn closer and curled themselves against my frame where they now rest. Insecurity slithers below my toes and Anxiety’s sharp paws jab into the space between my ribs. Silence and Disappointment are distributed warmly across my midsection and the soothing weight tempts me back into the throes of sleep. Just as I begin to sink deeper into the solace of my dreams, I’m jarred back into the realm of wakefulness by a jostling near my feet.   

I groan. “Stop moving.”  

“Somebody’s sick,” Insecurity chuckles.  

“Somebody’s awake,” Rage snarks.  

“Somebody’s stating the obvious,” I shoot back.  

I dislodge Silence from his resting place on the pit of my stomach and stand, stretching my arms above my head. I exhale and grimace at the scent of my own breath. I must have been sick some time in the night and my mouth tastes like vodka and vomit. Sure enough, as I turn my head, I catch sight of a small pile of puke only inches from my makeshift bed.  

“Gross,” I mumble.  

“No kidding,” Disappointment cackles. His long, arched form stretches lithely as he slinks around the perimeters of the room, avoiding the vomit with abject disapproval.  

I rummage through my backpack and dig absently for my phone. I groan when I retrieve it. Endless notifications flash across the screen as Billie’s name irritably lights up the glass interface.  

She’ll lecture, I’m sure, on the parameters of her position and the boundaries of our relationship. And I suppose she’ll be right, much as she usually is. Assistants are typically limited to the role of assisting.  

Billie takes on much more than she ought to and lets me with minimal complaint pile on responsibilities that were never hers to begin with. Her personality is easier to swallow than mine for clients and townies alike. It may not be in her best interests to serve as the face of Hollow Bone Investigations but she certainly adds up to be a damn pretty one.  

I throw my belongings haphazardly into my bag and tuck my phone into my skirt pockets. I drag my fingers through my gnarled, greasy hair and brush the dust as best I can off my clothes. It’s likely for the best that I don't show up to my own company looking completely unhinged. After thoroughly inspecting myself in the half-reflection of the window, I turn back towards the door and instruct my friends to follow.  

# 

When I arrive at the bank, the sun is heavy in the sky. The day is still cold despite the glaring yellow orb beating down upon us and I shiver slightly in the breeze.  

I rap my knuckles hard against the cold iron door to our home. No response. I pound harder with desperation, but Billie doesn’t exactly come rushing to my rescue. I swear beneath my breath. I didn’t have the fortitude of mind last night to remember to bring the keys with me. 

“Billie,” I shout. “Billie!”  

She opens the door at last. Locks of her silvery hair drape gently over the clear frames that decorate her pale face. She’s donned in dark leggings and a faded, oversized sweatshirt that bears a university logo that has long since become illegible.  

“You know what time it is?”  

“Yes.” I push past her and into the lobby. 

It’s a small room. The bank wasn’t large in its prime and it’s far past that now. Hollow Bone is ridiculously tiny, the kind of small town I used to believe only existed in nostalgic television shows and movies that romanticize an era we’ve passed.  

It is a place frozen in time that struggles fruitlessly against the call of the modern age but progress can only be delayed for so long. The bank fought for decades to compete with the allure of corporate chains before finally waving a white flag of surrender and shutting down entirely. For the last ten years, the building has been rented out to prospective businesses. For the last two years, it’s been mine. 

In the bones of what once was a bank lobby, we’ve set up shop and a living room. Photographs of homes past their prime and decaying stores line the walls; the images lit by a sole yellowed lamp and a handful of tea lights. Billie and I share a preference for the dark.  

There is a walnut-toned leather couch propped against the right wall. Draped over it are chunky, hand-knitted throws and thin fleece blankets. 

Our kitchen isn’t much to speak of; just an eclectic assortment of convenient appliances. On the cabinet next to our kettle resides the tools of our trade. Glass jars of salt and satchels of herbs are precisely stacked next to sparsely littered metal bells. Plants clutter the floor throughout the room; lush and green despite the noted absence of sunlight from the heavily curtained windows. Secreted in the corner lies the only other door in the room; the entrance to the vault where we make our bed.  

“You were supposed to be here hours ago.” She props her hands low on her hips and fixes me with a stern glare. “At nine. Explain.” 

“I know.” I turn to face her. “And I’m sorry.”  

“Reason?” She prompts. 

“I got caught up.”  

“With what?”  

Disappointment interjects. “Getting wasted in an abandoned museum.”  

“Work,” I say.  

“Well, that’s enlightenin’. Anybody else care to tell me?”  

“Somebody already did.” I smile tentatively and relief rushes in when she smiles back.  

“Come on,” she sighs. “I’ll make eggs.” She turns towards our kitchenette.  

“I’ll do with a coffee.”  

“Bad habit,” she replies. She makes me one nonetheless and absently tries it for me. Her nose wrinkles in disgust. The coffee I like has never been to her taste.  

She passes me the mug and I try it next. It’s perfect. “Thank you, love.”  

“Welcome.” She props herself beside me on the arm of the sofa.  

“Did I miss anything while I was out?”  

“Not much,” she hums. “Mr. Banks stopped in this mornin’.”  

“What did he want?”  

“He was goin’ on about his house. He talked for an hour about ghosts. I told him we don’t handle things of that nature but he just stared at me like I grew a second head.”  

“I suppose that line isn’t particularly believable when your partner’s whole schtick is being the ‘girl who hears ghosts.’” 

“Or when that’s most of what we do, formally or otherwise.” She directs a frown my way. “Or when we’ve done it for him before.”  

“Ghosts find me, Billie. I don’t find them.”  

“They aren’t ghosts. Are you?” She asks. It’s funny that she’s fallen to the level of addressing beings she can’t even see.  

“Not ghosts,” my friends reply in disconcerting unison.  

“Anyone else come by?”  

“Nobody you’d find interesting. Mrs. Debbie stopped by about an hour ago. Thinks Jack is cheatin’ on her and wants us to follow him.”  

“For a ridiculously low fee, I’m sure. What’d you tell her?”  

“Said we’d consider it.”  

“We won’t.”  

“I know.” She pushes the coffee towards me and I drain the dregs of it. “So we’re chasin’ ghosts for Mr. Banks, then?”  

“I suppose so.” 

# 

Robert Banks lives, kindly put, in the middle of the fucking wilderness. It’s honestly impressive considering the entirety of Hollow Bone is secreted out on the edges of a midwestern forest. Robert has somehow managed to find the fringe among the fringe and that’s admirable in a demented sort of way. He’s an outcast even among fellow stragglers and heretics. 

The first impression guests are greeted with as they step out to his home is less than welcoming. The slice of land Rob might graciously describe to be his lawn is littered with junk and I have to kick bits of it away as we trudge towards the front steps. Slivers of metal and stacks of paper branch out from his rotting porch to the outskirts of his property.  

His home has the air of a place that was once impressive. It is constructed of solid gray cobblestone and planks of rich, white wood. The stone has held up nicely but the painted wood has weathered and peeled at the hands of nature and time. The windows, which were once bright and expansive, have been clumsily sealed with planks and duct tape.  

The shingles on his roof are in a state of disrepair. As we step up to the tattered screen door, I notice pieces of the roof have cracked and fallen entirely and lay in piles upon the floor.  

We don’t knock. Rob’s chihuahua is already yapping its fragile little head off as he senses our approach. I can hear Rob blundering through his home, hushing his little rat dog and shouldering his way to us. He flings the screen door open and scowls.  

“Finally takin’ me serious, eh?”  

“Of course, Mr. Banks,” Billie consoles. She extends her hand, which he shakes, and I firmly refuse to reciprocate the gesture.  

“Yeah, Rob,” I say. “Let’s take a look.”  

We step into his foyer. I toe stacks of battered books and torn newspapers out of my way as we journey towards the living room. Disappointment peers his head out from my tote bag and rears back in disgust. He tucks himself away again, safely concealing himself from the mess he so fervently disapproves of.  

Rob leads us past the living area and towards a creaky set of bare wooden stairs that spiral into darkness. As we travel upwards, he grapples along the walls searching for a light switch. He finds one and a sole bulb flickers on at the top of the steps. We walk towards the light.  

“So, Mr. Banks,” Billie prompts. “Could you explain further about what’s been goin’ on?”  

“The hauntings, ya mean?” Rob asks.  

My feet hit the landing. “Not hauntings.” Anxiety peeks out from my bag. “Not ghosts.”  

I hum quietly in agreement and glance down the foreboding hall. Rob guides us through a narrow maze occupied by crowded, numbered wooden doors. We pass six of them before rearing to a halt in front of the seventh. It is identical to its counterparts and made of durable, darkened oak that bears a steel nameplate with the designation seven.  

“It’s been goin’ on for the last few weeks. It’s been quiet since the last time I had y’all o’er a year back. But lately when I go up here, I notice things ain’t right,” Rob informs Billie.  

“Have you seen anything?” I ask. I teeter towards the door and inspect it carefully.  

“No, not seen nothin’,” he replies. “But felt things.”  

“Care to elaborate?” 

“You can feel for yourself.”  

He pulls a chain of rusted keys from his pockets and rummages through them. He finds a thick wrought iron key engraved with the number seven and inserts it into the lock.  

As soon as he pushes open the door, it’s clear what he meant. My friends shift in agitation in my pockets, coat, and bag. A feeling of despair hangs heavy in the musty oxygen around us. It coats every surface and dulls every sense. As I cross the threshold, my head becomes heavy and my legs abruptly turn weak. The desire to collapse runs through me in waves.  

“What is that?” 

Billie’s voice jars me in the face of the feeling. I glance back and notice my companions have made a wary and hasty retreat. I hum in noncommittal response and turn back to the room.  

Through the haze of emotion, I catalog the space. The room was once living quarters. It is decked with a plush bed and boarded windows but has since been converted into a makeshift library, as much of Rob’s house has. Bookshelves line the walls in dissonant arrays. The colors of the wooden frames range from painted whites to yellowed pine to rich chestnut shades. A few plastic shelving units are thrown in for good measure. The bed is still dressed but is coated in a thin layer of grime and stacked with water-stained paperback novels. Hard textbooks are assembled in precarious piles across the floor.  

I catch a fleeting glimpse of mist as it slides past me and turn towards it. Sure enough, a friend beckons to me from the ceiling. It has secreted itself into a corner and rests above a cluttered bookcase. Its eight long, wispy limbs hang over the entirety of the room and envelop books and I alike. I turn back to the door.  

“Rob,” I call. “Go downstairs.”  

“What’d’ya mean? I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”  

I resist the urge to lull my eyes into the back of my head and fix a glance at Billie instead.  

“Mr. Banks,” she appeases. “It’s best to leave us to the process.”  

Rob grumbles but submits. He follows Billie’s guiding hand back down the hall. We watch his retreat in silence and as soon as he is swallowed back into the darkness of the stairway, Billie turns to me.  

“Is it a friend?”  

“Yep,” I sigh. “Suppose the old man is actually haunted this time.”  

“Hesty,” she warns.  

“Billie,” I parrot.  

“What are we goin’ to do?”  

“There isn’t much to do,” I reply.  

“Well, we can’t just leave him here with it!” 

“Why not?”  

“Hesty.” 

I scrutinize the righteous indignation in her eyes.  

“Alright,” I concede. “I’ll try to talk to it.”  

She hesitantly sets foot into the room with me. I keep my eyes locked on the friend. Its form isn’t stable. Its physique is thin, sheer, and composed entirely of gas. It fails to resemble anything similar to the friends that clutch fearfully onto my person. The friend cycles through pale shades across the color spectrum and occasionally becomes opaque before quietly thinning again. It makes no sound or attempt at speech. I clear my throat and step forwards, keeping my neck craned upwards at the roof. 

“Hello,” I call. It elicits no reaction.  

I step nearer and try yet again to no avail.  

“What do you think?” I address my friends at large.  

Anxiety whimpers. “Not good, not good at all—”  

“He’s right,” Disappointment interjects. “That one’s bad news.” 

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Insecurity slurs. “But nothing that can be helped either.”  

“Great,” I say.  

The cloud of mist emits a sole hissing noise. It calls to mind the sound of a slowly deflating balloon and I step back quickly. 

“What’s it doing?” Billie whispers.  

“Hissing?” I answer.  

“Well,” she lowers her voice further. “Do you think we can coax it out?” 

“We can’t do shit. It’s stationary and massive.”  

“So seal it in, then?” 

“I suppose it’s our best option.” 

# 

We board up the seventh door to the best of our capacities. I sprinkle salt carefully along the inner and outer perimeters of the room and pin wooden planks to the door frame with heavy iron nails. Billie wedges satchels of dried rowan and clover underneath the crack of the door and hangs one on the doorknob for good measure. I place an iron bell beside the entrance.  

“Done,” I announce. My friends have been studiously avoiding us for much of the process. They’re far too hardy for the measures to have any true deterrent effect but they dislike it all the same.  

“Well,” I say. “That should at least keep it from drifting out and any fools from drifting in.”  

“Good.” 

“Let’s go get our money,” I sing and head back downstairs.  

Rob waits in the kitchen. He is seated in a rickety wooden dining chair. His rat dog lies at his feet, nosing gently at his worn leather boots. A glass of dark liquid and ice rests before him and lightly perspires. His glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose as he peers intently at the article he’s reading.  

I relax into the chair opposite him uninvited. It doesn’t match his chair or any of the others cluttered around the table. Rob has taken a rather eclectic approach when it comes to his furnishings. Though, I suppose I’m not one to criticize considering I don’t believe in kitchens proper.  

“We took care of it,” I inform him.  

“Eh?” He asks. “So the ghost is gone?” 

“More or less,” I reply. “Leave it be. Don't go in the room. Don’t disturb anything we’ve left there. Might be best if you just forget it’s part of your house entirely.”  

Rob sighs. “Well, guess I had best pay y’all.”  

He rummages through his dirty jeans and pulls out a torn leather wallet. He grabs a handful of crumpled twenties and extends them towards Billie.  

“Thank you, Mr. Banks.” Billie is cheerful when paid. She pockets the cash.  

“Alrighty,” I say and turn on my heel. “Try not to need us again.” 

With my parting words, we leave the home of Robert Banks.