Part 11 (1/2)
”He's faking it.” I turned my body toward her and smirked at my powers of reasoning.
”I'm sorry?”
”Demetrio. He faked his own death. Think about it. He's trying to get out of a gang, but they don't let you leave. They kill you if you leave. So he fakes his death, and they don't have to kill him. That's why he couldn't let those guys see him, or us.”
She knit her brows in thought. ”You know, Nancy Drew, that makes some kind of sense.”
”It makes a heck of a lot more sense than ghost stories, right?”
”Yes, of course. But why would he stay there? If he faked his death, he should do what all the other people who fake their deaths do, and move to Mexico, or Rio Rancho.”
”His grandpa,” I said, remembering how nicely put-together the old man was, and how awkward he was about talking about his grandson. ”If Demetrio were really dead, the old man would have said that. But he didn't. Demetrio probably takes care of him, and that's why the old man didn't say he was dead, exactly, because he probably doesn't like to lie, but he didn't want to give anything away, either.”
”Wow,” said Kelsey. ”I know don't exactly say this often, but I think you're right.”
”He said those gang dudes are nocturnal, right? They do all their - whatever it is they do -”
”Murder and mayhem.”
”Right. Whatever. They do it mostly at night. And Demetrio's always hurrying to get home before dark. Kelsey! He doesn't want them to see him! Right?”
”Wow. Yeah. You know what? I think you might be right. So who's the other cross for?”
”I don't know. Did you even read it?”
”No. You?”
”No. But I bet you whoever it is, they know he's not really dead.”
By the time Kelsey pulled the Land Rover into the driveway of my father's house, we had resolved to keep all of this a secret until we understood more what was going on. We holed up in my the crafting/Maria room, put the TV on for background noise, got into our pajamas, and spoke in whispers; we agreed that there was no way we could tell our parents, or even our friends at school, without looking crazy, or without them thinking we were in danger - which, under the circ.u.mstances, we probably were. My parents didn't need to know about that.
Missy knocked on the door then, and told me the plumber was on the phone and wanted to talk to me. She held the phone with her fingertips, as though merely speaking to a plumber might make it septic. She seemed to think I was gross, like I'd seduced the plumber or something.
I took the phone, confused, and closed the door.
”h.e.l.lo?”
”He's probably a morboso,” said the plumber, without so much as a h.e.l.lo.
”A what?”
”A morboso. A d.a.m.ned spirit who cannot move on, and stays near the site of his violent and unexpected death. Sometimes, if something very emotional happens in that same area, they can be shaken out of where they are, and conjured up as morbosos that some people can see and feel and others can't.”
”Okay.” I rolled my eyes at Kelsey, and couldn't wait to hang up and tell her.
”If you crashed where he died, it makes perfect sense. We've heard stories like this before. It's uncommon, but not unheard of. Morbosos have to keep feeding on other souls. Their own soul is d.a.m.ned for eternity, but they're stuck and can't move on, so they eat other souls. They eat souls. He might have been disappointed that you didn't die in your accident, and he came to find you again because he wanted to set things right.”
”You mean he's a ghost that wants to kill me?” I grinned stupidly at Kelsey, and twirled my finger at my temple in the ”loco” motion. Kelsey rolled her eyes in agreement.
”Yes. In fact, you should check the public record about accidents around there. Could be he does this a lot, and lures people to their deaths to sustain his own suspended state of being.”
”What can be done?” I asked with a hand to my forehead like Scarlett O'Hara.
”Call me in the morning,” he said. ”I'll make some calls, and we'll work out a plan. There are ways to protect yourself. Don't worry. We'll get you taken care of.”
I hung up and told Kelsey everything.
”Eat my soul?” I asked, mockingly.
”If you had one, that could be a real problem,” she joked back.
”This is absurd.”
”Totally.”
”People are insane.”
”Yup yup.”
We busied ourselves getting a snack, brus.h.i.+ng our teeth, and getting ready for bed then. When she stayed over we both slept in the queen bed in the guest/crafting/Maria room. I turned off the light, and the TV, and we lay there in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the nighttime house. My father's master wing was far from our wing, and the twins had been asleep for a while. There were the usual creaks and groans of a house settling, and the wind outside whipping through the branches of the many trees that surrounded the house.
”What if he's not faking it, though?” I asked her. ”What if he's, like, actually dead?” I shuddered a little, with a grin because the premise was wholly impossible.
”Then I bet he was here watching us undress. Which is kinda cool, if you think about it.”
”Kelsey!”
”I hope so. He might want to eat your soul, and his friends might be creepy axe murderers, but he's still freakin' hot.”
”For a dead guy.”
We laughed.
”You're crazy,” I told her.
”Look who's talking,” she said. ”Miss 'morboso's gonna eat my soul', with plumbers calling her in the middle of the night. I wish a guy would want to eat me. You get all the fun.”
”Gross.”
”Yeah, whatever.”
”Seriously, do you think he's here?” I asked, feeling a chill.
”Let's ask him.”
We giggled a little, half girls and half women, trying to understand, but also trying to joke this thing away completely.
”Demetrio, if you're here, give us a sign, come to me, come to me,” I said, utilizing the language and ghostly-dramatic voice of girlhood seances and sleepovers, and one too many s...o...b..-Doo episodes. ”Woo-ooo, wooOOOO,” I added, for dramatic effect.