Silver Spruce was spread out over miles of forest and in terms of size--like in most things-- the town was a bit odd. The town itself was far too large to be considered a roadside town since you had to drive nearly a mile off the highway to get to it, and like I said, it's buildings were spread out over miles of forest.

But the town's population was only about 3,000 citizens. The town was also old; we practically had as many abandoned historical buildings as we had residents. This fact, combined with its remote location and high levels of ambient magic, meant we had ghosts and lots of them. As well as lots of other Spooks who didn't care for crowds and cities.

Most supernaturals are like anyone else. They just wanted to be left alone to live their lives. Though the types that drifted here were much like the humans. Decent folk, if a little... unique. Though I wasn't certain if I should be calling anyone else unique or odd. I lived behind a graveyard and spent most of my time with dead people.

That graveyard was at the north edge of town where there were even fewer people, and the buildings were even more spread out.

Luckily for Ben and me, we had hiked out into the woods from the graveyard, so I didn't have to track back through the entire town to get home. That being said, the hike was still long, and it was with a sigh of relief that I stepped onto the dirt road that led off into the graveyard.

The graveyard was a large plot of land on a long sloping hill, with a gravel road leading up through its center. The road was lined on each side with rows and rows of graves. Most with simple tombstones, some with crosses. And one very out of place grave near the center had a small stone obelisk. I never met the ghost that the grave had belonged to, I hoped it was because they had moved on long ago.

A small, knee height, wrought iron fence lined the graveyard. At the very top of the hill, past the graves, sat my home. It wasn't a large building, one story with a small porch on the front that had just enough room for a rickety wooden lawn chair. Inside was one bedroom, a small bathroom, which just barely had enough room for a shower, and an open space that served as a living room/kitchen.

I had helped the previous owner run this place since I was a young teenager. The ancient old man had let the graveyard fall into a state of disrepair and had been perfectly willing to let me do all the work he didn't want to. Unpaid, of course.

I didn't mind though, I had always been able to see ghosts, and working in a graveyard just seemed like a natural step for me. And the old man hadn't been totally rotten. When he died last year, he had passed the graveyard onto me in his Will.

I practically ran up the gravel road, my sore back protesting as I did. The thought of getting out of my mud-caked clothes and a hot shower made the pain seem entirely inconsequential.

After getting a shower, a hot cup of coffee, and a fresh change of clothes – in that order – I headed out onto the porch and sat down in the rickety old lawn chair.

Despite my exhaustion, I doubted it was past four in the afternoon. The sun hadn't even dipped past the trees yet. I sighed as I looked around at the graveyard. There was no one here. I didn't get families coming through to look at the graves often, but it wasn't exactly a rare sight either.

Right now, though, the place was silent, empty. Normally when I sat by myself, it was only a matter of time until I saw ghosts moving around--floating out of graves, holding conversations. Ironically, the places that felt the liveliest to me were the ones filled with the dead.

Today though, the graveyard felt exactly like what it was--a home for the resting dead.

A crack of thunder sounded in the distance, startling me. A storm was gathering on the horizon, thick black clouds mixed in with gray like an angry tide. I shivered. I was only wearing a cotton T-shirt and jeans, and it had to be somewhere in the low fifties out. Winter wasn't here yet, but it was definitely knocking on falls door.

I should probably go grab a coat. I shook my head; don't be a wimp, Alder. I paused to consider that thought, then went inside and grabbed a coat. A macho attitude wouldn't make me any more comfortable.

When I sat back down with a creek, I knew that I wasn't alone. I keep my aura close to me at all times, tightly bound around my body like a second skin. It suppressed its power, which plenty of things could sense; it was one of my best defenses against wandering nasties or mages, or even the odd black bear. But even with my aura tightly contained, my senses still extended past it by a couple of feet.

It wasn't like having an extra pair of eyes. I couldn't "see" as it were. But I could feel, kind of like getting scents and feelings with my mind. And when it came to ghosts, I could often sense them even when they were at a fair distance from me.

I turned and smiled at Ben. The stout man winced. Okay, note to self, need to work on my fake smiles.

"How you doing, Ben?" I asked, dropping the false expression. Ben didn't answer. Instead, he leaned against the feeble porch railing. The rails didn't creek, and the floorboards didn't squeak. If it weren't for my eyes and magical senses nothing would've told me Ben was there.

Well, that and the faint smell of chock, leather, and exertion. Ben stared at me; his dark brown eyes serious for once. "I should be the one asking that question." He paused to stretch. It wasn't necessary, but old habits die hard, hard enough to survive your death. "You said. You said this was a bad one. You wanna talk about it?" I turned away from Ben to face the graveyard. Taking comfort from the familiar landscape.

Did I want to talk about it? It was normal for me to be put through the wringer when I performed an exorcism. The mental connection that my aura formed was deeper than just connecting to those memories. I was them while I experienced those memories. And they were etched into my soul. I would never forget them. No matter how much I might want to.

The often-traumatic things I experienced were usually countered by the satisfaction of having laid a soul to rest. Of having ended suffering. I didn't feel that now, I just felt tired. And hurt, and a million other things I didn't have the energy to decipher.

I closed my eyes and decided that it was better to talk than not. "He was betrayed, Ben. By his own leaders who betrayed his faith, his army betrayed their mission. And his friend, no. His brother betrayed him. Killed him." I felt the wood of the chair creak beneath my fingers as I spoke and tried to relax my grip.

"And as he did, he told him that he was the betrayer, that he was in the wrong. The man fought for what was right, fought as hard as he could. And in the end, all it earned him was exhaustion, pain, and death." I bowed my head.

"It's a hard thing to experience."

We were both silent for a few long minutes. Then the porch creaked as Ben walked over to me. He had to make an effort to create noise deliberately.

In a serious tone, he asked. "... What is red and bad for your teeth?" I looked up at him, confused. "What?" "A brick."

I stared at him in disbelief for a second before I broke out laughing. "That's terrible!" I choked out. He grinned. "I know, but the situation needed something that wasn't grim. And it's hard to feel grim when someone whips out the dad jokes."

Ben gave me a one-armed hug, and I returned it. It was cold, but I didn't mind in the slightest. After a few long moments, my chuckles died down, and Ben stepped away.

I stood up, pausing to stretch before walking to the edge of the porch. I didn't need to make any sort of special effort to cause the floorboards to creak and wine under my weight. I stepped off onto the small line of dirt that marked the distinction between my front yard and the graveyard.

Admittedly I didn't have much of a yard. It was a strip of dirt only a few feet across that wrapped around the entirety of my small home. I had tried to grow grass there more than once, but it never seemed to take. Maybe that strip was a lightning rod for all the death mojo or something because I had nice green grass covering the graveyard. It was just that one stubborn strip around my house that refused to grow anything.

I shivered and turned back to my house. It really was getting cold out, and another cup of coffee, and maybe an even thicker coat, would do wonders to solve that problem.

A wind blew through the graveyard. Scattering the falling leaves like a wave crashing against the shore. It brought with it the scent of fresh bread, decaying vegetation, and the sea.

I froze. We were a long way from the ocean, hell I'd only ever seen it through the memories of ghosts. And there weren't any bakeries on this side of town.

I turned around, and my senses buzzed a warning. Standing less than 3 feet away from me was a pale man in his early forties. He had wiry, red hair and thick wire-rimmed glasses that rested on a gaunt face. He was wearing normal office casual khakis and a pullover, save for the aged white lab-coat that seemed a little too big for him. The kind of thing you'd expect to see someone wearing at the start of a 50's horror movie.

His skin was too drawn as if his body was slightly too large for it. I had a feeling he had been called string bean in high school since he was easily six-three but couldn't have had more than 20 pounds on me. And if I had to strike a guess, I would say he had bled to death.

He was a surprisingly solid ghost, the only visual hint that he wasn't normal was the fact that the leaves didn't crunch under his feet, and the tails of his tattered, bloodstained, lab coat didn't shift or flutter in the wind.

My senses had told me what he was before I laid eyes on him. But the dried brown blood crusted to his jaw and chin would've tipped me off regardless. We stared at each other in silence. His empty brown eyes staring into mine with an eerie lack of focus.

I could hear Ben moving up beside me, so I decided to make the first move. I stepped forward towards the ghost and raised my hand. "Hello, my name's Alder. What's yours?" The man stared at my hand, vacantly. Showing no sign of motion. Just when I was about to retract my offered hand, his arm drifted up. Slowly, as if he was moving in a dream, the ghost reached out and took my hand.

I saw a spark of surprise ignite somewhere behind his eyes. But it faded quickly. I stepped back, releasing my grip on his hand, and smiled.

I could tell that most of his mind was gone. But I tried my best to treat all ghosts politely until they tried to rip my throat out. Even with my aura vialed as tightly as it was, it still drew ghosts like bees to honey. It usually wasn't a bad thing. For every ghost that ended up like Noren, there were ten like the man in front of me.

They had gotten lost somewhere along the way, their minds damaged. Some ghosts were perfectly functional. Some couldn't even comprehend their surroundings. If I wanted to, I could use my magic and force the ghost to move on. But that wasn't a price that I liked to pay if I didn't have to.

I made sure to keep my aura vailed because it wasn't only ghosts that it called to. There were other things that would flock to it like... Well, bears to honey. Hell, bears themselves sometimes wandered up to me. Some nonsupernatural predators were still drawn to my aura, the feelings it gave off marking me as vulnerable prey. Or as a weak thing to be protected.

There had been that time with the wolverine... I shook my head, bringing myself back to the present.

The man cocked his head at me. Like his handshake, the motion was slower than it should've been. Like he was moving through molasses. I gave the man my best attempt at a reassuring smile and asked. "Can you talk?" Instead of answering, the ghost cocked his head to the other side, then parted his bloodstained lips.

He didn't have a tongue. Instead, the inside of his mouth was a bloody ruin. Yep, definitely bled to death. "Okay, so talking is out of the question." I glanced at Ben. "We could try charades?" That earned me a chuckle. I returned my focus to the ghost in front of me. "I'm joking, of course," I told him. He showed a minimal reaction.

I reached into my jeans back pocket and pulled out a small spiral-bound notepad. The kind detectives always seem to have on TV. This was hardly my first time interacting with a mute ghost.

I proffered up the notepad, which had a small pencil in the binding, to the man. He stared blankly at it. I fought the urge to sigh. "We can use this to talk if your –" I cut off as he reached forward. Unlike when we had exchanged grips, his hand passed straight through the notepad without slowing. "Strong enough to hold it," I finished and gave up on holding back the sigh.

Ben sat down to my left, resting on Agatha's gravestone. I fought the urge to wince or laugh; I couldn't decide which. Agatha would be furious if she saw Ben resting on her grave, not that she was likely to see, considering that she rarely left the library.

But I needed to keep my expression friendly and calm. It didn't happen often, but sometimes a seemingly calm ghost, like the man in front of me, could turn violent, and you never knew what might set someone off-especially someone who had died violently.

Well, if all else failed, I could fall back on the simplest solution possible. "Can you show me what you need?" I asked. The ghost stared at me, his expression as blank as ever. But, after a few seconds, I saw more lucidity returned to his flat brown eyes. There was something about my aura. It was connected to whatever feeling drew the ghosts. But they knew, even if their minds were gone, that I could see them, that I could give them release.

Most ghosts didn't need me to form a mental link with them as I had with the Crusader. That was the method I only used on the crazies or the truly desperate. No, most ghosts had a request. Something that was holding them back, tying them down. If you could grant that if you could fulfill that last dying wish, then they would be free to move on to wherever it was ghosts went.

Personally, I liked to think it was heaven. But most of the ghosts I forced on their way weren't taking the express elevator going up, if you catch my meaning. I knew I wouldn't need to use that method on the ghost in front of me, as he turned and started slowly walking down the path of graves.

"We're following him, I assume?" Ben asked from his seated position. I looked between Ben and the retreating figure of the ghost and felt a wave of weariness push down on me.

What was I doing? Why was I doing it? I didn't know this man. I wasn't going to gain anything by following him. And the righteousness of helping others didn't feel so satisfying with Noren's memories pushing in on me.

All I was gaining was more trauma to add to a quickly growing pile. Where was it going to end?

"Are you all right?" Ben asked. I turned to him and found that his face was painted with worry.

I shook my head violently to clear it. Then nodded. "I'm fine, let's go follow lab coat before he wanders out of sight." With another worried glance, Ben stood up, and we followed after the silent ghost.