"No, Ben, No. There are no ghosts in real life. It's only pretend. Ghosts exist only in stories and movies, never in real life."

I sighed. "Okay, then. Let's talk about a story. Let's say we both just started reading a story, a ghost story. And in this story a man named Ben sees a ghost named May. Not in real life; just a story. In that story, what would Ben do?"

Claudia's lips tightened, and she looked angry.

Without bothering to shower or shave, I hurriedly pulled on the clothes that lay in a pile by my bed — right where May dropped them. They were wrinkled and dirty; they were the clothes I wore yesterday; but they were closest to hand, and I had to get out and away as quickly as possible.

Even in my hurry I couldn't miss seeing the bruises on my sides and hips, and the painful scrape marks on my chest where May had tried to pull my skin into a breast-like shape. I hurt all over. I hurt in ways I'd never hurt before. There didn't seem to be an inch of me that wasn't in pain. I whimpered as I pulled on my shoes. I didn't bother to tie them. I hobbled downstairs, got in my car, and drove to the coffee shop where I'd first met Claudia.

The two of us were still meeting in public places. I hadn't yet been to her place, and she hadn't been inside mine.

"My God, Ben, look at you!" Claudia cried in alarm."What happened? Did someone beat you up?"

I lowered myself into a chair slowly, like an old man. Once I settled into what seemed the least painful position, I began to tell her what had happened.

As she listened, Claudia's face went white, then red, and white again in turns, as she was shocked, dismayed, upset, or frightened.

You have to understand that neither of us had mentioned May for a week, and Claudia was doing her best either to forget what happened or to treat it as a joke.

Now that I looked like a victim of torture, she could see there was nothing funny about it at all.

Stupidly, I told her everything: the visit to May's house, the conversation with Ms. Krylova, May undressing me each night, and her nightmarish attempts to transform me. I suppose if I hadn't been in so much pain, I would have thought about how it would sound to Claudia — or I would have realized, seeing the expressions on her face — but the effort of sitting upright in my chair took so much out of me that my brain could only run on minimal power.

Once I started talking, I couldn't stop. It poured out of me. In retrospect, I should have told her that May was still appearing to me, and stopped there. That fact alone would have been quite bad enough from Claudia's point of view.

Claudia was already afraid that I had some sort of psychological issue, and everything I told her confirmed that opinion and locked in her conviction that I desperately needed help. In her mind, my injuries, my bruises, my difficulty sleeping, and even my belief that May was real, were all caused by my own inner conflicts and illness. The more I had to complain about, the sicker I must be.

After I'd finished talking, I did something that topped all my stupidity so far: I showed her my bruises and scrapes. Claudia was horrified. She was devastated. It took several moments before she overcame her shock and was able to speak.

"Ben," she said in voice that was cautious and tender and yet extremely frightened, "Do you understand how far out you've gone? Ben, you *have* to see someone. You have to see some one today."

"I'm already seeing May," I lamely joked, but of course she didn't laugh.

"Ben, look at you. Can't you see that you're a danger to yourself? And you broke into that house... who knows who really lives there, and what they would have done — or what you would have done — if they were home? I'm frightened, Ben. I'm really frightened. And I'm not just frightened for you, I'm frightened for myself. How do I know you wouldn't hurt me, too?"

"Claudia!" I protested. "I would never! May doesn't tell me what to do."

"And yet, look at what you did to yourself," she replied, choking on the words. She sniffed and wiped a stray tear off her cheek, and then she began to cry in earnest. She bent over, put her face in her hands, and cried. I reached out my hand to comfort her, but she pulled away from my touch. I took my hand back, hurt more by her fear of me than by anything May had done.

"You really need to see someone," she repeated. "Today. Today. I need to draw a line, Ben: As hard as it is to say this, I have to. If you don't get professional help, I will not see you any more. Not at all. You're ill and you need help. You need a kind of help I'm not qualified to give. If you don't get it, I will make a clean break from you. Otherwise, you'll drag me into your—" she paused, searching for a word "—your pathology. It will hurt me and it won't help you. It won't help you at all."

I suddenly realized how easily she could cut me out of her life. I don't mean emotionally; I only mean physically. Separation would hurt her just as much as it would hurt me, but she would do it. It wouldn't require much of a change: All she had to do was stop meeting me. I didn't know where she lived. I didn't know where she went to school. I didn't know whether she had a job. I hadn't met any of her friends or family.

Until that moment, I hadn't realized how much distance she'd been keeping. I was too busy worrying about her coming to my place; too concerned about keeping her and May apart.

I was crushed... crushed and humiliated. But the worst was yet to come.

"... and another thing," Claudia said. "I had no idea that you want to be a girl."

"I don't!" I cried, as if I'd been stung.

"It must be a really strong desire if you've pushed it off onto May."

"What!?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "What are you talking about?"

"I wondered why you pictured May so sexy and provocative. You told me that she looked like a prostitute—"

"I was wrong!" I interrupted. "She isn't that way at all!"

Claudia waved her hand and shook her head. She didn't want to hear it.

"I don't know whether we have any future at all," she told me in a low voice, heavy with emotion, "But I know that you need to get help."

We both fell silent as the weight of her words sank deeply into both of us. She sounded like a judge pronouncing sentence. I didn't dare speak or move — or even breathe! — for fear I'd make things worse. I swallowed hard, looking down, thinking as hard as I could. There was something I needed to say, something I needed to ask her. In spite of what she said, I did need her help. But how could I begin to ask her?

The silence was suddenly broken by the ear-splitting siren of an ambulance that burst out of nowhere and tore down the street. As its wail faded in the distance, I cleared my throat and spoke.

"Okay," I said. "If you give me the name of someone, I will go see them. Today."

Claudia lifted her face and looked into my eyes, but she didn't show any emotion. "Good," she said in a flat, neutral tone.

"But first I have to say something, and I'm begging you to hear me out. I want to make it clear: I'm desperate. I've already agreed to see whoever you choose. Today. But please listen to one little thing."

I licked my lips, which were very dry, and swallowed hard. Claudia handed me her half-empty water bottle, and I drained it.

"Okay," I said. "Let's say — just hypothetically — that May is real—"

"No," Claudia said with finality. "Stop. May isn't real. There are no such things as ghosts."

"Are you so sure?" I asked her. "Do you really know that? Can you prove it? That there is not one in the entire world?"

"No, but..."

"Please, Claudia. Just wait for a few moments and hear me out, okay? What if—"

"No, Ben. I'm not going to listen to any what-ifs. This is just a sidetrack: a way to avoid getting help."

"No, it's not." I said. "I've already agreed to get help. Today. I'm going to go. But I've got one mental knot that maybe you can help me untie. Can you humor me for just five minutes? Afterward, no matter what either one of us say, I will go see a mental-health professional and follow their advice."

She looked at me and said nothing. When I saw she wasn't going to speak, I began again. "So... just hypothetically, if there really was a ghost—"

"No, Ben, No. There are no ghosts in real life. It's only pretend. Ghosts exist only in stories and movies, never in real life."

I sighed. "Okay, then. Let's talk about a story. Let's say we both just started reading a story, a ghost story. And in this story a man named Ben sees a ghost named May. Not in real life; just a story. In that story, what would Ben do?"

Claudia's lips tightened, and she looked angry.

"Please, Claudia: talk to me, just for a little bit. Take this obstacle away from me. What would Ben do in the story?"

She covered her face with her hands and made a small stifled scream of frustration. Then she took a deep breath and uncovered her face.

"Okay," she said. "If this was a ghost story, May would be around because she had some unfinished business, and Ben would have to help her with it."

"What kind of unfinished business?"

She frowned. "I don't know! Maybe she has to tell somebody something. Maybe it's something about the way she died!"

Something about the way she died. That made sense. May never talked about how she died. Not that I often brought it up, but every time I did, she'd flatly refuse to discuss it.

"Okay," I said. "So let's say — in this story — that it's something to do with how this person died. How does the guy in story find out what the problem is?"

As I said that, Claudia's expression abruptly changed. It was as though a light came on. Her mouth opened slightly, and she turned her head slowly as an idea took shape. Then she looked me in the eyes. I waited, watching the wheels turn inside her head, until I couldn't wait any longer.

"Claudia?" I asked.

"I've got it," she said. "I've got it! Listen to me: if May is a real person who died on Monday night, then the police must know."

"Yes, I guess they would," I agreed.

"And if there is no such person, they would know that too! I mean, if she doesn't exist, they wouldn't know about her."

I shrugged and scratched my head.

Claudia pulled out her cell phone and looked through her contacts. "My cousin Walter happens to be a police detective," she said, and punched a number. She smiled and sat up straight.

"And so?"

"He will be able to tell us for sure that there is no May," she crowed, "and then you'll see: she's only a figment of your imagination!"

"Wait," I said. "Be careful what you say. If you tell him that I know about May, he might think that *I* killed her."

Claudia rolled her eyes and told me not to worry.

Walter answered, and Claudia became all bright and chatty. She act as though she'd called on a whim, just out of the blue. Walter seemed to have time to talk — or listen at any rate — as Claudia filled him in on family news and gossip. Then she told him about school, and just when I thought I couldn't bear any more, at long last she asked how things were with him. After listening for a bit, she threw in, "And do you still like being a cop, Walter? You're not working on any murders or kidnappings or anything horrible like that, are you?"

I couldn't hear his answer, but whatever he said wiped Claudia's smile right off her face. "Really? Seriously? What's the girl's name?" she asked, and when Walter replied, her face went white.

Claudia listened for a little while longer, but every moment Walter spoke only added to Claudia's nervousness. When her agitation grew to the point that she was trembling, she signed off, making a poor show of seeming nonchalant and cheery. She folded up her phone, dropped it into her bag, and sat in stunned silence. I waited for her to say something, and at last she said, "What's May's last name?"

"I don't know," I replied. "I never asked. Why?"

"Because a girl named May Repton has disappeared. Her family reported her missing last Tuesday."

Of course, the first thing I wanted to say was, "See? I'm not crazy!" but I resisted the urge. Instead, I asked about May's boyfriend.

"Yeah," Claudia said. "He's gone, too. He ran. The police were going to pick him up for check fraud... forgery... check kiting — whatever that is. They think he took off for—"

"Chicago," I interrupted, and she said "Chicago" a beat after I did. She gave me a look that unnerved me: the sort of look you'd give a creepy, scary stranger who comes too close.

"Yes," Claudia agreed in an uneasy tone, "That's what Walter said. The Chicago police are on the lookout for him, and hopefully May will turn up when he does."

"She won't turn up," I said. "You know she won't."

Claudia lifted her face and looked me in the eyes. It was a look I'll never forget; a face written on my heart with a searing knife. At the time I didn't understand it, but now I do. It's the look someone has in the moment before they close a door... a door that they will never open again. Her eyes were big and liquid. Her nose was red from sniffling. Her lips were parted and moist. She never looked so beautiful, but I'd never seen her in such pain.

"Claudia," I said softly, "Now you know that it's true."

She swallowed hard and sniffed. She fixed her eyes on me, as though she was memorizing my face, and then she set her jaw and spread her hands, fingers wide, palms facing me. It was a gesture of total refusal.

"I don't want to know," she whispered. "Ben, I do not want to know." She abruptly stood, knocking her chair over. She let out a single, high whimper followed by a sniff. I thought she was about to cry, so once again I reached for her, and once again she recoiled from me in fear.

"Don't call me, Ben," she told me in a fierce whisper. "Don't call me, ever."

She ran to her car, revved her engine wildly, and drove off as quickly as she could.

I never saw Claudia again.
 

In the weeks ahead I felt the pain of it, but at the moment I was feeling something else entirely.

A burden had been lifted off me. A knot had been untied.

Her cousin had confirmed that May was real. Not only that, but he confirmed that she had disappeared on Monday night, the night before I first saw her at the bridge! It was a vindication, a liberation. I wasn't crazy! I didn't have to be afraid any longer. All the things I'd done with May were real!

My sense of relief was indescribable.

And then another sensation hit me: I had to pee like mad! I'd run out this morning without using the bathroom at all.
 

I sighed as I stood at the urinal, and for some reason that was the spot where it all came together. Now the whole thing made sense to me. The pieces of the puzzle suddenly fit together. I knew what happened and why. I knew why May had appeared to me and no one else. There was one thing that I did every day: one thing that I did and no one else.

I drove across the bridge. Every day. *That* was the key.

And so, right now there was only one thing to do. I had to deal with May's unfinished business. I got in my car and headed for the bridge. This time I didn't cross over. I parked my car on the west side. There is no space for that on the east side of the bridge; where I'd met May there was barely room to stand.

I trudged across the bridge alone, the wind from the big trucks pounding me like fists. I thought May might appear and keep me company, but I guess the place was too painful for her to bear.

As I walked, the picture of what happened became clearer. May's boyfriend had to run. The police were about to nab him. He wanted May to come with him, but she didn't want to go. They'd argued; he stopped the car and shouted at her. He couldn't understand why she wouldn't leave with him, but May... May just couldn't go. She couldn't leave her family. She couldn't go so far from her mother and her sister and all the rest of them. Upset, confused, frustrated, and afraid, May got out of the car, barely thinking where she was. And there, on that tiny margin of roadway, on those high tiny heels, she either fell or was pushed. I never knew which it was, and I never cared. The boyfriend, when he was taken, said he hadn't touched her. His fingerprints on her left shoulder weren't proof enough...

... and that was the end of May.

A few yards from the east end of the bridge, I saw her. Not the hitchhiking ghostly May, with her skirt fluttering dangerously in the wind. No. It was her crumpled broken body that I saw, lying part way down the rocky slope where she'd fallen... or been pushed. I called 911, and a police car came at once. I told them I was looking for something that I'd lost... something that I'd left on the roof of my car before I started driving.

And no surprise: I never saw May again.

But I did meet the two women in her pictures, the two people she wanted to talk to: her mother June, and her sister April. They came to find me, to thank me for finding May's body. I had enough sense to not mention that I'd met May; that I'd known May in a strange and twisted way. Instead of talking, I just listened, and heard about the May they knew — a May I wish I'd known: A funny, sunny, happy girl, full of life and love; a girl who died too soon.

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way