“How did you know my name?” I asked suspiciously.

“You told me what it was this afternoon.”

I blinked. “You know what? I do want to know who you are, so I know what name to give when I call the cops.”

“Taylor. My name’s Taylor.”

“And you say I told you my name this afternoon?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Right, now we were getting somewhere. I pulled the folded-up piece of newsprint from my pocket and handed it over. “I believe this is yours, then,” I said, my tone as even as I could make it. “Now tell me – how did you find out where I live, and why the hell do you need my help? Unless it’s help with homework or something like that, I’m not entirely sure that I’m the right person to ask.”

“I followed you home once.”

Okay, now that was creepy. “You followed me home?”

“Yes.”

I shuddered. It was bad enough that I had some kid in my bedroom, but they’d followed me back here? Jesus Christ…

“And I need your help, because…well, it’s a little hard to explain.”

I sat up against my pillows and crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, I have plenty of time before my roommate gets home. Now get talking.”

“I assume you read this?” he asked, holding up the article.

“Yes, I did.”

“Nosey parker,” he muttered. “Well, it has everything to do with this. I need your help because I am trying to find my way to where I’m supposed to be. I…” He sighed. “Twenty-five years ago next Wednesday, the last-ever Hanson concert took place, on the twenty-second of October 2000. Your mother was there, third row from the front.” He smiled wryly. “I never forget a face Rosaria, and you happen to look just like your mother did when she was younger. Consider that a compliment.” The smile disappeared as he continued his story. “This article…it’s about me. I died that night.”

I froze. I died that night… I turned that little detail over and over in my head. “You’re a ghost,” I said flatly.

Well, this is great. Just fucking wonderful. I have Taylor Hanson’s ghost sitting in my bedroom.

“Not quite.”

“Well then, what are you?”

“Trapped.” When I cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, he sighed and elaborated. “I can’t come back to life because I died more than twenty years ago, and the post mortem would have put paid to that anyway. And I can’t go where I’m supposed to be, for reasons even I haven’t worked out yet. I’ve spent the past quarter of a century trying to figure that out.”

Interesting. “And you say you need my help?” There was something about that little phrase that was strangely familiar. He nodded wordlessly. “Why me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh that’s just wonderful.”

He let out an exasperated sigh and raked his hands through his hair. “Look Rosaria, I did not ask for this. I did not ask to die onstage, on my own brother’s fifteenth birthday no less. I did not ask to be trapped between Heaven and Earth for almost a quarter of a century. And believe me, I most certainly did not ask to follow you around for at least six weeks, trying to work up the nerve to ask for your help.”

“I never said you asked for any of it.” I paused. “You died on your brother’s birthday?”

He nodded again. “Yes,” he said finally. “A wonderful birthday present, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Yeah, well, neither would I.” He looked down at his feet. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Not really, no.”

“I didn’t think you would.” He looked over at the laptop computer that sat, lid closed, on my desk. “Do you have the Internet hooked up on that?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course I do.”

“Go to Google Image Search and type in my name.”

I frowned, but got up off my bed and sat down at my desk, fired up my laptop and opened up Internet Explorer. From there, I surfed over to Google Image Search and typed in taylor hanson, and hit the enter key. A page of miniature snapshots popped up onscreen, and I scanned them, looking for the most likely looking photograph.

“Oh Goddess,” I said when I had chosen a photograph, and compared it with the teenage boy who was currently perched cross-legged on the end of my bed, looking down at his jean-clad knees. “Kid, either you have a twin…or this really is you.”

“If I had a twin, I would have known about it by now,” Taylor muttered sourly without looking up.

“I’d watch your mouth if I were you.” I turned around in my swivel chair and faced him. “I’m not totally convinced yet,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to help you out. I just need a little more proof first.”

“Do you know where the city cemetery is?”

“Well, yeah, of course I do. My father’s buried there.”

He looked up at last. “Meet me there tomorrow morning. I’ll show you the exact proof you need.”

---

I have always hated cemeteries. There is an overwhelming sense of grief and undeniable pain that pervades every corner, and a chill in the air even in summer. And yet, it was in the city cemetery that I found myself the next morning, on the instructions of an apparent figment of my admittedly overactive-at-times imagination.

I stared down at the black granite headstone, its golden lettering still unfaded and completely legible after nearly twenty-five years. There was a small bunch of sunflowers at its base, tied with a length of bright blue ribbon. The inscription was fairly simple.

Jordan Taylor Hanson
March 14 1983 – October 22 2000
Aged 17 years
Beloved brother, son and friend

“Now do you believe me?”

I turned around to face him. He stood a few feet behind me, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, looking down at his feet. A breeze had picked up, blowing his long blonde hair about.

“I do now,” I replied. “This place…I’ve been dreaming about it.” I let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Now I remember where I’d seen you before. You’ve been in my dreams every night for the past…Christ, I don’t know how long.” He merely shrugged. “Are you all right?” I asked tentatively.

He shook his head. “This is so hard for me,” he said quietly. “This place…it’s nothing more than a reminder of what I’ve lost, and how far I still have to go. I am stuck in this God-forsaken city until I figure out just what’s stopping me from going where I’m supposed to be.”

“Maybe we should go,” I suggested. He didn’t say a word, merely turned around and led the way to the world outside. My car was parked right outside the cemetery, and we both got in after I had unlocked the doors.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering about, ever since you left yesterday,” I said as I drove away from the curb. “Where do you go exactly? I mean, you can’t be wandering the streets all night…”

“That’s all I do sometimes,” he answered. “Nobody except for you and Gen can see me, so I’m free to do whatever the hell I like.” He was quiet a little while. “Sometimes I head back home when I’m tired of walking around. My mom kept my room the way it used to be, and there’s always a window open in there – I don’t dare go in any other way when she’s at home. I don’t want to freak her out.”

“Is it just your mother living there?” I asked, and he nodded. “What about your dad?”

“He died a year after I did.”

I could have kicked myself. “Oh Jesus, I’m sorry,” I apologised. “I had no idea…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, sounding almost dismissive. “It’s mostly my fault, anyway.”

I reflexively slammed on the brakes, and Taylor jerked forward in his seat, narrowly escaping slamming face-first into the dashboard. “Jesus Christ, woman!” he barked as he settled himself again. “What the hell was that for?”

I stared at him. “How can it be your fault? You died before him!”

He let out the bitterest-sounding laugh I had ever heard – it sent a chill down my spine and raised goose bumps on my arms. “Rosaria, believe me…it is pretty much all my fault. It’s hard to believe, I know – and trust me when I say that it was completely unintentional.” He glanced down at the watch I wore around my right wrist. “Is your roommate going to be at home right now?”

“Yeah, probably. Why?”

“We’ll go to my mom’s house, then. There won’t be anyone home – I’ll tell you there. We’ll have to clear out by three, though, otherwise she’ll think someone’s broken in.”

“You break in,” I pointed out. He didn’t say a word. Sighing, I released the brakes and resumed driving.

When we had arrived, Taylor led me around to the back of the house. He knelt down on the wooden decking and felt around behind a potted fern. “Gotcha you little piece of shit,” he muttered as he pulled a key out from its hiding place. “Come on in,” he said as he unlocked the door, pocketing the key and walking in.

“I don’t think we should be doing this,” I said warily.

“Oh, relax,” he said. “Nobody lives behind this place – we’re safe. And close the door behind you.”

“Yes Your Royal Highness,” I said sarcastically, doing as I was told. As soon as I had closed the back door, I followed him upstairs and into what I assumed was his old room. It wasn’t much – a bed, an old wardrobe, a bookshelf piled with old books, and an old wooden desk with a swivel chair before it. A positively ancient-looking laptop computer was on top of the desk. Faded posters and dusty framed photographs adorned the walls. I sat down in the swivel chair backwards and crossed my arms on the back.

“All right, spill,” I said, eyeing Taylor. He was lying down on the bed, tossing a baseball in the air and catching it. “Why in the world is it your fault that your father died?”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “The day it…happened, I wasn’t feeling all that well. I’m still not sure why. I mentioned it to my parents that morning, and…” He trailed off, seeming to think.

“They made you go onstage that night?”

He stared at me. “What? No, they’d never do something like that!” he said indignantly. “No, my mother insisted that we cancel that night’s show, but my dad told me to wait and see if I was feeling any better by show time.” He let out another sigh. “Worst mistake I ever made. Halfway through the concert, it just…gave out on me.”

“What did?”

“This.” He tapped his chest, before continuing with his story. “When I hit the stage, I felt like my spirit was literally being torn from my body – I think that’s why they couldn’t bring me back. It’s sort of like a Matrix thing.”

“A what?”

“You can’t honestly tell me that you’ve never seen The Matrix.” When I shook my head, he let out a low whistle. “Basically, the principle is that the body cannot live without the mind or spirit – whatever. It just…stops. And when that happens…”

“Game over,” I finished.

“Exactly.” He resumed tossing the baseball in the air. “I was pronounced DOA at a quarter to ten in the evening on October twenty-second 2000. They’d done all they could – I should know, I watched the whole damn thing. Creeped me out, actually.”

“And what does all of this have to do with your father dying?”

“From what I’ve been able to figure out, Dad believed that the whole damn thing was his fault. He hadn’t forced me to go onstage that night, but he hadn’t sided with my mother, either. It didn’t matter what anyone said, he pretty much blamed himself.” He looked over at me. “If I hadn’t died, my father would still be alive.”

“How did he die?”

“Car accident. Ploughed right into a tree.”

“Ouch.”

“That’s an understatement if there ever was one.”

There was quiet for some time, as I tried to take in all that had been said. “What about the rest of your family?” I asked.

“They’re all scattered nationwide. Only my mother and my youngest sister still live here – I have two brothers living in New York, the third lives in Louisiana, and two of my sisters live in Florida.”

“How old’s your youngest sister?”

“She’ll be twenty-eight in January.”

“Really?” He nodded. “That’s pretty cool, actually – Gen’s turning twenty-eight in January as well.”

“I know.” Taylor dropped the baseball on the floor and sat up. “There’s something that Gen has never told you about herself. And I normally wouldn’t tell you, but I really think you should know – just as long as you don’t tell her how you found out.”

“All right.”

He closed his eyes. “Gen Walker is my youngest sister. Her real name is Zoë Hanson.”