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December 22, 1980: Present Day.
“So, tell me again, why do you reckon you’re dealing with a ghost?”
Bill shrugs. “Can’t be anything else. At this point, I’ll try anything.”
At that, Leckie – Runner had probably mentioned his first name, but Bill can’t recall it – nods, jotting down a few notes in the worn moleskin he’d pulled out of his coat pocket. It’s an ugly thing, the coat that is, but it looks warm, and comfortable. Not too unlike the jackets Bill himself wears out at the farm.
Especially lately.
Because it’s cold out. It’s been fucking cold out. And something – some one, apparently – keeps fucking up his water heater. Bill is at his wits fucking end. Hence this ‘business meeting’ with some city asshole Runner swore up and down was worth his spit.
He'd been waiting at that local dive for about twenty minutes. It's all dolled up for the Holidays, which makes Bill realize that it’s actually pretty close to Christmas, huh? The worn brown sweater he’d been chopping wood in earlier suddenly feels slightly too casual.
There are strings of bright yellow lights placed haphazardly on each shelf behind the bar, curled around large bottles of Johnnie Walker, Galliano, Grand Marnier, and several different bottles of vodka.
By the time Leckie finally arrived, he’d already downed a beer. Bill had spotted him through the haze of the fogged-up window as Leckie ran across the street, bowed against the small blizzard raging outside. It was obvious enough, despite his big winter scarf, that the city boy was not from around here. The lack of a proper hat spoke more than any words could. He sure looks normal enough for a guy who spends his free time with ghosts.
And now they’re here, each with a beer in front of them.
Shit. Christmas. He should probably send his family a card or something. At least to give them his new address.
December 8, 1980.
Bill Smith had bought the damn farm after some careful deliberation. There was a difference in being alone and being lonely , and he’d never felt more of the latter than he had in the city. Five years of being stuck in a dead-end job with nothing much of a social network to speak of weighed on you.
It had taken a few years before he’d realized that he needed out. That he needed to go back to his old pastures, do what he’d been raised to do. His old family home was back out on the market, long loved by strangers, and the rural area made it fairly cheap to reclaim. It was in decent condition– not many problems he couldn’t fix up himself, but the land around it was good.
And things had been good for the first few months.
Until the water heater started going out, among other things. Such as the disembodied voices, the slamming of pots when he was nowhere near the kitchen and the opening of doors and windows he distinctly remember locking.
Then there was the time when he came downstairs and every drawer and cabinet in the kitchen was open and their contents pedantically arranged on the floor.
So, when the heater had decided to go out for the third time in a month with no discernible cause– he’d been watching the entire time – he’d lamented to Runner about it over the phone.
“There’s nothing wrong with the machinery, Runner,” he’d said, frustration pulling at his already rough voice. ”I’ve picked it apart and put it back together twice , it’s just so damn temperamental. But I don’t want to pay a hundred bucks to some asshole from the city to get it replaced, the unit is new.”
“Might be that you have a ghost, Hoosier. Plus, I take offense to that, being some asshole from the city now.”
“Stop pulling my leg.”
“I’m not! I swear to God. C’mon, Bill, would I fuck with you? I had one in my attic who was wreaking havoc on my pipes. Didn’t think any of it at first, but then I saw him materialize in front of my eyes. And no I’m not going crazy, I’m sure of it. Chuckler swears.”
“I’d beg to differ.”
On the other end of the line, Runner huffed. “Well, I know I’m not. And the medium or whatever they’re called worked, so I’m not looking that gift horse in the mouth.”
“You called a medium?”
“Look, I thought it was fuckin’ crazy too, Bill, but he went up there, had a conversation with the old man, did some other mumbo-jumbo and my pipes have been fine for a year and half. I’m not gonna talk shit about it even if it was my last resort.”
Bill had eventually given in and jotted down the number to one Robert Leckie on the back of a gas station receipt.
And yeah, Bill Smith believes in ghosts now. Because apparently that’s a thing that can just happen – either that or him and his war buddies are all having a collective mental fucking breakdown.
Stranger things have happened. See: the organized cutlery on his kitchen floors. Plus the disappearance of his spoons.
Present Day.
Despite Runner’s assurance, Bill wasn’t going to simply give the guy his hard-earned money. There were plenty of snake oil salesmen out there, even if the front of a medium was a well-used one. And Runner, love him to death, but he’s been under a lot of pressure because of the new business he opened up with Chuckler.
Best tread with caution.
They’d decided to meet for a drink; Leckie’s voice had seemed respectable enough that Bill had agreed to it.
So here they were; discussing the details regarding the paranormal occurrence in his cellar. Bill runs his hand over the sticky wood of the bar top, wondering if they need someone to replace the counter. He figures he could offer, he has a nice oak tree on the corner of his property that he needs to fell. Ah, but he wouldn’t want to insult these people. He hardly knows them.
As Leckie writes, Bill takes another sip of his beer. The foam sticks to the corner of his mouth and he wipes it off with the back of his hand as he studies this dude that supposedly has got the Gift.
He’s got a nose like a right triangle, hair like a brillo pad and smiles like the raccoons that like to dig into Bill’s compost at night. He’s pretentious, using big words, but there’s still something so very endearing about him. Endearing enough that Bill has this urge to reach out and flatten that wild nest of hair into something resembling order. He doesn’t.
It’s absolute madness; he’s clearly been alone for too long. He takes another sip of beer.
Leckie looks up from his notes. “When did you first notice the paranormal occurrences?”
“Uh,” Bill scratches at his chin - the stubble he’s trying desperately to cultivate into a beard to keep his skin warm over the winter. “Figure, two weeks after I moved in? So about … six months ago?”
Leckie nods. “Every other possibility eliminated? No carbon monoxide, no faulty wiring et. cetera?”
“I’ve tried everything,” Bill says, and Leckie just continues to scribble, entirely focused on his journal.
They’ve been there long enough that most of the other patrons have filtered out, gone back home to their missus, leaving only the bachelors and unfortunate souls behind. It’s still a bit before the last call, so Bill considers getting another drink. There’s a part of him that’s been enjoying this conversation. The loneliness - well, that was still there when he left the city, but he’d been lonely in a different kinda way. A loneliness that doesn’t come from a lack of people, but stems from not belonging, of being the odd one out, anonymous and blending into the crowd.
In some ways, it’s more dehumanizing than being singled out.
It’s quite nice being noticed like this, and he wants to savour it. Sure, it’s a little uncomfortable, but Leckie’s eyes are kind. He doesn’t get another drink.
“Great,” Leckie slams his notebook shut, snapping the rubber band with a flourish. “Well, sounds like I’ve got enough of a place to start. You’ve got a keen eye for this sorta stuff.”
At that, Bill looks at him, and shit, his smile. Full-teeth and unbridled joy . It doesn’t take up all of his face, but it transforms it in a way that makes Bill all kinda warm inside, and he knows it’s not just because of the alcohol. He spends another moment questioning his life choices, and says, “Thanks.”
The yellow Christmas lights highlight Leckie’s face, making his hair look wilder and his smile warmer. Bill can even see a freckle or two when the angle is just right. It isn’t the sort of detail he usually notices about people. Shit, he doesn’t like people. He’s had a girl, been on a couple dates outside of that, but the whole concept of dating fucking bores him. The elaborate dance of unspoken rules, the wasted time, the trial and error of finding someone that sparks more than a lukewarm, purely theoretical interest that feels more like an expectation than something that’s honest and real. So this is new to Bill. He doesn’t get crushes like that.
“Ready to go then?” He turns to Bill, offering a ‘cheers’ in motion as he lifts up his beer glass, and proceeds to down the last quarter of his drink.
Bill sputters mid-sip of his own beer. “What, you mean right now ?”
“Yeah, of course. Let’s see if we can nip this thing in the bud, get your house back to livable conditions. You look like you could use some sleep, man.” When Leckie winks– very badly– Bill is so glad he’s managed to swallow his sip of beer and isn’t coughing it all over the table. Leckie makes it worse, and leans in surreptitiously, one hand on the table and says:
“Or you could stay at my place tonight.”
Bill glances down at Leckie’s mouth before he realizes it. He sees the soft full lips, and allows himself to dwell for half a second. A swell of … something churns in his stomach, and he stops breathing for a hair.
Shit.
He’d considered the fact that he was queer before, had shared a kiss in a stairwell with a guy before, but even that concept had been unappealing to him.
This isn’t.
This is different.
Before he can muster up a response - has realized that Leckie is waiting for a response, Leckie reaches out to clap his shoulder, with a delighted laugh.
“Great. Figured as much. Let’s deal with this little ghost problem first, though, right?” His voice drops, and Bill’s stomach does too. “And then we can talk about the outstanding performance in inveigling you’ve been engaging in for the past hour. But consider me intrigued.” Bill ends up paying for both of their drinks, if only for the want of hiding his face for a minute.
“Sure, alright. Just, uh, I ain’t far, but we should be able to make it if we drive slow.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder to the window outside, where there are inches of snow on the roads and more piling up on top of them
With the transaction over and done, they step outside. The blizzard has settled into a light snowfall, one that doesn’t grate your cheeks. It’s still cold enough that Leckie’s fingers fumble when he fishes a cigarette and lighter out of his coat; its pockets seem endless.
The lack of hat is still a sight for sore eyes; Leckie’s ears go red in a matter of minutes while he’s lighting his smoke.
"Here, uh," Bill clears his throat, as he takes the hat off his own head and holds it out. The cold nips at his ears in an instant. "I’ve got more at home." Martha down the street trades him knitted goods for eggs, and he’s already acquired a not inconsiderable collection.
“My hands are full, wait a sec–”
Without considering the ramifications of his actions, Bill presses the knitted hat down over those wild, wild curls and ignores the way his stomach flares with warmth. He’s most certainly as red as the brick front of the bar they stepped out of.
But Leckie just grins around his cigarette, and winks. “Lead the way, handsome.”
Normal enough, my ass.