No one looks me in the eyes for long. Averted glances lead to hushed tones when they think they’ve left earshot. Even if they have, I’ll soon find out what they’ve said.

​

Occasionally, a passerby will drop change in my tattered paper cup. That’s when I know they’re from out of town.

​

“You made enough for a cuppa coffee yet?”

​

It’s Ezra, the busker who used to play guitar on High Street. They treat you differently when you’re talented. At least when you’re alive.

​

“Shut up,” I snap. The business woman clattering by in heels shoots me a dirty look and moves further away. She hugs the line of parked cars along the sidewalk instead.

​

I should know better by now.

​

The only reason I made it out of the psych ward was that I learned to ignore them. The dead ones. They hate the term ghost. Psychiatrists call them hallucinations. Tell that to the medications that never made them go away.

​

“Maybe one of them fancy ones with the picture in the foam on top.”

​

I snort at that. Another odd look. When the sidewalk is clear, I turn to him. “Go haunt someone else, Ezra.“

​

“Nah,” Ezra says at once. “I’d miss that face too much.” I roll my eyes. “'Sides, I been where you at. Who else gets that?”

​

Sighing, I mutter, “Yeah.”

​

The sun’s risen properly now. I check my cup. No coffee, fancy foam or otherwise. I settle back against the brick of the record shop. The owner’s too soft to tell me to leave. I’m a quiet beggar. And I help her haul the heavy stuff to the dumpster at the back of the alley.

​

The bar across the street has a poster up announcing a band I’ve never heard of. Tickets are sold out. Judging by the picture they’re a rock band, but that could mean a lot of things. I want to ask Ezra if he knows their music, but a screeching of tires cuts me off.

​

A mom pushes a stroller. The crosswalk lights are flashing, but the speeding SUV doesn’t notice. Swerves. Misses the baby by inches. Slams into the sedan parked in front of me. Slams into me.

​

There’s pain until there isn’t. People swarm, but not around me. The mom. The baby. The driver. But not me.

​

I hear my name. No one knows my name these days. Except the dead ones.

​

“Yes?”

​

The speaker is tall. Or short. Male, female, androgynous, vaporous...then seemingly everything at once. “Do you know who I am?” they ask.

​

And I nod. Of course I do. They smile. Take my hand. And we are floating above the wreckage, my body buried beneath crushed metal. But it’s okay. No one will miss me. There’s no one left.

​

“I’ll come find you soon, yeah?” says Ezra.

​

“Yeah,” I echo as the world fades to black.

If you like your reads dark and creepy, this ink slinger might be your cuppa tea. Rayne Corvus Miller is the author of Bone Dust, a book of dark poetry influenced by Norse mythology, and horror stories including The Hunted, Lost Soul, Father of the Dead, and Nocturnal & Nameless. They are a member of the Horror Writers Association.