Suggested soundtrack: House of Balloons - The Weeknd

My heart races as I weave my way through the back roads of Chestnut Grove, car tires screeching around the turns; my anxiety compels me to speed as I get closer and closer to the location of the bookstore in my dreams.

My breath hitches in my throat when the street turns cobblestoned and the unmarked building comes up in my view, exactly as I remember. I hurriedly park my car on the street and walk quickly and quietly to the familiar front door, heart thudding loudly, leaves crunching under my boots.

As I push the door open, the little bells jingle and the familiar smells of old parchment, ink, and pumpkin lattes weave themselves through my senses. A few people saunter around the store, browsing the cluttered bookshelves.

It almost feels like home. Muscle memory from my dream kicks in as I walk towards the shelf where Eli had handed me the book.

The deep maroon book spine with etched golden letters stands out amongst a sea of otherwise plain black spines. I reach for it, slowly pulling it from the shelf and turning it to see the cover. Beyond the Mortal Realm: How to Communicate with Spirits.

My body heaves out a shuddering sigh; it's difficult for me to interpret whether the adrenaline coursing through my veins is from fear or anticipation.

Trying to shove all rational thoughts to the back of my mind, I walk to the checkout desk. An elderly lady – kind eyes, graying hair pulled into a messy bun – takes the book from my hands, inputting a price into the register. I watch her slow and deliberate movements, feeling dazed from the reality of the situation slowly sinking in.

"I haven't sold many of these books, you know. I remember every client who has ever purchased a copy of this one," she says casually, eyes skimming over the title.

"Hm?" I ask absentmindedly, only half listening to her words, my mind still stuck somewhere on a motorcycle on a spring afternoon.

"No one has bought this book in a while," she reiterates, her eyes snapping to mine with a sudden intensity that breaks me out of my reverie.

"Who's the last person who purchased a copy?" I ask, interest suddenly piqued.

"Mr. Eli Remington – he'd developed an obsession with communication with spirits after his wife passed away. I don't blame him, poor guy. I do believe there is some possibility of communication with other realms – not that I'd ever be brave enough to dabble in it myself," she says, shuddering, her face filled with sympathy.

"Did he ever make successful contact?" I ask.

"Eli passed away the week after he bought the book, so I never found out. I still miss him. He was one of my regulars, and we often talked about books together – well, before he got into the spiritual genre. He used to read science fiction and fantasy, so our interests used to align deeply. What a sweet soul, he will forever be missed."

Her eyes fondly glaze over in reminiscence as she speaks about Eli, and I can easily imagine the type of camaraderie they might've had. Seems like a lot of people in town were attached to him. Something about the way people remember him makes me yearn to connect with him even more.

As the fog of memories lifts from her expression, she turns her attention back to me. "If you don't mind me asking – what interests you in this book?" she asks gently.

I hesitate for just a moment, debating how much to tell her, and she quickly interprets my hesitation as discomfort.

"I shouldn't have asked, forgive me. I can be a bit nosy," she admits, smiling sheepishly. "I wish you the best of luck with your endeavors. Please be safe."

She warmly presses the book and receipt into my hands, and I take them without explaining myself further. I'm not sure how I would even explain in a way that wouldn't make her question my sanity – and word seems to travel fast in this town. Better if I keep things to myself until I get a better handle on whatever is going on. The last thing I need is a rumor about me being delusional.

My drive home is a blur, the book innocuously sliding around in the passenger seat.

***

I spend the rest of the day poring over the pages, hungrily skimming over concepts of different realms, otherworldly spirits, and the connections that can be made between them.

The sunlit windows succumb to a starless night sky by the time I reach the chapter about trying to initiate contact with spirits.

The book suggests setting up several conduits – candles and cups of water – that may aid with communication in whichever method the ghost prefers. It also proposes using an Ouija board.

Surprisingly, there is a lot of emphasis on emotional aspects as well when trying to initiate contact – staying calm, using polite language, and overall being open-minded about the forms of life after death. Apparently, most lingering spirits desperately crave human connection. Some have come to understand death, while others struggle to let go of the mortal world and mortal concepts, resulting in anger, bitterness, fear, or frustration.

I reflect back on Eli's gentle presence, and imagine he falls into the former category.

My concentration breaks when I hear my phone vibrating.

"Hello?" I pick up gruffly, feeling oddly irritated by the interruption.

"Hey, Stella. I've been trying to reach you for a while. A few times it sounded like you were picking up and hanging up the call immediately. Are you upset with me?" Ryder asks, obvious concern leaching into his voice.

"Hm? No, I didn't notice you were calling me at all until now. Everything is fine – I've just been reading," I say, still flipping through the pages.

I hear his distinct sigh of relief. "I thought you might have still been upset about last night. I'm really sorry about how that conversation went. You know how much I care about you," he says, his voice dropping to a low timbre that makes my heart flutter.

"It's okay. I thought it was cute when you fell asleep," I admit, remembering his soft breathing and peaceful expression from last night, the immense comfort I'd felt to find him next to me the few times I'd woken up throughout the night. The sheer relief of being in his presence is something I had desperately missed without fully realizing it. Now that I have him back in my life, the thought of losing him again makes my blood run cold.

As Ryder continues talking about last night, my attention is drawn to a section in the book that says once contact is first initiated, a ghost's presence in a location may strengthen. I wonder if trying to initiate contact will let Eli actually speak to me – unlike in my dream where our voices seemed tangled into our throats. I've been craving to hear what he sounds like.

"Stella? Any thoughts on what I said?" Ryder gently prods, and I realize I've lost track of the conversation.

I'm having a really difficult time concentrating on his words – his voice feels like background noise while the written words littering the page in front of me somehow have a presence so loud that it's practically deafening.

"Sorry, Ryder, I'm just really tired and feeling out of it. Do you think we can talk about this tomorrow?" I ask, feeling guilty but eager to end the conversation.

"Oh...sure. I'd love to talk tomorrow," he says easily, but his tone is soft, melancholic.

The last thing I wanted to do was hurt him again – but somehow, I can't seem to keep my thoughts together tonight.

"I'm sorry. It's not you, I promise," I attempt to reassure him.

"That's okay, Stella. I'll be here when you're ready to talk," he replies.

As I hang up the phone, I promise myself that I'll make it up to him tomorrow.

I head to the kitchen and grab a glass of water and a candle, the conduits mentioned in my book. I hadn't planned to try initiating contact today, but a strange fire of urgency had started burning inside me when I started reading.

I settle down at the table, lighting the candle.

"Eli Remington...if you're here, please give me a sign."

The candle burns steadily, the water remains untouched. As I look into the unwavering flame of the candle, I start to question my sanity.

"Eli. Please."

Nothing. The silence of the house only seems to intensify.

Could the bookstore dream have just been a coincidence? Maybe I had subconsciously driven past it and forgotten, and it reappeared in my dreams?

As a last attempt, I head over to my bookshelf and pull out the quotes book that had been displaced the other day.

I sit back down at the table and read out the quote Eli had presumably pointed me to.

"Every love story is a ghost story."

The flame of the candle on my table contorts wildly to the left.