The first thing I did when I was able to crawl out of bed three days later was get on the phone with Mark's boss. Somehow, the dolt had gone without hearing about him and this whole mess, so I was left to explain it to him. 

"Ah, I'm sorry to hear that," he clearly wasn't concerned, "I appreciate you calling to let me know, Mr...what was it again?"

"It's Devin," I sighed, begrudgingly inquiring as to the availability of the position.

"Oh! Well yes, I am in need of some help," his tone immediately shifted to pleasant businessman, "Come on down in the morning and I can give you an interview."

"Great. I'll be there first thing," I spoke without inflection, instantly hanging up when I was finished.

Normally, the highest priority for someone in my shoes would probably be to visit their loved one's grave. I would have, especially since it was going on a year since he had died and I hadn't even been able to attend the funeral, but the unique experiences had revealed to me how arbitrary such ritual actually is. Mark had lived in what they had buried for most of his life, yet when I had seen it last, nothing f him had remained.

Perhaps there were those who died in their own body and so hung around that familiarity past death, but I had no doubt, with what I had witnessed, Mark was not one of these people.  Despite this certainty however, I found myself longing for the comfort of his grave, of that belief that he'd somehow be there watching me. How stupid.

The next day came and went without much ado. I was hired on the spot and instantly put to work in the small company. As I went about the job for the first week, checking stock, opening boxes, and placing their content on the shelves, I found myself keenly aware of the mundane procedure.

It occurred to me that I was carrying out the same schedule that Mark had for quite some time. In a sense, I was his ghost, filling his role in a world that would soon forget him and the atrocities we had attributed to his name.

After that, I found a somber solace in working his regular nine to five. Thinking of how I was slipping into his place was the only comfort I could find and it had me longing to overtake his life entirely. I never changed a single thing about the apartment.

I wore his clothes and bought only food that I'd seen him purchase. I even tried to decipher what he did during his time off, what stores he typically used. I kept seeing my court-ordered therapist, pretending that it was at the same as he saw his. Once I even went to a DAA despite never having struggled with addiction myself.

I hardly even cleaned, hoping that his scent would linger forever. It was nearly our anniversary, a year since the day we had met, when I noticed that I could no longer smell him on anything except the one outfit I had refused to wash: the one he had worn for our first date.

I had pulled it out of the hamper while doing laundry. I cried then and there, in the middle of the laundromat for the first time in weeks and when I went home that night, fell asleep clutching to the bundle for dear life. 

In and out, the same routine of getting up, throwing on deodorant and my uniform, heading to work, coming home, and staring at the TV until I fell asleep repeated until gradually the tears came less and less, disappearing altogether.

I was sure I could no longer feel anything at all, nothing except that dull, constant burning ache. The night that finally broke this cycle...was the night I happened across a box-cutter in the apartment.

My cleaning had been so lackadaisical that I wasn't shocked to have never come across it before. I picked it up, turning it over and over in my hand and staring at the extended razors that were either rusted or stained with blood, I couldn't tell. It had been under the couch as if knocked there accidentally when somebody walked through. What a surprising instant of anger to realize when the tool had last been used. 

It wasn't directed at Mark, but rather at the ones sent to save his life. How lazy were these fucknots that they couldn't even find it shyly hidden beneath the furniture? I wanted to let that fury consume me, yet as soon as it came, it had vanished again, leaving me staring dumbly. In that moment, I truly understood the immense despair that had plagued my poor lover's mind for who knows how long.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do now?" I whispered to the blade.

Suddenly, I heard a sound; a vague voice hovering around me. The whispering became louder and remained mumbled at the same time. I closed my vision, grasping the razor  in my hand as I tried to listen more closely. Either something said broke through to me or the occurrence jarred me into remembrance of how things began with Mark and McGraff, because my eyes shot open and my feet set determinedly for the computer. 

We had discussed the astral travel, the shadow person at Ames' house, his visit to Hell, and of course, the ghost kids. Why it only now dawned on me that there had to be an option for me to reach him, I blamed on wallowing too long in my own self-pity. I berated myself aloud for such idiocy, cursing all the way to the table where I sat and rested my hands on the keyboard.

Considering how best to search for the answers I sought, my sight diverted to the blade I had discarded next to the monitor. I would kill for that man in an instant, including myself, but I only needed to contact him in order to know if that would even work.

Advice from the shrink echoed in my brain, "You tend to act drastically and without thought. If you can get used to thoroughly planning everything, it will eventually become second nature even when your adrenaline kicks in."

No drastic actions. Retrieving the box-cutter, I clicked the razors back into their holder and slipped the tool into my pocket. Contact...contact...ghosts. I quickly converted the silent thoughts into data and clicked the enter button.

I was met with several articles about tarot cards, channeling, and how to tell if you were being haunted. I read through the first three pages of sites and found nothing very helpful in reaching a specific spirit by myself. 

Mostly it was all to do with how to determine your future like if something was trying to send you a message or how to determine the difference between a possession and a haunting. There were even ads claiming to give you the most accurate psychic reading out there. I didn't know much about this shit, but I knew not to trust any 'Madam' so and so and her discount spiritual services.

Where were those goddamn ghosts when you needed them? The quiet question was instantaneously met with figures suddenly standing in the distance over the top of the computer screen. I blinked rapidly, moving out of the light so my eyes could focus on the visitors.

All I saw were the three boys. I wondered if perhaps there was an easier way to go about this after all if a mere thought brought them out. However, I quickly assumed they had only been keeping an eye on the place, choosing not to show before.

"So now you're trying to talk to ghosts?" Emma's scoff sounded behind me.

I twisted around, "I want to talk to Mark," I growled.

"I'll tell you the same thing I told him," she raised a brow, "Everyone's afterlife is different. I can't tell you where he is. That's like me asking you to locate some random human in the world. It's nearly impossible."

"Nearly," I repeated, "Meaning it's possible."

The goth girl sighed, "Well, I can't tell you, but maybe I can help another way."

"And your price?" my voice dripped with disgust, "Am I desperate and hopeless enough now for you to to try manipulate and use like you did with Mark?"

She cocked her head to the side, "We didn't use him He knew exactly what he was getting into. If anything, he was the one who tricked us."

Pushing myself from my seat to stand, I chortled wildly, "Oh this I've gotta hear."

Unamused with my sardonic reply, Emma stepped to the side with hands on hips, "You know, you act like he was your soulmate or something when you barely even knew him. How long was it? A couple weeks, maybe?"

"Oh and how long did you know him," I pointed at Damian, recalling the numerous relationships I had in school, "Before you both died?"

Instantly, the boy was upon me, taking a spot between the two of us as we faced off. He lifted his baseball bat and pushed it against my chest, "I think we should give him that advice for free," he spoke to the girl while glaring at me, "So he can ask his beloved boyfriend about who he really cares about- the reason he wanted to be free of this world so that he could search for."

"Get the fuck out," I ordered calmly at first, never breaking from his gaze.

"Or what?" Damian grinned, "You'll kill us?"

My breathing grew ragged as I pushed back against his weapon, "I don't need your help and I never will. You're just as pathetic and cruel as the man who murdered you, and even more demonic and manipulative."

That comparison certainly set them off. The pair reversed so that Damian had enough room to lift and swing his bat in my direction. However, I threw my hand up and gripped the wood. This kid's strength wasn't anything compared to McGraff, no doubt why they were constantly seeking help from others.

With both hands, but not much effort, I forced it onto him instead. Just as I fought him off though, I felt two sets of hands grabbing onto my legs and waist. Shifting my attention, I saw that the two younger boys were now behind me.

Instantly, I landed a punch smack dab in the center of Todd's face, causing him to release me before I put my attention on Chris. Spinning in a half-circle that took him with me, I clutched onto his hair, pulling until he cursed. I wasn't of the mind to hurt children, but I was well aware that besides being dead already, they were much older than their appearance.

"Hey, knock it off," Emma growled, allowing me to look up in time to see Damian's bat was once again coming my way.

This time I wasn't able to dodge the blow, having been distracted by the twins. The wood planked straight against my temple, its force enough to send my head spinning. Somehow I managed not to collapse and only faltered backward, shouting once more, "Alright, you little shits! Is this what you want? You want to fight me? Because that's all you're going to get!"

Unexpectedly, the teen in the trench coat hesitated to continue the battle. Instead, his vision rested half on me and half on Emma; the latter of which, was where his attention lie. She seemed to pause only because Damian had not carried on. Finally, she sighed, directing the group elsewhere, "Come on. If he wants to keep his hopeless search for the rest of his life, then fine."

They all came together before turning their backs on me and trotted off. I observed as they marched straight through the locked door, their forms already beginning to dissipate. Although my natural eagerness to relieve stress by fighting remained, I now had something more powerful to hold the anger in check. After they were out of sight, I waited a minute longer to ensure they were gone, and then quickly rotated to return to the computer.

I almost fell with the sudden lightheadedness. Apparently, my body had not quite recovered from the cranial hit. Buckling into a stumble, I barely got back in the chair, decided to gather some strength before setting onward. Surely unintentional, but nevertheless, those delinquents had triggered understanding of an important detail which I had neglected.

McGraff had been in Hell; for all argument, he was a demon. Mark had reached out to him because he wanted something. What I wanted was to find Mark. I definitely didn't have the expertise to go to another realm like he did; I had already tried countless times, but that didn't mean some useful spirit couldn't get to me.

"Neutral?" I repeated curiously.

"Yeah," Mark shrugged, "It was like he really just wanted to watch things play out, but for some reason, he still helped me out. Well...a little."

"Hm," I thought about this creature he had been describing, "I guess if all he was about is watching shit, then he guided you enough so there was something to watch without actually getting too directly involved."

"That makes sense," his nod became a blush when I walked behind him and ruffled his hair.

My hands hovered over the keyboard, "Too bad I don't have this Spike's real name."

Exhaling sharply, I typed 'how to summon a demon.' It would have been great could I trust the little goths or even Ames. I had seen the woman a handful of times since she drove me home that day. It seemed she felt the need to check on me; I guess make sure I hadn't killed myself or something. I don't know. I had asked her about seances to which she pretty much said what I already knew: not to trust in them.

There were too many scammers and safely deluded people to put much stock in the abilities of those we didn't know. It had made me question her about her own gifts. The answer was that she wasn't 'that type of psychic.' Pfft! Whatever... 

Perhaps I wouldn't have disbelieved it if she hadn't followed up with warning me not to tamper with things beyond the grave, trying to give me some foreboding message that the dead were still possible to hurt and corrupt. So here I was, alone, attempting to teach myself with as much caution as I could spare.