“Boogeyman Confidential” by Phil M. Rosenberg

“Have you seen the Ghost of Tom? Long white bones with the rest all gone? Wouldn’t it be chilly with no skin on?” — Have You Seen The Ghost of Tom? “The Boogeyman called. I gave him your address.” — Unknown

1. WATCH OUT FOR CHILDREN There were some days when he looked, well… deader than others. His skin was winched tighter around the bones of his face, and collapsed in on his nasolabial folds. His coloring took on a more ghastly, pickled hue. And yet he had retained all his hair and teeth, and was largely still recognizable. But I feared the day he wouldn’t be. The day he’d become a loathsome creature. The day his desiccated husk would follow me around like a comet, pieces of his physiognomy sloughing off willy-nilly, like leaves from a wind-swept roof. Jesus. Was there a manual for this? **** It wasn’t totally my fault, but of course I felt responsible. Or maybe it was my fault and I was totally responsible. As the adult in the monstrous equation, I have to plead guilty as charged. Maybe I was driving too fast. Or texting. Or DWH: Driving While Hungover. Or all of the above. None of which absolved me of culpability. It happened when I was driving home from another frustrating meeting at the Graphic Content production office. Another rewrite was in order. The script had already had plenty of “work done,” but was now nearly unrecognizable. The literary analogue to Mickey Rourke. Making changes and omissions, aka “killing your darlings,” was always part of the process, but Goldman, the poor, beleaguered screenwriter, was probably wishing he’d just hitched his wagon to a T-Mobile store, instead. Could’ve been manager by now and saved himself a ton of aggravation. I had discovered his script in the first place and set it up at a film production and distribution company. But there was a chance I’d be older than a pharaoh, and squirreled away in a nursing home, by the time the movie ever got made. I was cruising down a quiet surface road in Santa Monica. There had been construction in Beverly Hills, and Waze recommended this route. But when I approached the intersection, a white toy car — a Land Rover Discovery — darted into the road like a bat out of Hell. I slammed the brakes, but not before my Honda CR-V broadsided it. And the little kid behind his little wheel sailed out of his little car like exploding candy from a piñata. It happened so fast, and the jarring impact careened him into a tree. Ish. Maybe it was a telephone pole. Or a mailbox. I couldn’t be sure. Because I kept driving. I know what you’re thinking: you what?! But yeah, also guilty as charged on that score. I was so alarmed and panicked that I kept driving. (Are you perfect?) Naked animal instinct kept my foot on the gas pedal. Yet, lest you think I have monster in my blood, I quickly pulled over on the next street. Killing the music, I attempted to comport myself, as if radio silence was the succor that could mitigate the dread blossoming inside me.

If anything, it only crystallized my horror, and I wasn’t parked there two minutes before circling back around to Bower Road. No way I was ever going to be Hit and Run Guy. We’ve all seen those terrible stories. There’s no bigger pussy than someone who leaves the scene of an accident. And that wasn’t me. I may have been a bad driver but I was a Good Samaritan. So as I turned back onto Bower Road, the first thing I glimpsed was that one Nike sneaker. Then the blood puddled in the street, in a slowly widening pool. And the toy car, its wheels winking from the sunshine. I pulled over and was about to climb out, but something prevented me. There was something wrong with this picture. The kid was gone. Huh?! I glanced around, behind me, every which way, head on a frightful swivel. But no signs of the kid. Had he walked off under his power? Please God, he did. Let him be okay. Or did someone come to his assistance? Maybe a neighbor or passerby. I couldn’t be sure because only a minute had elapsed since I had clipped the poor kid. So where the hell was he? I considered calling the local hospital, but decided that was probably a bad idea. Baby steps. I thought about searching beyond the street. Maybe the kid had managed to crawl his broken body off it, seeking sanctuary or safe harbor, and was passed-out in someone’s back yard. Maybe he was just lying there, his bruised brain seeded with a thousand future nightmares. But he was going to be okay. Fuck! This wasn’t good. But when I heard the ambulance sirens blaring out in the nearing distance, I called an audible, and sped the hell out of there. Because that’s what you do. Don’t you? You keep driving. **** Billy Timmons was eight years-old. The local TV news plastered a million adorable pictures of him that night. A seemingly endless hagiography of frothy and frivolous fun: there he was, smiling and gap-toothed on his first day of school. (A breezy milestone!) Check him out on Christmas Day, excitably unwrapping presents with his parents, his Golden Retriever, and sister Elise. (Merry Christmas!) There he is, leering delight, and holding his lost baby tooth in the air. ($10 richer!) And look at mischievous Billy riding playground swings beside his laughing, pink- haired chick classmate. Bite-sized Billy shooting to score! They showcased nearly every photo he’d ever appeared in, save for his Ultrasound head shot. I was building a strong, straight whiskey buzz, watching the candlelight vigil with growing despair. Billy Timmons remained missing. That was the headline. The Heartbreaking News. The official account was that his toy car was discovered on Bower Road, but other than his sneaker and blood, no signs of him had been found. He was MIA. A complete, inexplicable mystery. “Come on, dude. A little proof of life, please?” I found myself asking the newscast. I glanced tremulously at my Alexa device, essentially my most consistent female companionship of late.

Was that chick eavesdropping? You couldn’t trust anyone in this town. Drunk defense mechanisms and unhinged musings started lurching into overdrive: where was that little bastard? Was he abducted off the street? Did he hitch a ride to a water park? Yeah, none of these seemed like viable options. Where the hell are you, Billy Timmons? And yet, even as I knew it was probably wishful thinking, I tried convincing myself that maybe no news was good news. There was always a chance Billy would be found alive and well, and there’d be a conceivable explanation that unraveled this mystery. But it didn’t look good. Because it never looks good. Seeking a diversion, I switched to watch CNN for about 30 seconds because I’m a sucker for “Breaking News” that broke three days ago earlier, and wasn’t terribly important even then. (Even our unreliable narrators weren’t sufficiently unreliable anymore.) When I switched back to the vigil, Billy’s devastated parents, George and Linda Timmons, were pleading with the public for answers about their missing child. Any parents’ worst nightmare. This was enough Breaking News for me. For a lifetime, really. Oh, God. What had I done? Search and rescue efforts were underway. There was talk of sonar-equipped dive teams. Shots of helicopters, K-9 cadaver dogs, and yellow crime scene police tape on Bower Road. Scores of police officers from across the region were scouring several square miles. Volunteers were being sought for a search and a leaflet campaign had begun, the copying and distributing of flyers. I was fraught with a whirlwind of anguish and grinding indecision. Should I contact Billy’s parents and attempt to explain what happened? No way. (But maybe?) But who was recklessly supervising Billy on that day and allowed him to drive off the reservation? A blind nanny? Or a blind drunk one? And what’s up with you, Waze? Fuck. That was the best you could do? After the accident, I had considered calling my old friend Hopper upon my frenzied and frightful return home. We’d been partners in youthful indiscretions since childhood in Pittsburgh. He was still on disability for long Covid. Apparently a profitable endeavor for him. It was truly mystifying: every time there’d been a new variant, Hopper bought a new Apple product. He was no stranger to plunging headlong down rabbit holes and assessing conspiracy theories. But mostly old-school, apolitical ones. Bigfoot, UFOs, aliens, and Loch Ness. Those were his dudes. None of that “amateur” QAnon nonsense. Hopper thought he knew where the bodies were buried, but lacked the energy to go find them. But I decided that confiding in anyone at all would be a dangerous mistake. The trauma was too fresh, too raw, too surreal. I assessed my car for damage, instead. There was a slight dent on the front bumper, maybe a few scratches, but no hair or blood. Bumpers really do work, I thought. They’re reliable. Workmanlike. And clean up quite nice. Even so, a trip to the car wash tomorrow was in the cards. Better safe than sorrier. Poisonous food for thought: I wondered if things would’ve been different if I’d driven a Tesla. I bet those cars run over fewer children, and incur less bodily damage. I mean, that guy thinks of everything.

I thought about reporting the accident to the police, and yet what good would that do their investigation? If anything, it would only shine a brighter light on me. I’d be a “suspect” in the kid’s disappearance. At worst, a person of interest. And I had no answers for them, anyway. I was guilty of nothing more than momentary poor driving. Yes. But I did not hit and run. No. I came back for Billy. And it felt like he betrayed me. That’s what people do. Don’t think it won’t happen to you, either. A tip line was displayed on-screen, and an offer of reward money. They featured a shot of that toy Land Rover on Bower Road, and one bloodied Nike sneaker, laying on its ass in the street like a drunkard. The swoosh stripe had some decorative company. Just Do It. Great. Do what? Scream? There was discussion of skid mark measurements and tire tracks. I cringed, recalling the explosive impact. Hello, Titanic, meet iceberg. I had no idea at what speed I’d been driving, but was pretty sure I’d be seeing that little toy car in my dreams. Maybe even starting tonight. Can you total a child’s toy car? I wondered. Or just his life? Don’t answer that. **** “Missing” Billy Timmons posters were hanging all over Santa Monica like talismans. His parents were on the local news every night, begging for answers and his safe return. As much as I wanted to ignore them, I couldn’t look away. I was obviously the last person who deserved to look away, constantly debating whether to come clean with either them or the police. It was an emotional game of chicken. I was also afraid that someone might turn me in. A “whistleblower” passerby or pedestrian who’d witnessed the accident. And if that happened, I would become Hit and Run Guy. A fiend. A scumbag. The poster child for white privilege. Either way, there was probably a place in Hell waiting for me. It was just a question of whether I’d score a house seat. Even a cursory glance at social media’s poisonous can of worms was a relentless assault of Billy Timmons posts, hashtags and weepy emojis. #WhereTheHellIsBilly? #HelpUsFindBilly #PrayersForBilly. #ThoughtsAndPrayers! I found myself nearly grief-shaming after reading a litany of “There are no words!” posts. Always a common go-to for the grieving community. Some said Billy was in a “better place.” That old chestnut. (Really? What “better place?” WE have pizza and chicken parm.) Several lynch mob haters were calling the whole thing a “hoax.” A false flag. These cretins found it easier to find hate online than love, maybe because its legs are longer. The Internet is the forever nonsense repository. Could probably use an occasional curfew. Conversely, the True Crime Mafia - the “sleuthers” - posted about “kidnapping,” “abduction,” and that, “on a ratio of 12 to 1, child murders are committed by parents or family member.” #FryThatBastard! Oh, boy. The “child murders” term caused me considerable disquiet. It was an accident, for God’s sake. I didn’t “murder” anyone. And yet still others were calling it a murder investigation and imploring us to “use your platforms” to spread the word. Billy Timmons was “trending.”

I selfishly hoped another terrible story would steal the darkening thunder from the news cycle. I recalled the spring of 2001, when California politician Gary Condit confessed to having an extramarital affair with a Washington D.C. intern — but only after she went missing. It didn’t look promising for Condit, personally, professionally, or legally. But four months later, 9/11 happened. Voila. Condit’s “lucky” day. He’d essentially been provided a Get Out of Jail gift card, because suddenly no one much cared about a young missing intern anymore. But days went by without any new developments about Billy’s whereabouts. Tense, grueling, brutal days. I’d occasionally see police cruisers on my way to work, which always fueled me with creeping dread. Even the sounds of distant sirens spiraled me into a tailspin of agonizing distress. A constant state of vexation, of feeling too exposed. All cloak but no dagger. Paranoia can be infectious. And contagious. It incubates. Were they onto me? Was I a person of interest? I thought about getting out of Dodge for a while until things quieted down. Maybe I shouldn’t be driving this same car and essentially hiding in plain view. Or maybe I should wrangle a visit with my cousins in Colorado, or my parents in Florida. But a change of scenery would just be a Band- Aid on an axe wound because my guilty conscience was bound to “bleed” out wherever I traveled. My mother used to say that “Wherever you go, your head goes with you,” and when you’ve accidentally killed a small child, I definitely trusted that assessment. When Friday night rolled around, I desperately needed a reprieve to air out my brain. When you get older and remain single, you need all the friends you can muster. But most of them move on, sometimes politely, judiciously, sometimes not, but always inexorably. They have families. Children. School events. Obligations and responsibilities. Whereas you’re mired in arrested development. Hungover Peter Pan. You live often in the past because the future holds few discernible prospects. But you’re working on them. You’re a man out of time who still does occasional bong hits because you’re nostalgic, and refuse to part with your only boutique: the dragon bong with the “Feed the Trolls” sticker. You’re a childless, shambolic, 44 year-old bachelor who lives alone. And you’re trying to produce a low-budget movie about a Down’s Syndrome serial killer. Which doesn’t exactly define you as an aphrodisiac for anyone game enough to try and set you up. Everyone’s got a “single cousin,” or a recent divorcée friend, or a terminally single friend, and there’s always the shiny filtered pod people, backlit by beautiful sunsets on Bumble. “Looking for a partner in crime.” “Must love dogs.” “She/Her.” “Loves to dance.” “Looking for the real deal.” (My last Bumble date made me join her in a 10K road race for a psoriasis charity. True story. Naturally, I never called her again.) And you usually swipe left so hard, you nearly sprain your thumb. You’re looking for something casual, fun, and lovingly bereft of commitment and cardio. What was wrong with that? Too old- fashioned? But you know it works the other way, too. It’s quid pro no. You’re no box of chocolates, either, and your “interests” in bars, football, beer, pizza, and True Crime” probably aren’t moving her needle, either. You sound no better than a goofy ex-frat boy whose sister was murdered ten years ago behind a Sizzler steakhouse in Wichita. Because she’s not really “looking for the real deal.” And neither are you. Because if either of us wanted “real deals,” we’d spend more time trying to hook up at Applebee’s.

So, when in weekend doubt, I’d always go over to Hopper’s apartment. He’d had been a big opioid buff until he went into rehab two years earlier. We playfully dubbed him “Captain Rehab,” and for nine months, he was doing well with his sobriety. But there was a niggle: his friends weren’t. Because he became a boring asshole and hardcore vegan, who constantly reprimanded us for our “animal product” consumption. So, deeming the cure worse than the addiction, we hatched an unorthodox plan: we staged an “Asshole Intervention.” I mean, what are friends for? And because honestly is always the best policy, we let Hopper know what’s what: he was insufferable. A dullard. An annoying scold. The thrill was gone. His sobriety had become problematic. We were unsure we could maintain our friendship with him. We obviously didn’t wish him any ill health, but selfishly, we wanted the old Hopper back. He was totally stunned, but clearly humbled. Humbled enough to stumble. Because it worked. It was just what the doctor ordered. (Just not his doctor.) Hopper fell off the wagon a week later. Disappeared to Vegas for three days. God knows what he did there, other than vanquish a thousand brain cells, a brisket sandwich, and maybe a German hooker. Yet I’m happy to report that he remained OFF the wagon to that very day. (He went from Dry January to High February through December.) We got him back in the band. But it was only Corona Light and weed for Hopper now. (Baby steps.) He was “California Sober.” So it was all good. We were cool again. On the docket tonight: beer, Mexican food, and weed. At one point, much to my quiet, secret chagrin, we watched a press conference on TV concerning the plight of Billy Timmons. I fidgeted nervously, wondering how Hopper would react if I actually told him my terrible secret. A pretty young woman named Miranda Ellis was the Timmons family spokeswoman. Blonde and blue-eyed, probably a brainy cheerleader in high school or college. Objectifying the spokeswoman of a family who was nursing such terrible trauma wasn’t exactly what the doctor ordered. (And if so, I desperately needed a second opinion.) But let’s just stipulate that you couldn’t not notice Miranda’s hearty bosom. This wasn’t “toxic masculinity,” but simply acute observation. It was certainly no fault of her own, but Miranda’s handsome looks distracted from her purpose. Her earnest message kind of got lost in her tits. That is, until she floated a possible theory that Billy was murdered soon after the collision. This could’ve led to his disappearance, despite that no killer had been identified and no remains had been found. Murdered? Jesus. That was a little presumptuous. And wasn’t the Lakers game on? “Would you hit that?” Hopper asked, pointing to Miranda, his impish eyes widening over his frosty Stella, a dollop of sour cream dangling precariously from his bottom lip. “Jesus, Hopper. Have a little respect for the dead.” “Whatever, dude. The dead are dead; they don’t need your respect. Time to retire that one.” I scowled at him. He just chuckled and nipped at his beer, higher than a weather balloon. “Think she’s on Bumble?” he chirped. And suddenly, I wished he’d remained sober and was still haranguing us with his plant-based outrage. We watched Miranda field media questions about

Billy. Hopper looked like he desired to wear her skin like a sweatsuit. “Where the hell is that kid?” he continued, as we both miserably failed to avoid watching Miranda’s boobs seemingly jousting for screen time. (I couldn’t help but think they’re never gonna find this kid!) “It’s fucked-up. Definitely fucked-up,” Hopper added, stating the obvious. Even he didn’t know where this body was buried. **** The following night was Halloween, a high holiday in LA. I wasn’t exactly feeling festive, of course, but was still seeking a quality distraction. A timeout. And I don’t care what anyone says, you’re never too old for a good Halloween party. I was meeting some friends there, fellow consiglieres of the independent film underworld, who had gotten me on the guest list. We were a fellowship, a fraternity, creatures of opportunity unafraid to stab each other in the back with our olive branches. A dysfunctional family of red-headed stepchildren, always chasing money. So I drank a beer, gobbled a weed gummy, and threw on my old, T-Rex onesie dinosaur costume. Game on. If everyone’s always looking for an audience in LA, Halloween night was the belle of the ball. When I climbed inside my Uber, I discovered another passenger inside. Which was weird. Had I chosen Uber Pool by accident? It was a young, terribly pale kid, probably no older than 8. His T-shirt read “I’m Not On Your Vacation.” He had a few scratches and bruises on his face and a healthy chunk of his forehead was missing, exposing a sliver of glistening brain tissue in its space. One of his eyes was lopsided, shifting in a sidelong glance… at me. Pretty advanced costume for a little kid. It’s so LA, though. When your Uncle Ricky is a Special FX supervisor, your Halloween costume is always going to be extra ghoulish and authentic. “Sometimes you enter into someone’s life at the same time they’re leaving it,” the kid said. “Excuse me?” He just cracked a loopy smile. Something seemed wrong with him. With all of this. It wasn’t just the way he was smirking at me, either. Or maybe it was. “Aren’t you a little young to be taking an Uber?” I said. “Not anymore.” That lolling eyeball fixing on me in the shadows. “No?” He grinned. “I know what you did last summer.” I gaped timorously at him. “What? What do you mean?” He giggled. “No idea. But I like the sound of it.” “Do I… know you?” “Excuse me?” Kevin the lumpy Uber driver asked, his eyes locked on me in the rearview. “What?” “Sorry. I thought you were talking to me.” Before I could respond, the kid answered the question I’d asked him. “I’m your Ride-And-Die. Billy Timmons. Nice to meet you.” That lolling eyeball winked impishly at me. I shrank away, flat against the door. Mortified. What? No. TMI! You’re shitting me. “Too soon?” That was him. “Jesus!” That was me. Kevin spun around. “Hey! Everything okay?”

NO!! “Hey, isn’t he way too young to take an Uber?” I asked, my voice quavering. As if this should’ve disqualified Billy Timmons for being here, when he was supposed to be either dead, or missing. “Excuse me? Who’s he?” Kevin said. I gaped at Billy. Who just smiled at me. “Trick or treat,” he said. And then it became obvious that Kevin wasn’t privy to the undead passenger in his back seat. The boy was invisible to him. Embarrassment commingled with my growing terror. “Nothing,” I said. I glanced at Billy, and lest Kevin would think I had resumed talking to myself, I quietly intoned: “What the hell do you want?” “I wanna go to a Halloween party,” Billy said. And then he smiled, and picked his nose. **** When Billy followed me out of the Uber, I noticed that he was missing one of his black Nike sneakers. (The bloodied one found on Bower Road was probably stored in an “evidence” locker at the police station.) The sock cocooning his other foot was stained in blood. Was this really fucking happening? Was that gummy I took laced with bath salts? Or maybe I was losing my mind. You hear stories like that. People lose their minds. Don’t they? Dazed and shaken by my impromptu party guest, I quickly shuffled away from him, until I reached the check-in line for the party.When I glanced behind me, Billy had vanished from sight. Poof. Like a ghost. Minutes later, I was wading into the massive back yard gala. A thick, teeming mass of costumed revelers on parade. Actors, actresses, models, publicists, producers, movie executives, agents, and Hollywood’s newfound power brokers: the sexy-action-cool influencers. (65% of whom I probably followed on Instagram). Hollywood hoi polloi no longer, they were now anointed royalty, solely responsible for influencing others on how to become influencers. Hey, great work, if you can get it. I didn’t judge. I had a fetish for hot chicks. Let other people try and cure cancer. As I headed towards one of the bars, I stumbled to a halt as Billy abruptly appeared before me. Whoa! “I crashed the party,” he said, munching on a cheeseburger slider. Almost reflexively, I grabbed one of his hands, hoping to confirm that he was only the imaginary by-product of my recent bruising trauma. And that there’d be no hand at all. But the hand was cold, too cold. Jesus! He was the real deal. I was “chaperoning” a ghost to a Halloween party, and one who didn’t even require a costume. He was a corporeal being, or presence, or “entity,” but only to my eyes. Like an imaginary friend who refused to stay in his lane. My Plus-One from Hell. Billy fucking Timmons! Horrified, I scrambled away. I easily managed to lose him, given the swirling shit show of humanity unraveling all around. And then my friends — “The Munsters” — summoned me over. Herman, Lily, Eddie, Grandpa, and the blonde, impossibly progressive one, Marilyn. They were throwing down jello shots like they were their lifeblood. My fretful eyes scoured the party for signs of Billy as I approached Team Munster, and engaged in a little nervous small talk.

“Marilyn, why do you stay with this family? I never understood.” The other Munsters laughed. “Did you lose a bet with God, or something?” I teased. Marilyn puffed on her Juul, smiling thinly. She knew I had a point. She was better than this. And the way Grandpa ogled her with his naughty twinkle, you’d think he wanted to eat her alive. Yikes. Yeah, never understood Marilyn Munster. Did anyone? Moments later, as my gummy started packing a wallop, I ordered a drink at a bar. The bartender was the cherry on top, so hot, you’d swear she was Photoshopped: a leggy, toned, dark-haired delight, and maybe even a scintillating personality to match. I gazed behind me, furtive and frightful. Good news: no signs of Billy, just a roiling sea of Halloweeners assailing the senses. I couldn’t help but notice that Captain Kirk had sure put on some weight. Wow. Plot twist. The Star Trek Enterprise must have been serving cream pies and biscuits all these years. I smiled to myself. And was that a few folks from The Blue Man Group over there? How old-school. But why weren’t those assholes ever canceled? Or were they like, really blue? I chuckled, entertaining myself almost by default. I enjoyed playing this little mental game. Good times. And check out Taylor Swift, breezy and redoubtable, if not — let’s be honest — a smidgen annoying by now, getting high with the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. He was already hammered. You couldn’t blame him. Imagine the crazy, exhaustive whirlwind shit show he’d been through, what with the flying monkeys, creepy munchkins, and Wicked Witches. (And to what end, really?) One only hoped that Dorothy was the designated driver. “Dr. Pepper for me,” a voice chirped, interjecting upon my momentary amusement. I whirled to see Billy Timmons flanked beside me. The kid who was supposed to be dead, not haunting my social life. I recoiled frightfully. Jesus! We weren’t in Kansas anymore. But little Billy was really no different than anyone else here: he was looking for an audience. He grinned, relishing my buzzkill. “I’m your Boogeyman,” he said, pressing his finger to his lips. The secret was ours. And only ours. Then Billy smiled, and picked his nose. **** I immediately bolted out of the party. Pacing outside the house, waiting for my Uber, I scoured the entranceway for fear of Billy’s pursuit. My little rideshare or die. This couldn’t be happening. Obviously! He was supposed to be dead, which would make me guilty of murder, or at best, manslaughter. But even if I somehow managed to avoid prison time, I had accidentally killed a child. My life would never be the same. Hundreds of hours of therapy would’ve doubtless ensued. But at least that series of awful events made sense. Whereas this series of them didn’t. In the ride home, I was far more stoned, yet feeling oddly galvanized. Maybe Billy would be gone now and leave me alone. Maybe he’d had his postmortem frightfest mindfuck fix, and now it was game over. Intellectually, mind you, I knew such wishful thinking was insane: merely hoping that my ghost had already tired of me, and moved onto greener pastures, wasn’t exactly what the doctor ordered. (And if so, I desperately needed a second opinion.) Rolling down the

window, I welcomed the gentle breeze. Thinking about that crazy-hot bartender at the party. Photoshop Girl. You wouldn’t find her on Bumble “looking for the real deal!” (Unless she someday contracted a flesh-eating disease while ziplining in Costa Rica.) I removed my phone, and clicked onto Instagram. I had received a new notification: “Boogeyman started following you.” There was no profile picture — just the faceless stock icon. But below it was the legend: “The Boogeyman called. I gave him your address.” Chilled, I stared at the faceless icon. A ghost in the machine. My skin crawled a country mile. Because Billy Timmons was my Boogeyman. 2. SUNDAY SCARY I woke up around 9 the next morning, alongside some ghastly, unexpected company: Billy Timmons in bed beside me, nestled cozily beneath my covers. Grinning at me. No way! I quickly clambered out of bed, staggered with dumbstruck fright. “You look like you just saw a ghost.” That was him. “Not funny!” That was me. “What the hell, Bobby?!” “It’s Billy.” “Same question!” But I had so many more questions for him. Like, what was it like? Did he die, then come back? Huh? I mean, what the hell? A little help here? How are you here?! What is this?! He said he didn’t remember anything until he materialized in the Uber the night before. I was unsure if I believed him, but I certainly didn’t believe in the supernatural. (Hell, I didn’t even believe in climate change. ) So maybe this was all some kind of ghoulish LARPing prank. Sunday Funday. Are you sure you’re dead?” I asked. Trick question. “Do I need to prove it to you?” He appeared offended. Another trick question. But he didn’t await my response. And proceeded to split his head open with two hands. Tearing it clean apart, save for the moist, crackling sound. I reeled, stumbling in petrified dismay. “Jesus! Stop!” This self-bisection strangely didn’t draw any blood at all, but I saw some bone, and shiny, pink brain tissue oozed from its avulsed chasm, threatening to spill out like spoiled meat. So there was that. And then like magic, Billy clamped his squash seamlessly back together again. “Are we good?” he asked. I nodded several queasy times. He was definitely dead. He smiled, stifled a building yawn, and slid comfortably further beneath the covers. “What do you want from me?” I said. “I was too young to die.” “I know. God, I know. I’m sorry. I swear to God, I’m so sorry. But it was an accident.”

“Were you drunk driving?” “No. Were you?” I instantly regretted asking. “Sorry, didn’t mean that.” “I believe that it was an accident,” he said gently, assuaging me. The adult in the room. “Thank you. Thank you.” This approbation was important as I realized I was crying softly. And trembling, fighting to compose myself. Hysteria was afoot. Its knives were out. He was in my bed. But he wasn’t done yet. “But you’ll have to prove how sorry you are,” he said. And not so gently. “What do you mean?” “I want to grow up.” “Makes two of us.” “What?” “Nothing.” “Being eight years-old was so boring.” “Hey, it gets better,” I lied. “Not when you’re dead,” he said. I cringed. Point taken. Because Billy Timmons wanted to have nice things. He informed me that he had a wish list. Essentially, a bucket list of boxes he wanted to check before transitioning back to whatever spectral “realm” whence he came. And I was tasked to assist him in checking these boxes. He had FOMO, the early stage iteration. Formative FOMO. I’d be on a need-to-know basis as to the wishes he desired. It was total madness. Was there a manual for this? I couldn’t tell him to fuck off and die, either. Because he was already dead. So I tried a different tact. “And what if I don’t help you?” I challenged. “What if I won’t do it?” “I’ll follow you forever and ever and ever,” he said with a confident grin. My skin crawled another country mile. But I found myself inherently believing him, and realized it was the least I owed him. Wasn’t it? We both knew this, and I felt I had little choice but to acquiesce to the arrangement. I couldn’t save him but I could help him. I could pay it forward. That was the gig. I thought about calling Hopper and telling him the whole crazy story, if only because he’s the only one who’d actually believe it. But I wisely decided against it. The binary choice was mine and mine alone: either turn myself into the police or grant Billy his wishes. Which is why I promptly introduced him to my office bedroom. He asked if he was cramping my style. Not at all, I told him. I had no style. (But you are scaring the fuck out of me!) I’d basically adopted a ghost. But I would attempt to play this repulsive game. I pointed to the solitary Nike on Billy’s foot, and suggested our first order of business for him: new sneakers. This thrilled him. He wanted the same black Nikes: the Air Max 90. Size 3. It was a deal. He also wanted a dog. A dog?! Jesus. He was really piling on now. He said his family’s dog was named Biscuit. I told him dogs weren’t allowed in the building. Just ghosts, apparently. LOL? Ish? No. He wasn’t amused, and clarified that he wanted neither to be called, nor referred to, as “ghost.” (But identifying as one was a whole different story.) Maybe he found the term “triggering,” a disparaging microaggression. Which was ridiculous. What was his preference, anyway? Specter? Phantom? Wraith? Apparition? Phantasm? Spirit?

Soul? Revenant? But who was I to call him on this? I’m the one who ran him over in the street. I would’ve called him Mickey Mouse, if he’d only promise to forever leave me alone. He said he was starving. Did I have any breakfast food? His parents were super strict and boycotted him from gluten. They didn’t allow him to eat sugar. No sugar? Really? That was insane to me. That’s how mass shooters were born. But he was a free agent now. He’d been liberated with a hall pass and planned on eating anything he wanted, whenever he wanted. He’d make up for lost time, like a surgically removed conjoined twin, set loose at the singles dance to “chum” the waters and enjoy his poor decisions. “Separation anxiety? Not so much. Where the dirty girls and Tater Tots be at?!” I told him that I needed to go food shopping. “Can I ask a question?” he asked. “What is it now?” He cracked an impish 8 year-old grin. “Where do you stand on pancakes?” **** I’ve literally never made pancakes in my life. Not a once. I enjoy them, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not — and never has been — a go-to breakfast item for me. But kids love pancakes. That’s a timeless wisdom. I knew this because my nephew and niece loved their pancakes. Sometimes, they’d even “pair” them with French toast. Okay, not a great story, but my point: I didn’t have pancake mix in my apartment. And I wasn’t about to take Billy to IHOP, and pretend to sit alone and not be losing my mind, while he doused his flapjacks with maple syrup and globs of butter. But the one silver lining about this particular 8 year-old nuisance? He’d require neither a babysitter, TV, nor iPad to keep him occupied. He wouldn’t have trust issues. (None that I could trust, anyway.) There was no need to impose a curfew on him, and you couldn’t punish or penalize him with a “timeout.” He was the ideal latchkey kid: autonomous, adaptive and resilient. He wasn’t codependent, so you could leave him alone. And that’s what I did. Plunged within an ornery funk, I drove to Whole Foods, where there were almost more dogs than customers. I wondered if they could all be “therapy” dogs. But even for LA, that seemed a bit much. It spooked me to think of the cadaver dogs I’d seen on the news, sniffing around for Billy Timmons. That’s some serious PTSD-inducing duty, if there ever was one. (I bet cadaver dogs eventually needed their own therapy dogs. Think about it.) I noticed that during my recent absence several self-checkout machines had supplanted some of the cashiers. It had a strangely chilling effect on me. A jarring, if not unexpected development. (Like, was it something I said?) But robots are our new friends and neighbors. Waze, Alexa, Siri, ChatGPT, and their chums to be named later. Buckle up. Better living through circuitry. It’s all so very Sci-Fi. (At least it was.) I scored some pancake mix, and waited anxiously in one of the busy self-checkout lines. A few shoppers ahead of me were wearing leftover pandemic masks, like Keto-Friendly Avengers. Covid-19: Season 3. They were still worried about a virus, when I literally had a hobgoblin at home waiting for fucking pancakes.

En route back to my apartment, I stopped at a sporting goods store and bought a pair of black Nike Air Max 90 sneakers. They were $140! (Not a typo.) $140. Jesus. Did they at least come with Sydney Sweeney? Unbelievable. Billy said he needed some clothes, too, so I grabbed some T-shirts and sweatpants. Ghost shopping. This was really happening. But upon my harried return home, I discovered that Billy was gone. A ghost of a ghost. The little irritant wasn’t even there. I stared at the pancake directions on the box, as if seeking to divine some explanation. Then I furiously hurled it against the wall. Fuck pancakes. Billy was trolling me, coming and going like eczema. I started feeling really sorry for myself. Guilty as charged. I believed I could justify, or at least qualify, my past and present behaviors. Good, bad, or otherwise. I drank and dabbled in cocaine when the mood struck. (It’s fun, okay? And I had needs.) I didn’t call my parents in Florida enough. (My sister Jessica called them more than enough for both of us.) Hopper and I once trapped a midget in a porta-potty at a “Zombie Walk” in Pittsburgh. (Trippin our tits off, it seemed a good idea at the time.) But when the panicked midget screamed so loud that we panicked, and wrenched the door open for him. He rolled out of there like a feces-flecked cannoli, wailing and wild-eyed, traumatized as fuck. The only reason I know his name was Larry is because he later tried to sue us for damages. (Honestly, I don’t blame him.) I’ve lied a little, cheated a little. (Who hasn’t?) I never met a cat I didn’t want to mightily crush underfoot. (I’m allergic). I was arrested twice. (In college, doesn’t really count). In high school, I once decapitated my neighbor Camden Miller’s snowman and pissed on its head. (I was in love with her.) I’ve stolen money a few times. (For weed, in college, doesn’t really count.) I’m trying to produce an indie horror movie called Creature Violence, about a Down’s Syndrome serial killer named Ethan. The placeholder tagline: “No One’s Perfect.” (The marketplace for horror is through the roof, so, when in Rome…). Okay, so I was far from your model citizen. There had been some odious, deplorable behavior. I had demons and flaws. I’d put up some good “numbers.” But shit, it’s not like I ever killed someone. (Oh, wait!) There was that. I glanced at my Alexa device on the counter. Little Miss Know It All, and the only voice of reason in my life these days. “Alexa, what the FUCK?” I said. Alexa actually took a beat, before replying with a non-answer: “I’d like to know what went wrong.” Which made two of us. **** Billy Timmons apparently took some time off for himself. A welcome reprieve of which I couldn’t complain, but the uncertainty and anxiety of not knowing where and when he’d appear next proved greatly unnerving. It wasn’t like I could text him, either. I couldn’t be sure he’d honor his end of the bargain, either. I’d often check his Instagram page, of which there’d been zero activity since Halloween night. When he started “following” me. His profile picture remained that same faceless icon. It kind of made sinister sense to me.

I utilized this dormant, private time to conduct a little online paranormal activity, without being really sure what I was looking for. Taking some desperate shots in the postmortem dark, I plunged down the rabbit hole. I learned that “putrefaction” occurs ten to twenty days after the death of an organism. Something to do with the decomposition of proteins, tissue breakdown, and organ liquefaction. It’s the “decay of organic matter by the action of organisms resulting in the production of a foul smell.” I glanced at my iPhone calendar, trying to determine Billy’s “dates.” After quickly growing deflated and frustrated, I logged off. Who was I kidding? You couldn’t possibly make sense of the supernatural. All I knew was that if Billy was a demon, I needed a good quality Exorcist. I needed to reverse the curse, as it were. And maybe someone could help me. I did a few Google and ChatGPT searches, keeping my inquiries as simple as they were frightful, preposterous, and embarrassing: “How to get rid of a ghost?” I’d have to clear my history, of course, lest anyone throw me in the State Laugh Factory upon their discovery of it. My search predictably revealed hundreds of articles, links, memes, social media pages, and “services.” (Thank God the Internet didn’t have a curfew.) I discovered some listings for “haunted support groups. Apparently, troubled souls similar to myself would congregate at various locations and share their respective ghost stories. This didn’t make me feel any better, but I figured I had nothing to lose. But where to begin? I finally settled on reading one article’s overview: “During the presence of ghosts in a home can be a sensitive and complicated issue. It’s important to approach it with care and respect for all involved. If you believe that a ghost is attached to something or someone living in the house, you may want to consider seeking the assistance of a professional who specializes in spiritual or paranormal matters. This could be a medium, spiritual advisor, or paranormal investigator who can help assess the situation and provide guidance on how to address it.” Listed below was the contact info for “Night Owl” services. His sales pitch slogan was ‘What do you have to lose - beside your mind?’ Jesus. The gig economy was a real bitch. Night Owl was probably some 290-pound YouTuber named Rory, who lived in his mother’s basement. But using an old, anonymous AOL account, I composed a brief email to him. I omitted the part about accidentally striking Billy with my car, because I couldn’t be too careful. I only revealed that, for whatever inexplicable reason, I was being haunted by a random ghost. And I had no clue why. Was there a silver bullet that could put a stop to this? Thoughts? On Friday, we had a casting meeting at the Graphic Content production office. Eight of us in a conference room, including Goldman the poor, beleaguered screenwriter. He’d confided in me that they were “totally mangling his vision.” Enough with your vision, I decreed. You have no vision, okay? This isn’t Warby Parker. Consider yourself a blind man lucky enough not be managing a T-Mobile store yet. Are we clear? Goldman heeded the memo. But casting “Ethan” was becoming a dicey affair because if we didn’t cast a mentally challenged actor, the social justice warriors would seek to cancel yet another culture. If “Ethan” wasn’t played by a legitimately challenged actor, verisimilitude went out the window. And we can’t have that. Cultural appropriation was verboten. It was maddening how the business kept raising the bar and moving the goal posts. As if people watching the movie in the remaining other 49

states gave a shit whether “Ethan” studied at Juilliard or was born with an extra chromosome. None of them are keeping score at home. Not a one. So why should we? In such a notoriously cutthroat town, why volunteer to cut your own throat? People have to eat, you know. But we got so drunk on virtue-signaling that we crashed the car. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different. And to add casting insult to injury, our smarmy young producer, Matt Ferguson, had a thought. He was a fake-hipster doofus who wore different olfactory-offending sneakers every day. A Gen Z dingbat. You know the guy. No one cared much for him, but his Hedge Fund uncle was financing the movie, so everyone followed him on Instagram and LIKED his posts. Now he was saying that he wanted to “pivot,” and suggested that Ethan’s character should be African American. The others in the meeting either considered this a decent idea, or pretended to entertain it. Even Goldman consented, nodding, albeit unconvincingly, into his latte. This is how commerce often works. You fake it til you make it. Outspoken inclusion had become unspoken delusion. (And boy, were albino “creatives” shit out of luck.) But I really needed this lousy movie to get made, so if it was required to scour the globe in search of a mentally challenged African American actor eager to avenge white supremacist opioid dealers on-screen, I was all for it. Count me in. After all, diversity is our strength. (Said no one ever who had a 8 year-old ghost waiting at home for them.) **** The following day, bearing my unicorn stuffed animal gift, I cruised over to my sister Jessica’s house in West Hollywood. Her and husband Luke were hosting a birthday party for my niece, Sophie. A few of my nephew Leo’s friends were playing basketball in the driveway, where a regulation-size hoop had been installed the previous summer. The party inside consisted of kids, sandwich platters, cupcakes, candy, and music from Frozen. (I could’ve sworn one of the American Girl dolls in attendance had “Ozempic face.”) I grabbed a beer and a plate of food, and made small talk with Luke. Successful real estate guy. When Jessica first started dating him, I referred to him as Captain Unremarkable. But he was quiet and pleasant, and possessed a dry sense of humor. (He once suggested I make a stronger effort to be more snarky.) He was a good husband and father. A “good earner,” my mother would say. When we repaired into the back yard, my nephew Leo and two friends were giddily jumping around in one of those outdoor recreational trampolines. Bouncing up and down on the padded jumping mat. A group of deliriously sugared-up pals were huddled around it, watching the action. Nifty fun! Until I realized that only one of Leo’s friends was accompanying him on the trampoline. Because Billy Timmons was the third kid. My little Hitler youth was back. The danger in Stranger Danger. It sure was awful to see him again, sporting his new Nikes and waving at me through the safety enclosure net. I flinched, nearly dropping my plate. Naturally, Leo and his friend were oblivious to the “third wheel” in their midst. As was everyone else but me.

“Jesus,” I muttered, but loud enough for Luke to hear. He discerned my troubled state. “Everything okay?” “Yeah, fine. “I feigned a smile, shot a withering glare at Billy, then stormed back inside. “What are you doing here? Freelancing? Are you crazy? You stay away from my family! You understand? Keep them out of this,” I raged to Billy when we were alone, after he’d followed me into the driveway. He grew sullen and nodded. Point taken. He knew I was right. But then he snickered defiantly and ripped his head clean off his shoulders. 100%. I recoiled, gasping. Jesus! After fashioning it into a makeshift basketball, Beheaded Billy threw a wild, angry shot up at the rim. Which was monstrously horrifying enough. But what made matters worse? The “ball” didn’t come down. Thunk! It was jammed stuck between the rim and the backboard. Oh, boy. Beheaded Billy just stood there, bloodless but a little wobbly. What now? (Jump ball?) Fuck! Little help? “Get down from there, Billy!” I hollered. But Billy the Head just chuckled from his perch. Just another day at the fun factory. I didn’t know what the hell to do, so I jumped towards the rim, trying to swat him down from it. No luck. After a few more failed pleas for him to come down, I hopped onto the cement pole and climbed after him. He chuckled gleefully, watching my clumsy ascent. When I was almost within reach of dislodging him away from the basket, I heard a voice: “Uncle Zack, what are you doing?!” I halted my progress and gazed down. Leo and his puffy best friend Paul were now in the driveway. Jesus. Kill me now. “Nothing!” I said. Paul laughed at the sight of a middle-aged man awkwardly astride a cement pole at a 9 year-old’s birthday party. And for no apparent reason at all. “Is he drunk!?” Paul asked Leo, which seemed like the only possible explanation. “Not yet!” I answered for my puzzled nephew. Naturally, the boys were oblivious to Beheaded Billy, stumbling listlessly about the driveway. When Leo finally had enough of his creepy uncle and grabbed a basketball, I finally surrendered and returned to the ground. My business was done there. Billy knew how to find his way home, and I’d deal with his ass later. Then again, what was I going to do? Ground him? I waved to Leo and his pal. “I’m out, fellas,” I declared, then angrily shuffled away. “Where you going, Uncle Zack?” That was Leo. “Mental!” That was me. Billy was waiting inside my car. Bodily intact again, sitting shotgun, and finishing off a chocolate cupcake. Before I could verbally dismember him, he said he was sorry. “I’m just a kid,” he said. He started weeping. I didn’t know what to do with that. A crying apparition? Was there a manual for this? But I felt guilty all over again. It came in insidious waves that intruded upon my day. I was responsible for his demise, after all. I owed him. He had all the leverage, and we both knew this. So I wiped tears from his eyes and tried to make nice. “What do you wanna do?” I asked. “What else is on your list? Whatever you want. As long as you promise to behave. And it’s not skydiving.” (We needed to set some parameters.)

He perked up. “I wanna see Ava! She’s in the arcade at the Pier every Saturday.” Someone clearly had himself a little crush. And while parking at the Pier was always a nightmare, I’ll concede that none of Billy’s wishes were too extravagant. I could work with this. “Ava, huh?” I teased. “Is she The One?” “Yup.” “Is she hot?” “Really pretty.” “I think I like her for you.” He giggled. “Me, too.” The salt-aired and family-friendly Santa Monica Pier amusement park featured countless rides, games, and restaurants. There was bustling foot traffic, ocean breezes, crashing waves and pleasant views. I plugged in my earbuds, so people thought I was talking on the phone and wasn’t a crazy person conversing with either myself, or a child apparition. I bought him a hot dog on a stick, chicken nuggets, and a large vanilla milk shake. Kid had an appetite like a drunken viking. Inside the arcade, we stood by the air hockey area and watched Ava play a video game with her nanny. I recognized Ava from the photos that were broadcast during the candlelight vigil: the pink-haired girl riding the playground swings with Billy. He seemed smitten with her. She’d probably been in his crosshairs since… when? They were six? How adorable. But young love doesn’t age well. I knew of what I spoke. (It’s why I decapitated Camden Miller’s snowman in high school and pissed on its head.) “Do you think she misses me?” Billy asked. The question killed me. Knocked my pud in the mud. I was unable to even dignify it with a response. “I miss knowing her,” he continued. I didn’t know what to do with that, either. But I gave it a whirl. “Hey, maybe Ava will have a ‘bad gateway’ a few years from now.” “What?” I momentarily forgot I was talking to a pint-sized foul goblin of dread, not yet hip to my slang. “Maybe she won’t grow up to be so pretty,” I clarified. He sneered at me. Not a silver lining. I shrugged and wiped some vanilla shake from off his chin. “Will you go tell her I said hi?” I flinched. Oh, boy. This was suddenly a really bad idea. “No way. No, no, no. Billy, I can’t do that.” He gazed at her, rueful. “Neither can I.” “You’re not, like… alive. Okay? So it doesn’t work for either of us.” He didn’t argue and gobbled the rest of his hot dog. He understood, and I was happy not to have to further explicate that Ava was bound to temporarily ruin his life, anyway, in, say, 9th grade. There’s always someone who does. She’d be “The One,” all right. The one who’d break his little dopey, delusional heart, crush it like a grape. It’s the rule of the jungle. Baptism by fire. You don’t want to go punting outside of your coverage, little man, especially if your kicking game sucks. And it just might. So lower the bar. It’s easier to hurdle. It’s why you need to tread lightly, wisely, and carefully. Because if you chase enough windmills, you’re bound to get your dick chopped off in their crossfire. You’re welcome.

I desperately wanted to get out of there because Billy was obviously unpredictable. If he detached his head again and hurled it into the funnel cake stand, I would’ve jumped into the ocean. (When you told this kid to “keep it together,” it took on a whole other meaning.) I suggested we return home. I’d teach him how to play Wordle. Sound like a plan? But he wouldn’t budge because Ava was now talking with the little boy slaying video game demons beside her with clinical dispatch. Perhaps the seeds of a flirtation were in blossom. “Oh, no. She has a boyfriend,” Billy groused. “The pretty ones always do,” I tutored him. He gaped up at me. Scout’s Honor. “You can’t chase them all, Billy.” “Why not?” “There’s not enough time.” He grew wistful. The saddest thing he ever heard. I attempted to cheer him up, promising to make steak, mac and cheese and French fries for dinner. That sealed the deal, and he agreed to go home. Good thing, too, because had he further resisted, I would’ve been forced to impart some tough love. The redacted portion of the Birds and the Bees talk: there was a chance little Ava would grow up to be a massive cock-hound who’d never again give him the time of day. She’d probably “ghost” him — and what then? TikTok, gender-fluid ideation, and suicide watch? You don’t want to be that guy. Are we clear? So for now, best you tuck it back in your underwear, Charlie Brown. Lucy’s a little whore, but tomorrow’s another day. Except for Billy, there were no more other days. **** It had been a month, and Night Owl still hadn’t responded to my email. I wasn’t too surprised. You couldn’t trust anyone in this town. I continued frequently driving by Billy Timmons “Missing” posters. As would be expected, the campaign had gathered considerable steam. I considered anonymously donating some money to a favorite charity of Billy’s family. You know, “grief reparations.” Or something. At a press conference the night before, they announced that the reward money had increased for information that led to Billy’s safe return. George Timmons expressed his trepidation that his son’s disappearance could become a “cold case,” and suggested starting a “parallel investigation” into the boy’s disappearance. That notion frightened me terribly. I was already having enough trouble sleeping. I didn’t know how long I could endure and maintain my sanity under the weight of such repugnant guilt. There were days when I debated surrendering to the police, taking my punitive medicine, and suffering the consequences. I imagined sociopaths slept perfectly fine at night. Billy would come and go, surfacing of his own volition. Billy Loch Ness. A boy out of time looking to have a good one. Choosing his own adventures. I continued monitoring his Instagram page, which didn’t reveal any further activity. His faceless profile picture remained the same, and thankfully, there were no curated pics of him shooting bank shots with his decapitated head. #LivingMyBestDeath.

One day, my iPhone went missing from my apartment. I lost my mind in a frantic search for it, until finally using my iPad’s Find My iPhone feature. The phone was at my address… somewhere. Ten minutes later, I discovered Billy seated on the roof of my building, eating a Popsicle, and trying to FaceTime his best friend, Jason Cox. I was furious. In no universe was that a good idea. And Jason wouldn’t even be able to physically see or hear him on FaceTime, so what was the point? Billy didn’t care, he just wanted to see his friend. “Fine. I’ll just go see him myself,” he said. And that’s exactly what he did. Jason never knew that a certain dead best friend was watching his tennis lesson the following day. It wasn’t that uncommon to run into Billy around town, either. Our interactions became somewhat “normalized.” Driving in my neighborhood one day, I came across some children selling lemonade on the sidewalk. Billy sat cross-legged beside them, sipping his cold beverage. He saw me cruise by and waved. I returned the wave. Just another day at the Fun Factory. And then I drove on. Another day, I was idling at a traffic light beside a yellow schoolbus. Several small children were waving and making funny faces out the windows at random motorists. Billy was one of them. But he was only smiling and waving at me. I raised a bag of fresh doughnuts in the air for him to see. He flashed me a Thumbs-Up sign. I returned the wave and drove on. There were other days when our interactions weren’t so normalized. During breakfast one morning, Billy’s left eye accidentally dropped into his Froot Loops. 100%. Just plopped in for a swim. I could only stare, aghast and sickened. Was there a manual for this? I was afraid this grotesquerie signaled the confirmation of my worst fear: he was finally falling apart like a crowd- surfing leper. But he casually removed the eye from the bowl, shook off the dregs of milk, and deftly plugged it back within its socket. No qualifying “oops,” or “my bad,” from him, either. Just another day at the Fun Factory. I didn’t have the queasy heart to tell him that his reconstituted eyeball was now upside down. He resembled a ventriloquist dummy who’d been whacked upside the head with a shovel. I opted for the more gentlemanly response. “So, more orange juice?” **** Breaking News: “Night Owl Services” finally made email contact with me a week before Thanksgiving. Night Owl apologized for the lengthy delay. (Was business booming?) We set up a Zoom call. I had to somehow keep this secret from Billy, so it would have to be a quick one. The guy sent me his Zoom link five minutes later. Was I available now? (Business wasn’t booming). So during lunch, I sat in my car outside the Graphic Content offices and Zoomed with Night Owl. He wore a freaky Barn Owl Halloween mask over his head, his dark eyes seemingly doing the talking. It almost creeped me out more than Billy did, but I guess he wanted to remain as anonymous as me. After he gave me his home address, which was deep in the Valley, we set a date after the holiday. Naturally, I had zero interest in meeting this ghoulish oddball in person, but figured I had to exhaust all options. His “fee” wasn’t discussed, but he promised that “I can help you with your ghost.” I recalled his online sales pitch: “What do you have to lose - beside your mind?” I couldn’t argue with that.

On the day before Thanksgiving, my sister texted me: did I care to join them in feeding the homeless in the morning? Are they still hungry, I joked, before respectfully passing. Sadly, I wouldn’t be coming to her house for Thanksgiving, either. Under the weather, I lied. The real reason was that Billy was feeling particularly homesick, and we had another box to check. I knew it was a really bad idea, like the arsonist returning to the scene of his fire. I failed to convince him that it was far too dangerous for me to be in close proximity to his family’s house. It was Thanksgiving, he argued, and I couldn’t argue that. I was hostage and slave to his whims and desires, after all. And helping him check off his boxes would ultimately result in him getting out of my hair. So we compromised to do a quick drive-by. “Seat belt,” I said as I drove us out of my parking garage on that Thursday morning. “What for?” Billy replied. I mulled that for a moment. He had a point. “Okay. Disregard.” When we drove by the Timmons residence, tears sprung into Billy’s eyes. I fought back a few of my own. This “visit” was one painful, bittersweet box he wanted to check. For both of us. The good news was, we passed the house without incident. Mission accomplished. Or so I thought. “Drive by again,” Billy said. “What? Why?” “Drive by again.” So I relented and drove by his house again, dread flowering within me like an intruder. This time, Biscuit the golden retriever was farting around in the front yard. Billy smiled. “Biscuit! Drive by one more time.” “No, Billy. We’re going home.” “Drive by again.” “What if I don’t?” He shot me a fiendish smile. “I’ll follow you forever and ever and ever.” Jesus. That was the deal breaker. When I drove by the house a third time, Billy’s sister Elise was playing on the front steps with her Barbie dolls. Ken had also made an appearance. As handsome as ever. There was no cockblocking that dude. “Stop the car. I wanna get out,” Billy said. “I can’t do that, Billy! Okay? Please. I’m sorry but you can’t get out.” “I can if you stop the car. I just wanna say hello. And goodbye.” Oh, boy. That broke my heart a little. I don’t know who I trusted less, him or me. Was there a manual for this? I wanted to ask why he couldn’t manifest himself inside his family’s house on his own. (Not that I encouraged this). But he had no problem materializing out of thin air whenever he desired, so why was this any different? But I didn’t ask, choosing to drop him off, instead. I watched him petting Biscuit, who registered no response. Billy looked disappointed, but seemingly undeterred, shoved away from his dog. He hovered behind Elise and conducted another test drive: gently touching her shoulder. Jesus! That’s when I started to freak out. Steeling myself, palpitations thrumming inside my chest. But Elise registered no response from his touch, either, and he shuffled away, slipping inside his house. What the hell was he doing?! And what the hell was I doing? I had to get out of there. It was frightening to think that Bower Road was just around the corner. The scene of the crime. Maybe I could leave Billy behind. It wasn’t like he didn’t know his way back to my place.

But his penchant for erratic, repellent behavior was too much of a wild card for me to leave. He suddenly reappeared in the front seat, startling me out of my skin. “Boo!” he said. Carpool from Hell. He had brought two small stuffed animals along with him. (Apparently, inanimate objects couldn’t “travel.”) He was ready to go home, but when he glanced forlornly out the window at Elise and her dolls, I allowed him a moment to savor it. It was Thanksgiving, after all. And so we bore silent witness to Ken and Barbie sharing a sweet kiss. Elise was more than happy to have arranged this tryst. (Not all the cool kids hooked-up on Bumble). But Billy rolled his eyes. He wasn’t having it. Not even for a second. Maybe my cynical prepubescent tutorial at the Pier had colored his views on romance. “Ken doesn’t stand a chance, does he?” Billy asked. Yikes. It was chilling to think he could read the future, too. **** When we returned to my apartment, we ate our Thanksgiving meal. I had decided to shop at Trader Joe’s two days earlier, thinking I’d save a little money. But when I glimpsed Mrs. Timmons surveying the fruit section, I nearly fouled myself. I fled quickly and wound up at Whole Foods twenty minutes later. Which cost me a small fortune. I never told Billy I saw her. After dinner, Billy joined his stuffed animals on the couch. “I missed these guys,” he said, introducing the brown owl as Percy and the black and white penguin as Waddles. “Nice to meet you,” I greeted. Billy chuckled. Even he recognized how silly that sounded. But he seemed quite pleased with his successful rescue mission. I couldn’t summon the nerve to ask if he’d seen his parents inside the house, and was more than happy to refrain from asking. He was ebullient. There was no need to spoil his mood. Why shoot a wounded man? And it wasn’t exactly a conversation I was willing to have. But apparently, he was wishing to have it. “They all seemed sad,” he said. “I’m sorry, Billy. I’m really, really sorry.” You may as well greet a newborn baby with a “thoughts and prayers in advance” memo. Maybe they were right sometimes: there are no words. “Thanks,” he said. Then playfully brightened with a thought. “Close your eyes for 10 seconds. I wanna show you a surprise.” I hated his “surprises,” but played along and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, two crooked, marble eyes — one blue, one black — were staring at me above an impish smile. I recoiled, stunned. “Jesus!” I croaked. And when I realized he had replaced his own eyes with those of Percy’s and Waddles, and inserted one of his own eyeballs within each of their sockets, I re-recoiled. (Ever done that?) The glassy, walleyed replacements in Billy’s face gawked ominously at me. But he was chuckling when he sprung off the bed, leaving his stuffed animals behind, one-eyed and clueless. (Those poor bastards didn’t sign up for this, either.) Simulating a blind, moaning monster, he slowly lurched towards me. Just another day at the Fun Factory for him. Not me. Fresh new dread guided my quick retreat into the bathroom, where I slammed the door shut. His

increasingly mischievous behavior frightened me in a newfound way. Darker and more self- assured, he was the inmate running the asylum that was my life. I trembled flat up against the door, hoping he didn’t materialize in there any second. (Was it possible to ghostproof an apartment?) I wondered when this postmortem troll would ever stop. Billy wasn’t the only one with FOMO. I was stricken with a bad case of it, too. Defined as “the fear of missing out on the rest of my life without being followed around by an Orphan from Hell.” Would my due diligence ever be enough to satisfy him? (Or was this what parenthood was all about?) How could I trust that he’d keep his end of the bargain? He was just a kid, and kids lie all the time. They’re built to lie. It’s not like I could get him to sign an NDA, either. At least it was quiet in there for a while. Until it wasn’t. “I’m your Boogeyman!” Billy cried out from beyond the door. And then he laughed. **** When I finally emerged from the bathroom, he was gone. He’d vanished again, but I did discover a list of several of his wishes lying on my desk in his room. All of them had been checked: Pancakes. Pizza. Cheeseburgers. Ice Cream. Cookies. Cake. Candy. Doughnuts. √ Make new friends. √ (Presumably his hijacking of Leo’s trampoline at my sister’s house). Ava at the Santa Monica Pier. √ Jason’s tennis lesson. √ Thanksgiving. Mom, Dad, Elise. Biscuit. √ Save Percy and Waddles. √ We were running the table, but I feared he may have returned to his parents’ house for dessert. Or maybe he just needed a “safe space.” We had that in common. Maybe the thin air he seemingly emerged from at will wasn’t so thin, after all. Maybe it was thick with similar apparitions of his ilk. A fellowship of youth, dead long before their time. Jesus. (So how was your Thanksgiving?) I slumped down on the couch beside Billy’s beloved Percy and Waddles, now in proper ownership of their eyes again. As cherished as they were to Billy, they were collateral damage compared to his heartsick desire to see his family and his dog. He was clinging desperately for his youth, for fugitive vestiges of it. The one I had robbed and stolen from him. A childhood he’d never get the chance to outgrow. This haunting reminder plunged me into a wormhole of unspeakable sadness. A shroud of pummeling sorrow that would hang over me for the rest of my life. “I know what you did last summer…” **** On a Tuesday night, I drove up dark, windy Laurel Canyon, feeling as lonely and isolated as I could remember. I was en route to the Valley for my appointment with Night Owl, hoping that he could somehow provide ghostproofing tricks of the trade. I had a strong feeling this was a fool’s errand, and that Night Owl was surely another 290-pound unreliable narrator luring me to be his catfish. Had to be, right? You couldn’t trust anyone in this town. But I had to take a shot. “What do you have to lose - beside your mind?” Sounded like a plan. But moments after arriving onto Ventura Blvd, a curious voice startled me:

“Where are we going?” Billy was in the back seat, smiling in the shadows. “Jesus, Billy! What are you doing here?!” “Just hanging out.” “Can’t I ever be alone?” “Alone is no way to be. I missed you.” “You’re just dying to stay relevant, aren’t you?” “Yup! Can we get ice cream?” He was impossible, and I feared he was going to be backseat driving for the rest of my life. Chastened, I called a quick audible: I wasn’t going to Night Owl’s apartment now. I’d have to reschedule with him. I headed back up towards Laurel Canyon. After making a stop at Baskin- Robbins, we headed home. At a Stop sign, Billy pointed out the dirty, cracked woman’s shoe discarded on the side of a quiet street. Probably a stranded vestige of an “unhoused” woman’s life. (Even the homeless had their own personal pronouns.) Maybe Billy could empathize. “Whose shoe is that?” he asked, strangely mesmerized. Maybe even concerned. “I don’t know. Some girl.” “Why is it there on the street like that?” “I don’t know. Maybe she’s an outdoorsy type.” He looked confused. I shrugged. But he was a dog with a bone, doleful eyes fixing on that lonely, abandoned shoe. “You don’t wonder what happened to her life?” he asked. I gaped at him, disturbed even further to fathom that he was getting older and wiser. More mature. More annoying. I wondered if his mysterious undeadness was fostering its own aging process. Not that the bar was terribly high, but I was pretty sure he was growing up faster than I was. “How did she die?” he continued, licking his chocolate chip ice cream cone. “I didn’t say she was dead.” “Then where’s the rest of her?” I shook my head, though he had a point. But I pushed it from my mind when the shoe reminded me of his bloodied Nike Air Max 90 laying on Bower Road. Maybe I could empathize. “And don’t girls love shoes?” he pressed on. “They do.” That officially confirmed it for him. The verdict was in. “So she’s definitely dead.” Unsettled, I finally drove on. Eyeballing that receding shoe in the rearview, before it was gobbled up by the darkness. Billy’s eyes met mine in the mirror. He grinned, and said, “Can’t chase them all. Right?” **** A casual routine unfolded over the next few weeks. I’d frequent the toy store every week and purchase plastic dinosaurs, overpriced robots, and supervillain action figures. The store manager (“KATHY,” her name tag really needed me to know for some reason) gradually started looking at me strangely. Probably deemed me a day care center employee, someone spoiling my children beyond the call of parental duty, or the most profligate pedophile in LA. I’d also pick up treats for Billy at the bakery every Friday. I schlepped Billy to the new aquarium downtown. He really loved it, totally mesmerized by all the marine life on display. I had my earbuds plugged in, so people thought I was talking on the phone and wasn’t a crazy person conversing with either myself, or a child apparition. But it was awkward when I ran into Denise Talbot and her two kids. She was a real estate broker friend of

my sister’s. Recently divorced. Turns out, she was banging her wedding photographer. I always thought wedding gift “reparations” would be a cool, novel idea. To wit: if your married friends were divorced after five years, you should get your money back. Period. I think that’s fair. People have to eat, you know. Suffice it to say, Denise was clearly confused to see me. She was probably wondering What brings you here, solo, on a Tuesday afternoon, Zack? NOT creepy? Or a big aquatics guy? I gazed over at Billy, his giddy face pressed up against the glass of the Shark Lagoon. I said I was there doing “research.” It didn’t sound convincing to me, either, but Denise left it alone. Lucky for her, too, because I knew a certain someone who would’ve just loved to haunt her Open Houses… A week later, I sat alone at the “Pirates Adventure Dinner,” the ‘World’s Most Interactive Dinner Show.’ I was also the target of several peculiar looks there, but at least I didn’t run into anyone I knew. I had considered masking up for this particular event to shield my identity, but decided against it. Alas, I managed to survive the aerial artistry, swashbuckling swordplay, action, and adventure on display. “An unforgettable experience of pillaging and plundering you won’t soon forget!” That’s no lie. I sure as hell wouldn’t. More importantly, Billy had grand, silly fun. He wore a black pirate eye patch the entire time. (I almost asked “Captain Sebastian” if there was a chance I could doggy-bag a few of those bad boys.) My parents and sister were disappointed that I wasn’t coming to Florida for Christmas. Covid, I lied. (It was either that or claim I was in concussion protocol.) I never asked Billy if he was capable of “traveling” out of state, maybe because I was afraid of his answer. But I wasn’t going to take any chances. I was staying put over Christmas. LA was always a ghost town over the holidays, and this year I was spending them with an actual ghost. I vowed to make the best of it. We would eat junk food and watch movies. I even bought myself a small Christmas tree for the first time, which we decorated with lights and ornaments. Billy seemed quite pleased with it. An Elf on the Shelf hovered atop a bookcase. “He wants to know whether you’ve been naughty or nice. Thoughts?” I teased Billy. Slow pitch for him. His gift- wrapped Christmas present was “parked” in a box beneath the tree: another white Land Rover Discovery. (Almost $400 on Amazon). He was quietly bankrupting me and driving me to a nervous breakdown. But spoiling him rotten was my role in this sinister arrangement. I had to keep my eye on the ball. Billy’s Christmas Eve dinner wish was pizza. (Points for the undead!) We planned on keeping it simple, with Cookie Dough ice cream and Christmas cookies for dessert. No more gluten-free and sugar-free holidays for Billy. That ship had long sailed. Billy’s “parental controls” had been turned off. While in my custody, he sowed his gluttonous oats to his telltale heart’s content. His weight never fluctuated, but I had gained 11 pounds since he entered my life. If my next colonscopy didn’t unearth at least three Hot Tamales candies, I would be pleasantly surprised. But upon returning to my apartment on Christmas Eve, Billy was nowhere to be found. It unsettled me to think he’d returned to haunt his family’s house again. I nearly inquired of Alexa as to Billy’s whereabouts. (Didn’t the Alexa community gossip behind the scenes?) But

something caught the corner of my eye: Beheaded Billy, wobbling blindly around my patio deck. Jesus. Never a dull moment. “Are we having fun yet?” Billy’s voice cried out. Jolted, I spun around towards the Christmas tree. Billy’s severed head was perched atop it, where the flowing star was supposed to be. A rascal smile on his face. “Come on, man. Get down from there. It’s Christmas!” I admonished. When you break it down, when you distill childhood down to its naked core essence, maybe there’s only really two kinds of kids: the one who wants the Make-A-Wish Foundation to transform him into Batman. And the one who wants to become The Joker. I knew which of the two I was dealing with. That’s because his head was festooned atop my Christmas tree. Billy played with his body parts the way others his age played with their toys. He was detachable. (In a perfect world, he would’ve cultivated a more proper youthful habit. Like vaping.) But no. His new terrible afterlife habit was playing with his disembodied head. “Mental masturbation.” He was a big fan of repurposing himself. Crazy thing is, I’d grown slightly inured to it. One morning, I found his head in the kitchen lying beside my Keurig. Smiling at me. “Good morning, Zachary.” More of a wake-up call than a double espresso, I’ll tell you. Another time, I walked into my apartment and found him juggling his head on the couch. (And not very well). “Billy! What did we say about juggling?” I scolded. This fucking kid… After Billy got himself together again, the pizza festivities began. I warned him that the pizza was really hot. Give it a minute. You don’t want to burn your tongue. Then again, maybe ghosts didn’t incur burns. Either way, he ignored my directive — ghosts had bigger problems — and proceeded to wolf down four steaming pepperoni slices, chasing it with three frosty cans of Coke. He issued me a confirmatory Thumbs-Up sign. Life was good. Ish. (Which was maybe all we could ask for.) I told him a little about the horror movie I was trying to produce, without getting into plot specifics. (Last thing I needed was more “notes.”) He pointed up at the Elf on the Shelf. “Why doesn’t someone make a horror movie about that guy?” I decided to throw on some dopey Christmas music. “Alexa, play The Little Drummer Boy!” I called out. The song came on, haunting and harmonious. “Come they told me/Pa rum pum pum pum/A new born king to see/Pa rum pum pum pum. Shall I play for you/Pa rum pum pum pum.“ After dinner, I gave Billy a big bowl of ice cream and queued up our scary movie. Under normal circumstances, I’d obviously never subject a eight year-old to such a movie, but this was neither a normal circumstance, It’s a Wonderful Life was certainly out of the question, nor did it feel like Billy was eight years-old anymore. I mean, he already knew that Santa Claus didn’t really exist, that it was all bullshit. And whereas obtaining that intel would destroy most innocent childhoods, Billy seemed good with it. In fact, ripping the Santa Claus Band-Aid had probably never been less painful for a youngster. “You’re my Santa Claus,” he said. I suppose I was. And he was my Elf on the Shelf. My eye in the sky. We were a team: a man out of time and a boy out of timeouts.

I was awfully well aware of Billy’s fascination with decapitation, of course, which is why I chose The Omen. Because it features the grandest decapitation in cinema history. Not only did Billy agree with my assessment, but he also made me rewind the scene four times. Which was a little disturbing. Was I enabling him? But he no longer had any interest in Disney + or PIXAR movies. So The Omen was now officially a Christmas movie, which I’m pretty sure no one’s ever had on their Bingo card. And Billy’s bedtime routine of reading along with me to Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day — who, by the way, never knew how GOOD he had it — was a thing of the past. In fact, we had started reading I Am Legend a week earlier. Good times. “Billy, spoiler alert,” I said, pointing to little Damien Thorn in the movie. “That kid’s the Devil. What’s your excuse?” I chuckled. Billy just shrugged, the joke not landing for him. But he and little Damien might’ve been chummy in another universe. Chasing shrieking, pink-haired girls through recreational parks and into traumatized young adulthood. Hopper called, wanting to bring over Chinese food. I lied: I was fluish and down for the count. He would’ve graciously accepted Billy the Specter into his cherished, otherworldly pantheon of mythical monsters and creatures. He was right in Hopper’s oddball wheelhouse. Move over, Bigfoot, there’s a new creepy-adjacent sheriff in town. But I actually had a responsibility now, a prior engagement. I was parenting. Check me out. Thanksgiving, and now Christmas. Constant companionship was weird, expensive, and not a little exhausting. It does take a village. They were right! And this wasn’t the first engagement I had canceled due to the specter of Billy’s… specter. A week earlier, I canceled a Bumble date with a very persistent, very pretty “Postpartum doula” named Olive, who volunteered in human trafficking programs. (Hoping to eradicate it, I assume.) Alas, she frankly sounded like too much drama. After draining a tequila shot, just to mix it up a little, I made myself another rum-egg nog concoction. I didn’t have to drink “responsibly” around Billy because he was more than capable of taking care of himself. I had no curfew, either. Win-win. “Merry Christmas, Billy,” I said. He smiled and shoveled ice cream into his head. It was nice seeing him enjoy himself but achingly sad to consider that he couldn’t be with his family. I wasn’t with mine, either, but Christmas was for kids, not adults and I wished I could somehow gift Billy’s family a sense of closure. But since the ghoulish basketball incident at my sister’s house, we’d struck a deal: he promised to stay away from my family and I vowed to stay away from his. I suppose pizza, ice cream, and movies were our diversions. But there was a hard ceiling to those diversions, and I couldn’t help but think how difficult this holiday was for both Billy and his family. I was afraid of having this painful conversation with him, and it never happened. But sometimes what’s unspoken speaks louder than words. Who was I kidding? Tipsily cheering on an artful movie decapitation with a eight year-old on Christmas Eve wasn’t exactly what the doctor ordered. (And if so, I desperately needed a second opinion.) And yet we managed our moments of collegial holiday levity. I farted audibly at one point, and sensed a “fighter” brewing inside, hot and wet at the gate. “Oops. My bad.”

“You gotta drop a deuce?” he asked, parroting an expression he’d learned from me. Attaboy. “TBD.” “I miss farting.” “What? You, um, guys don’t… fart?” I asked, careful not to invoke the “G Word.” “We do not.” Wow. Breaking News. “Hey, any interest in splitting a gummy?” I joked. “What?” “Forget it.” “Question: Can you see your reflection in a mirror?” “I’m not a vampire, dummy.” “Got it.” Things got a little crazier later, when I got drunker. “You like whipped cream, right?” I asked. “Duh.” “Okay. But do you know what a whippet is, my hideous young charge?” He shook his head, clearly having not experienced the instant gratification pleasures of nitrous oxide. So, generous, benevolent guardian that I was, I fetched the bottle of whipped cream from the refrigerator, nearly tumbling over the ottoman in my pursuit. I demonstrated for Billy how to execute a proper whippet. (You never get a bad one.) But I did issue him fair warning: whippets kill brain cells. He just snickered. Game on! “Okay, look alive,” I joked, and handed him the bottle. And yeah, he did a whippet. And yeah, it blew his mind. (Are you perfect?) “Do you know that if you decapitate a rattlesnake and attempt to pick up its severed head, it’s still capable of biting you?” I asked him. “I do now,” he enthused. “Simmer down, BT. You’re not getting a rattlesnake.” “Maybe in the next life?” “Not funny.” These playful interludes were probably side effects of Stockholm Syndrome. It wasn’t inconceivable to imagine Patty Hearst screaming in her sleep three nights in a row, but on day four, pensively nursing a Fresca and playing Scrabble with her abductors. The mind works in mysterious ways, as they say. I believed “them” now. Billy and I were bonding. It was Creepy Camelot. When Billy’s bedtime rolled around, my spooky little Drummer Boy crawled into bed. It was too late for an I Am Legend reading. Instead of saying “Goodnight,” he always said “I’ll see you when I see you.” A particularly harrowing old chestnut, when coming from the mouth of a ghost. He approximated many similar rituals and routines of a living flesh and blood 8 year-old: showering and evacuating and brushing his teeth. But bedtime was different. There were nights where he’d crash early and others when he’d stay up until the witching hours, playing with either his stuffed animals or body parts. He said he didn’t dream anymore, and he missed that. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, either. Not this 8 year-old. In fact, I’m guessing he’d totally scare the shit out of The Thing Under the Bed and The Monster in the Closet. Before

departing, I glanced at his wish list on my desk. He’d added a few more checked-off items to it: Aquarium. √ Pirates dinner. √ New car for Christmas. √ We were still running the table. I startled awake at around 4:00 a.m., mossy and disoriented, my throat a parched tunnel of phlegm. Music and singing was emanating from the living room. “He’s gone two thousand miles/ It’s very far/The snow is falling down/Gets colder day by day/I miss you/The children are singing/He’ll be back at Christmas time… “ I realized that Billy had busted out my old karaoke machine, which he’d threatened on other occasions. So annoying. I slid out of bed and treaded languidly towards the living room. But when I spied a glimpse of him, bathed in shadowy pre-dawn gloom and karaoking to The Pretenders’ song “2000 Miles,” I quickly shielded myself behind a wall. He looked notably more sickly and cadaverous. Gaunt and haunted. (Was gaunted a word?) A flash of white skull cut through the dimness. “The children were singing/He’ll be back at Christmas time/In these frozen and silent nights/Sometimes in a dream, you appear… “ There are certain songs that, for disparate reasons, you know you’ll never listen to the same way again. This was one of them. I agitated at the sight of the Elf on the Shelf, now the Elf on the Carpet. In two pieces, his head torn off. Poor little dude probably never knew what hit him. “Two thousand miles/Is very far through the snow/I’ll think of you/Whenever you go… “ Billy abruptly stopped singing, allowing Chrissy Hynde to resume her velvet-voicing, and fixed on me. I flinched, busted. He knew I’d been watching. He always possessed that intuition. I was always either in his crosshairs or peripheral vision, whether he was haunting a trampoline, lemonade stand, schoolbus, or my apartment. “Are you scared?” he asked. His voice sounded different, softer, more portentous. He was either growing up… or growing down. I believe he sensed his window of opportunity was closing. He knew something I didn’t and felt something I couldn’t. He was evolving, but into what or where, I couldn’t say. “Yeah.” “Me, too.” Then he smiled at me. “Thank you for your service.” “The children are singing/He’ll be back at Christmas time… “ That’s when I saw the first bug. And along came a spider… 3. “INSECT SUCCESSION.” Billy was swaddled within his cozy Christmas pajamas as he cruised his new toy car down Bower Road. Barely able to contain his glee. Wind in his hair, Oreo cookie dreams in his head, and gratitude in his heart. A giddy creature of opportunity. Life was splendid, and the future was now. He waved at passing pedestrians, dog walkers, joggers, and even mailmen. Up ahead, standing in the middle of a terribly familiar intersection, was a congregation of familiar faces:

Ava. George, Linda and Elise Timmons. Jason Cox. And Biscuit the Timmons family dog. They foisted balloons and “Happy Birthday” signs. Eagerly waiting to reconcile, reunite, and celebrate with Billy. He smiled and waved heartily to them. But at a certain moment in his approach, they suddenly all screamed and fled, scattering in different directions. Signs dropped to the ground and balloons sailed aloft. Billy didn’t understand. Because he was completely oblivious — blissfully unaware — that he was decomposing in real time. Skin sloughed off his face and arms, small moist landings flecking the pavement underfoot. Until he presented as a small, leering skeleton behind the wheel of his toy Land Rover Discovery. His shiny, sneering skull greeted his departing friends and family. The balloons simultaneously popped! Which is when I thrashed awake from this nightmare, flailing and gasping in the shadows. Recalling our disturbing encounter in the middle of the night, I jumped out of bed and went searching for Billy. Much to my terrified chagrin, I discovered hundreds of dead bugs littered across the living room. Jesus! His Christmas present had been opened, but neither the toy car nor Billy were in sight. The only signs of him were Percy the owl and Waddles the penguin. They were on the floor of his room, propped up against a wall. Looking as clueless as me. Billy had made his bed, and for the very first time, and his clothes were gone from the closet. Was he finally out of my hair? Game over? I couldn’t be sure. It was possible that he had gone to haunt his parents house to bid them a final goodbye. It was Christmas, after all. He also could’ve paid visits to Ava and Jason Cox, too. Maybe Billy didn’t want to burden me any longer, or was incapable of doing so, because his physical state was finally becoming incorporeal. I could delete the photos of the accident from my camera roll and remove Billy as an Instagram follower, both of which I’d stubbornly left intact. After vacuuming up the bugs, I took a few more desperate online shots in the postmortem dark. There were five major stages of decomposition: fresh, bloat, decay, dry, and remains. (So how was your Christmas?) Bugs and insects can be crucial to establishing time since death, because they move in minutes afterwards. It’s called “insect succession.” I regarded the carcass of bugs in my vacuum tube, and wondered if they were signifiers that Billy was now officially “dead.” And that the jig was up. I quickly logged off in exasperation. After a quick shower, I made some coffee, lounged on my couch, and turned on the TV. I was rattled to see a press conference about Billy Timmons unfolding. The Breaking News: the police had received a significant lead on their tip line, mostly likely due to the recent spike in reward money. ”What has been considered a “missing persons” case is now being investigated as a “suspicious death.” No one has been arrested or named publicly as a suspect in the disappearance of Billy Timmons, in what police say is now a criminal investigation… “ I wasn’t sure what to make of this drastic development. This was either the Gary Condit Get Out of Jail gift card I’d hoped for in October, or just the opposite: the Spend Your Life in Jail one. Jesus. I thought I heard helicopter sounds hovering nearby, and raced onto my balcony. Paranoia can be infectious. And contagious. It incubates. Were they finally onto me? Was I a person of

interest? It was indeed a police helicopter, seemingly flying too low and producing a growling rancor that forced me back inside. I quickly climbed back into bed, like a terrified child, the police chopper seemingly hovering right above my building now. Its rotor blades spinning madly, slicing the air, growing louder, more unhinged. Whup-Whup-Whup-Whup! I drew the covers over my head, cocooning myself. Hoping it was safe sanctuary. We were safest back inside the womb. Weren’t we? But you’re never too old to hide from scary monsters. “I’ll follow you forever and ever and ever.” **** I was a sleepless, overstressed trainwreck during the production meeting three days later. But Ferguson opened with some good news. “Fortunately, Tubi isn’t just the name of your Honduran cleaning woman anymore,” he joked, referencing the content platform and streaming service suddenly interested in our movie. There was uneasy laughter around the conference table. But Ferguson pivoted again and delivered the bad news: he wanted to put mentally challenged Ethan in the multiverse. The latest elixir for the ADD audience masses: more nonsense. Additional layers of it. Everyone traded uncertain looks. Poor Goldman looked like he wanted to open fire. But no one said anything… except me. “Jesus. Not Ethan, too.” “You don’t like that idea?” Ferguson challenged. “Why not?” “The multiverse seems a little crowded these days, no?” “Crowded?” “Ethan might get a little confused in there, that’s all. I know I have.” And fuck, haven’t you? “What about everyone else? What do we think?” Ferguson asked the others, casually dismissing my dissent. Everyone else at least pretended to entertain the idea. Ferguson shot me a cocky grin, enjoying my discomfort. And that’s when the confluence of my haunted livelihood — ghosts, bugs, paranoia, undying stress, sleepless nights, and financial struggles — caused my mask to slip off with a mighty, lunatic flourish. “Here’s an idea, guys,” I declared. “What if we give Ethan a club foot? Maybe a baby arm, too?” Everyone stared at me, some thunderstruck and oozing discomfit, others stifling laughter. “Is Restless Leg Syndrome still in play?” Ferguson was florid, bristling with embarrassment. “Come on! Everyone wins,” I resumed. “Can’t you just smell a franchise? Why not just the run the table and check every box? Let’s take one for the team. Every team. How does everyone feel about Lupus?” Goldman nearly choked on his Americano, before shooting me a proud, covert grin. Someone was finally defending his “vision.” But Ferguson was apoplectic, and the room had plunged into deadly, uncomfortably silence. Helen Keller at a Metallica concert couldn’t have possibly been this silent. But Ferguson was clearly unwilling to entertain the notion of our improbable antihero

as African American, mentally challenged, physically disabled, and also battling an inflammatory autoimmune disease. “You’re over the top, Zack.” “Then lower the bar, and let’s make this hunk of shit movie, already!” “You lower your voice!” Ferguson summoned me into his office after the meeting. He said I’d become toxic and was poisoning the creative environment. Which was crazy because radioactive fallout couldn’t poison our environment any more than it already was. He said his late aunt suffered with Lupus for years. Not cool, he said. Totally not cool. “Look, I’m sorry to hear about Auntie Lupus. And the last thing I wanna do is offend the Lupus ‘community.’ But hey, my cleaning woman is Honduran,” I bit back. “I’m sure she suffers, too.” “You’re a fucking mental patient. You know that? Crazytown.” “Seriously, Matt. I found this script, remember! I brought this project to you.” “We’ll work something out,” he said, deftly stabbing me in the heart with his olive branch. “Wait. You’re canceling me? Aren’t you?” “Not at all, Zack. I’m firing you.” I was at a liquor store twenty minutes later, seething rage, buying whiskey, and hoping that Ferguson would get hit by a bus by day’s end. The meltdown had begun. Tailspin City. I had quit cigarettes two years earlier, but I bought a pack of Marlboros. Reds, too. You know, the ones that kill you faster. Why the fuck not? No one’s happy forever. **** On New Year’s Eve, hundreds of people were gathering at a candlelight vigil to celebrate and honor Billy’s ninth birthday. I watched the pre-game on TV, where the sexy Timmons family spokeswoman, Miranda Ellis, fielded questions from reporters. I couldn’t help but notice her serious new haircut. The vigil was coupled with more Breaking News: the “significant lead” into Billy’s disappearance had already proved to be a hoax. I didn’t know whether to celebrate or shit myself. (Sometimes that can go either way.) I had no New Year’s Eve plans, but decided to celebrate, anyway. I was perfectly content to throw on some music, chow a gummy, and have some drinks. Around 11, I was drunk and high enough to take a run at Alexa. “Alexa, are you single?” Her reply: “I am happily single.” No shit? I lounged on the couch and checked my Instagram. I came across Matt Ferguson’s page. I hadn’t bothered to unfollow him yet, and now wished I had. His latest post featured a selfie of him on a ski lift in Big Bear. Beaming delight, he was backlit with an azure sky and a beautiful blaze of sunshine. “Here’s to crushing 2026. #HappySkiTrails #HappyNewYearEveryone. “ But it wasn’t really a selfie because he wasn’t really alone: Billy was seated beside him. Half his face was now a shiny skull. Grinning into camera. One finger pressed against his thin, cruel lips.

Shhhh! Jesus. It spooked me hollow. What the hell was he doing in Big Bear? No way skiing with Matt Ferguson was on Billy’s wish list. You couldn’t trust either one of them. Moments later, I was diving into a cold pool of Grey Goose, and standing on my balcony. Attempting to shake off my newfound queasiness. A handsome sun was staggering for the horizon. I could envision Billy cruising down the quiet street in his sleek toy car, its baby rims winking out of the shadows. And maybe he would wave goodbye up at me. “Thank you for your service.” **** The next morning I awoke with the kind of ghoulish, debilitating hangover that makes you want to take a swan dive into a wood chipper. I made coffee and checked my social media. Ferguson’s page popped up first: a photo of a snowman in Big Bear. But with a radical twist of grotesquerie: his decapitated head was crowned aslant atop its torso. His tongue was slack, purple, and frosted over. Two New Year’s Eve noisemakers were jammed into his ears. One of his eyes remained open, lopsided in a sidelong glance. A gory trail of freeze-dried viscera pooled down the snowman’s body. Ferguson never knew what him, either. Hello iceberg, meet Titanic. Someone had cut off his head with their olive branch. #HeadsUp2026 ⛄ I can’t possibly elucidate the depths of my horror. The incalculable terror and repulsion. Jesus! There were no words. (But a few reflexive ones came to mind: other than daisies, Ferguson wouldn’t be “crushing” anything in 2026.) My phone blew up with texts from my colleagues at Graphic Content, who were totally freaking out. Ferguson was last seen at a party bar in Big Bear, drunk off his dick. He’d apparently left to go meet a girl but never arrived. Several hours later, his mutilated body was discovered by two tourists. Nearby, his headless body was buried in the snow halfway upside down. There were no suspects at this time, and I nervously assured everyone that I was in LA, not Big Bear. I hated Ferguson, but they needed to know that I didn’t have monster in my blood. (So how was your New Year’s?) The last distressful text I received was from Goldman, who was having a particularly terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. “Looking for support group recommendations,” he texted. “What kind of support group?” I replied. “Open to suggestions.” I returned to Ferguson’s Instagram ski lift selfie again: Billy was seated beside him. Half his face now a shiny skull. He was grinning into camera. One finger pressed against his thin, cruel lips. Shhhh! I glanced warily towards his room, a chill burping through me. I shoved off the couch and went into it. I discovered his wish list still lying on my desk. The last remaining vestige of Billy’s after-party. He’d added a last item to it. A simple word that had yet to be checked off: REVENGE.

A jackhammer of wretched horror nearly crippled me, forcing me to slump down into my desk chair. Was it… possible? It was, wasn’t it? Because you couldn’t possibly make sense of the supernatural. I gazed at Percy and Waddles, propped against a wall. Thoughts?! Their silence seemed like acquiescence. Oh, God. Oh, boy. What had Billy done? What had I done? What had we done? Maybe I had enabled him. And this was his idea of paying it forward. Billy Rattlesnake. Honoring his side of the bargain. “Sometimes you enter someone’s life at the same time they’re leaving it.” I didn’t know why Billy didn’t choose to exact his vengeance upon me. You would’ve done the same if you were in his $140 shoes. That was the move. And yet Ferguson’s gruesome murder only nourished my preexisting guilt. It didn’t ameliorate it. Last thing I wanted was more blood on my hands. Already had enough of that to last a lifetime. So maybe Billy was paying it backward. I had taken another life — his life. And this was his way of reminding me. Because wherever you go, your head goes with you. I didn’t know what else to think. But sometimes you feel the need to do the right thing, even when it feels so horribly wrong. Maybe Good and Evil is a messy business. Two peas in the same diverse pod. That’s why my trembling hand reached for a pen. And why I checked off Billy’s final box. Revenge. √ We had run the table. I never saw Billy Timmons ever again. Ish. 4. CREATURE VIOLENCE I was hired back onto the movie, scheduled for a fall production in Toronto. After a pandemic and actors and writers strikes, we were finally good to go. Creature Violence had come a long way from the days when a green-lit sequel to Cats seemed more promising. It was a bittersweet time, of course, because it obviously wasn’t how I wished me and Ferguson settled our differences. Not the Hollywood ending we had in mind. But he’d still get a producer credit on the movie, so… what can I tell you? It’s a cutthroat town. Of course, per usual, we had to kill a few more darlings along the way. More script changes. But I didn’t care that Ethan’s name was now Reggie, and he had Tourette’s Syndrome, not Down’s. (Hollywood is nothing if not syndrome-fluid.) Nor did it rankle me that he was also now wildly unsure of his sexuality. To each his own. He didn’t have a club foot or a baby arm, though. (Even Goldman conceded that was probably bananas on bananas, anyway.) So it was all good. This was often how commerce works. You fake it til you make it. I couldn’t complain. I’d be getting paid to produce my first movie. And why couldn’t I have nice things? But I will say this: I can’t look at a snowman ever again. Not even pictures or emojis of them. It’s called Chionoandrophobia. (I Googled it, so you don’t have to.) Halloween won’t be a high holiday for me anymore, either. And it’s safe to say that Froot Loops will never be a go-to breakfast item for me. But I survived Billy. I just wished that he survived me.

On a late, chilly Friday afternoon four months after Billy had transitioned back to whatever spectral realm whence he came, I visited the cemetery in Santa Monica. His disappearance was still considered a cold case and “active investigation.” (Ferguson’s murder also remained unsolved.) But Billy’s parents had finally capitulated and put up a headstone. I went to pay my respects, and courtesy of this dreadful chronicle, now you know why. I had killed their darling. I debated this decision for days because the arsonist should never return to the scene of the fire. He should’ve known better by now. (Seriously: what the hell was he thinking? He had no friends at all?) But Billy’s headstone was closure, I guess. For all of us. At a certain point, the wellspring of grief and despair runs dry. There’s no more room at the inn. The five stages of grief run their course. Even John Wayne Gacy eventually ran out of crawlspace. There were some small toys and flowers neatly arrayed before the headstone, but I had brought Percy the owl and Waddles the penguin with me. I knew Billy would’ve wanted them. Remember what I’ve told you: I may have been a bad driver but I was a Good Samaritan. So rest in peace, kid. Sorry for your loss. And your family’s. And everyone who ever loved you, or who you might’ve ever loved someday. I’m sorry for what I did. For accidentally “canceling” you. I’ll live with it for the rest of my life. I’ll live with you for the rest of my life. I crashed the car. But you’ve got to keep driving. Don’t you? Back inside my car, I reminded myself that I owed my parents a call. Didn’t want them thinking I’d gone “all Hollywood” on them. I thought about dinner, too. Maybe I’d have breakfast for dinner. Maybe even pancakes in honor of the late Billy Timmons. I checked my texts. Things were looking up. Olive, the pretty Postpartum doula from Bumble, was still asking if I was finally available, or was she wasting her time? (She presumably already bailed on all the single arsonists.) We finally made plans to get drinks. I was the one checking boxes now. I even looked forward to meeting Olive, and learning all about the scourge of human trafficking. (Better that than weeping skin conditions.) I was a free agent now. Like a surgically removed conjoined twin, set loose at the singles dance to “chum” the waters and enjoy my poor decisions. I glanced at the new outline Goldman had texted me. We were pitching several companies on our Elf on the Shelf horror movie idea the following week. Working title — Naughty or Nice. (Placeholder tagline: “Shelf Lives Matter.”) If that movie ever gets made, I’m sure we’ll piss off the 48 “marginalized” elves out there. But they’d get over it. People have to eat, you know. An Instagram notification surfaced on my phone. When I read it, a queasy shudder muscled through me. My stomach lurched with a bilious pounce. “Boogeyman started following you.”

There was no profile picture — just that faceless stock icon. As I plunged within a malignant disquietude that could launch a thousand nightmares, I clicked onto my new follower’s page: @boogeyman “The Boogeyman called. I gave him your address.” He/Him/Dead/LOL There was only one photo posted, a selfie I’d shot in my apartment: Billy in his “I’m Not On Your Vacation.” T-shirt. Smiling at me, and picking his nose. A ghost in the machine. #BoogeymanConfidential " # I nearly fouled myself. Because Billy Timmons was still looking for an audience. The secret was still ours. And only ours. I shot a shuddersome glance at his headstone. Percy and Waddles holding stoic court. If they whirled to smile and wave at me, I wouldn’t have been surprised. “Shall I play for you/Pa rum pum pum pum… “ I cringed at the frightening notion of Billy paying me a personal visit every Halloween. An annual reunion. Maybe seeking to check additional boxes. The beheaded little chicken coming home to roost, eager to slake more desires. He would be a loathsome creature. His desiccated husk would follow me around like a comet, pieces of his physiognomy sloughing off willy-nilly, like leaves from a wind-swept roof. (So Night Owl, stand by!) I swept my gaze across the vast cemetery grounds, this safeguard of memories and histories and secrets and lies. Where everyone was homesick. Where everyone had FOMO. Where everyone had separation anxiety. You didn’t want an apartment here. Twitchy terror swam up me like palsy when I noticed long, growing shadows seemingly closing in. Mounting their foreboding advance, like corporeal entities unto themselves. Hungering mists penetrating the twilight murk. Melancholic dread on parade. An eerie chill washed over me. I had to get home. I’d never been a fan of the gloaming. It would be dark soon, and I was a firm believer that when darkness falls, all bets are off. (“Who goes there?!”) It’s too big of a gamble. You don’t want to get swallowed up by it. Robert Neville from I Am Legend could surely empathize. Life is scary enough without having to worry about climate change. Don’t let anyone ever tell you different. The sunset was a glorious orb of expiring sunshine, a malevolent voyeur. As if fighting for its own life. But not before simultaneously hectoring and reminding me… “I know what you did last summer…” I wouldn’t miss knowing Billy. But maybe I’d miss not knowing him. He was right: sometimes you enter someone’s life at the same time they’re leaving it. The world dies around us every day. Doesn’t it? But it’s also alive with promise. It’s our only alternative.

Tomorrow is another day, Charlie Brown. And who knows, Lucy may just come around yet. “Must love wraiths.” She can’t continue “looking for the real deal” forever. She doesn’t have that long. Breaking News: no one does. So maybe you’ll meet her at Applebee’s one night and live happily ever-hereafter. “I’ll think of you wherever you go… “ So, do you want to hear a ghost story? Ghosts are real. And they have no curfews. That’s my story. Maybe they’re the watchful eyes that exist to keep the rest of us on our toes. The proctors keeping us honest. Keeping us from tearing each other apart. And eating each other alive. Keeping us from becoming the endangered species. Keeping us working harder. Keeping us thinking smarter. Keeping us loving better. Yeah, maybe ghosts were exactly what the doctor ordered. Fuck it. And so I “followed” Billy Timmons. Because there was never a manual for this.