I could feel them watching me still, probably wondering what I was doing, why I was sitting there.  I scowled at the full cup of coffee between my hands.  The mug had that tacky brown line encircling the rim and the coffee tasted burnt beyond repair.  I tried to save it with creamer and sugar but it couldn’t revive the coffee.  Ignoring that fact, I took another sip and almost gagged.

Swallowing hard to rid the taste from my mouth, I peered out the window from my lumpy seat in the diner’s many booths.  Only weeds, brown from the heat, occupied the shared parking lot adjacent to Dan’s Diner and the Oasis Motel.  The motel boasted a key-lime pie paint color with faded pink flamingos standing upright in the lava rock flowerbeds.  Repressing a shudder, I looked across the street.  Even with the tint on the windows, the mid-afternoon sun glared down twinkling against the bare metal of the classic cars parked in front of the auto body shop.

Then my eyes drifted to the left of the repair shop.  There they stood in the middle of the street watching me.  The breeze that stirred up dust devils on the worn asphalt of the road didn’t ruffle the woman’s skirt.  Tall and lean, the man held the woman against his left shoulder while his right hand rested on the head of the girl standing in front of him.  The three of them made quite a sight.

“Honey?  Are you sure there’s nothing I can get you?”

I turned my head slightly to glance at Rachel, the only waitress in the diner.  I smiled and politely shook my head, “No thank you.  I’m fine.”

Rachel watched me with her clear blue eyes while her right hand played with the small gold cross that hung from a thin gold chain on her neck.  She frowned then shook her head.

“You don’t want some French fries?  Or maybe a hamburger?”  She suggested with concern in her tone.

The fare changed from French toast to fries.  Soon it would be a steak dinner.  Even I knew that I couldn’t drink coffee for that much longer.

I looked up at Rachel with her pale blond hair cut into a short bob held back out of her face with a thin brown headband.  Gray winged her temples, giving away some of her age if the fine lines around her eyes and mouth didn’t.  The pale green waitress smock and apron she wore didn’t hold a single stain or wrinkle.  I’d bet her tennis shoes were white as snow.

Turning my attention back to the people standing in the road, I replied, “No thank you.”

“Well…okay.”  Rachel sighed.  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will.”  I mumbled as I watched a drab brown truck rumble down the street and through the small family.

No shadows on the ground next to them.  I could see through their pale forms to the front of the repair shop behind them.  The ghosts have been watching me since I stepped foot in Dan’s Diner hours ago.  Hell they told me to go to Barstow to begin with.  I’m doing this to make them happy.  Maybe then, they’ll leave me alone.  Yeah like that’s going to happen.

Rubbing my left wrist, I tried to forget the plastic hospital bracelet I pulled off only this morning.  That’s what I get for opening my trap all those years ago, a childhood of psychotic jaunts to the hospital’s mental ward.  Whoop-de-do!  And, that’s not how I want to spend my adulthood.

The doctors don’t want to listen; they don’t want to believe, in ghosts, bogeymen or the undead.  But they aren’t the ones watching them, hearing them in the night roam the streets.  Or better yet, staring at them standing in the desert heat of Barstow, California while vehicles rammed through their ethereal bodies.

The guy the ghosts sent me to see better help me or next time I’d finish the botched job I started.  Taking a shuddering breath, I made myself stop rubbing my wrist.  Instead, I placed my hands palm down on the tabletop to keep them from shaking.  Pink raised scars peeked out of my shirtsleeves.

Not that many people walked around wearing long sleeved shirts in the middle of a heat wave in spring.  Fewer yet wore a pair of blue jeans and sneakers.  The only thing I had with me in the hospital for the last few months.  If you’re in the ward, why do you need to wear anything but a hospital smock?  That’s what the nurses kept asking me when I wanted clothes.  Because I’m a normal person.  I want to look normal.

Normal.

Normal.

Normal.

Abnormal.

Freak.

Crazy.

Borderline.

Paranoid Schizophrenic.

Avoidant.

Pick something and treat me, that’s what my parents wanted.  No one can fall under all three classes of personality disorder.  Not without being a complete basket case.

The doctors can go screw themselves.  I’m done taking their medicine or their pitying looks.  No more CAT scans or MRIs where they inject dye into me.  No more straps attached to my bed.  None of it.  Fuck.  Them.  All.  To.  Hell.

Sighing, I tried to hold back the angry tears that stung the back of my eyes.  I’m sure my face looked red from the blood rushing to my cheeks.  Swallowing hard, I tried to contain myself.  So I inspected the worn tabletop until I heard the jingle of the bells attached to the glass front door.

Glancing up, I watched an older man with a paunch stomp down the main aisle of the diner to the opposite side.  A plain blue baseball hat, pulled down low, hid his aged face but not the scraggly beard that fanned out on the man’s chest.  He wore clothes that any middle class, working American would wear.  A thin red t-shirt and faded blue jeans.

Turning in my seat, I watched over the top of the bench as he slid into one of the many booths lining the walls.  As he did, I studied his face.  Even under the bill of his cap, I could feel the weight of his eyes as they searched the room.  Briefly, he glanced at me before moving on to the rest of the diner.  Facing the front once more, I drummed my fingers on the tabletop giving myself time to think.

It only took one glance out the window to have me sliding out of my seat.  I fished a dollar bill out of my back pocket and dropped it on the table.  Casually, I snuck a look through the curtain of my hair at the man sitting in the back corner as I made my way to the cash register.

“How much do I owe for the coffee?”  I asked as Rachel walked up to meet me at the register, slinging a white towel over her left shoulder.

“A dollar and we’ll call it good.”  Rachel gave a kind smile.  “Sound okay?”

“Yeah,” I nodded as I searched my back pocket for another bill, “it does.”

Handing over the worn dollar bill, I looked for the restroom sign.  Hours of drinking coffee and I needed to go.  The linoleum of the diner stopped at the end of the bar to dark brown tile, I noted when my sneakers stopped squeaking against the floor.  Walking with a purpose, I found the restroom towards the entrance to the kitchen.

As I passed by the open door with a yellow caution cone warning about the slippery floor, I glanced inside.  A young black haired man stood bend over a full sink of dishes from the lunchtime crowd.  I couldn’t help but pause as I watched his arm muscles contract and relax at the task.  He wore a long rubber apron to protect his dark denim jeans and white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up.  Remembering my full bladder as I listened to the splash of the water, I pushed open the door to the ladies room.

The place smelt like any other restaurant bathroom I’ve run across in the last two days.  Cleaner and cheap hand soap.  Locking the door behind me, I took my time relieving myself, studying the graffiti on the walls as I did.  When done, I pushed the lever for the hand soap and got a handful of powder.  I watched as a few flakes fell from my hand into the stream of warm tap water.  I remembered the girls’ bathroom in elementary school having powdered hand soap around a circular collective sink.  Kindergarten and that was the most amazing thing.  A huge sink where you pushed a pedal down with your feet to turn on the water.

Clearing my throat, I began to scrub the powder into my hands.  Looking up, I caught my reflection in the mirror above the sink basin.  Simple plastic barrettes, sporting a blue duck and purple butterfly, clipped back my cheek length honey colored hair from constantly falling into my face.  The skin under my brown eyes looked a little dark from lack of sleep.  Even with the colorful barrettes in my hair, I still looked older than eighteen.  It’s the eyes, I think; my eyes take in too much.  Jaded, is probably a good word.  The bridge of my nose already sported a minor sunburn from the short exposure outside.

I had a window in my room at the hospital but it was green glass with bars.  Not meant to look outside.  Only used to look normal in an otherwise strange place.  Because normal rooms have windows.  And they want you to feel normal, not be normal.  They want people outside to look at the exterior and think normal thoughts about the place.  Not be scared away.

Using scratchy brown paper towels to dry off my hands, I threw them into the small trashcan underneath the sink as I unlocked and opened the door.  Tugging down my shirt, I walked by the kitchen only meaning to look in for a second.

Completely distracted, I forgot about the wet floor.  My sneakered foot landed on the wet tiled floor at a weird angle.  Sliding, my arms flew out trying to find my balance.  Wide eyed and hunched over, I stood alongside the door remembering to breathe.

The guy at the sink looked up from loading the dishwasher.  His bright blue eyes locked onto mine.  I think I felt my heart go into my throat for a second then explode when he gave me a shy smile.  Giving a smile in return, I knew my cheeks burned as I looked away and strode beyond the doorway stepping gingerly through the small puddle of water as I left.

Stopping at the corner of the diner’s bar, I looked back at the doorway.  I didn’t expect him to stop working and peer out from the kitchen.  I just wanted to reassure myself.  Catch my breath.  Explain to myself that even though I’m a little deranged on the inside that it has no effect on what I look like on the outside.  And maybe it didn’t see me almost land on my butt. Then I looked over at the man sitting in the large wrap around booth by himself reading the local paper and drinking a glass of iced tea.  That settled my uneasy more than a cold shower.

The linoleum floors squeaked from my sneakers in some spots as I strode towards the booth the guy occupied.  I didn’t wait for him to look up or say anything as I slid into the opposite bench.  The man sat up and glared at me from under the bill of his cap.  Angry blue eyes studied me, and then looked off at the rest of the diner.

“Can I help you?”  The man’s voice sounded gravelly and arrogant as if he always got his way.

“I hope so.” I folded my hands together on top of the table.  “Francis, I presume?”

White bushy eyebrows met in the middle of his brow as he frowned.  “Don’t know who--”

“I need a job.”  I stated squarely not waiting for him to finish talking.

“So go find one.”  Francis glowered, becoming more agitated looking as the seconds passed.

“No,” I shook my head, “not a normal job.”

“Trucking’s not a normal job.”  Francis muttered, his eyes trying to bore into my skull.

“Not that one.”  I responded.  “The other one.  The vampire one.”

I thought he was going to reach across the table and smack me.  Francis’ knees hit the table as he jerked up all the way in his seat.  Iced tea sloshed over the rim of the glass and onto the tabletop.  Turning his head this way and that, Francis surveyed the open diner again.  Rachel occupied herself at the entrance rearranging the newspaper stand.  Other than Francis, the kitchen crew and I, the place was empty.

“Who are you?”  Francis demanded in a choked whisper.  “How did you learn ‘bout that?”

“My name is Alexandra Mitchell.”  I replied.  “I came up all the way from San Diego to find you.”

“How do you know ‘bout me?”  Francis leaned forward.

“I see ghosts.”  I stammered as I sat back in the booth trying for innocence.

“Ghosts?”  Francis sneered.  “Ghosts told you to find me?”

I nodded my head a little too eagerly.

“Ghosts don’t talk to us living people.  Why would they talk to you?”  Francis growled as he sat back.  Grabbing his glass of iced tea, he about down the entire thing in one swig.

I opened my mouth then closed it.  How would this man know about ghosts?  I studied him some more.  Those angry blue eyes scanned my face then darted around the diner and even out the window to my right.  The suntan on his right arm wasn’t as predominate than the one on his left.  No rings.  No watches.  Just a simple guy, here for a simple reason.  But I didn’t buy that.  I’m just a kid fresh off the block, old enough now to vote or buy cigarettes, and I can tell when someone is hiding something.  Francis hid something.

“You can’t see them.”  I murmured.  “Can you?”

Francis glanced at me before watching Rachel move about the diner, “No I can’t.”

“Then what do you know about them?”  I asked the obvious question and at the same time felt despair because this man couldn’t help me.

“As you well know,” Francis grumbled in my direction, “I’m not in the business of ghosts.  Now aside from seriously upsetting me, what do you want kid?”

“I already told you.”

“Yeah, you want a job.”  Francis scoffed.  “What makes you think you can cut it?”

I counted to ten in my head, trying not to get upset.  “As far as I know, the ghosts think you’re the only one that can help me.”

“Yeah?”  Francis asked as he sat back, placing his empty glass at the edge of the table.  “And what kind of help is that?  A swift kick to the ass?”

“What the fuck makes you so special?”  I sneered.

“Hey!  Watch your language young lady.”  Francis scolded me as he pointed at me with a warning in his eyes.

“Hypocrite…”  I muttered under my breath.

Francis opened his mouth to say something but clicked it shut when Rachel appeared beside the table.

“Okay Frank, here’s your order and more iced tea for you.”  Rachel chirped.

Gently, she placed a full pitcher of iced tea along with a plate holding a club sandwich and French fries on the tabletop in front of Francis.  Out of one of the pockets of her clean apron, she pulled out a glass bottle of ketchup setting it down next to the plate of food.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”  Rachel smiled politely even when she looked over at me.

Francis flashed yellowing crooked teeth when he smiled up at Rachel, “Nope, this looks great.  Thank you Rachel.”

“Well,” Rachel sighed, pointedly looking at me when she said “let me know if you need anything else.”

“Sure thing.”  Francis said with another smile as he watched the middle-aged waitress walk away.  Then he turned his blue eyes on me.  “Go home kid.”

“What?”

“I said go home.”  Francis muttered as he unscrewed the ketchup bottle and patted the base of the glass to encourage the ketchup to slide out of the upturned bottle and onto his fries.

“No.”  I sat back crossing my arms over my chest.

“Go home on your own or I’ll find out who your parents are and have them come and pick you up.”  Francis threatened as he replaced the cap to the ketchup bottle.

“I didn’t run out of a psych ward and travel a few hundred miles just to have you tell me to go home.”  I sassed.  “Plus who says my parents want me back.  I’m eighteen and all they have is a court order for guardianship.”

A French fry covered in ketchup halfway to his mouth, Francis regarded me before stuffing the fried slice of potato into his mouth.  “Go home.”

“Tell me why.”  I demanded.

“You’re human.”  Francis stated blandly as he bit into the sandwich.

“So are you.”  I scoffed as if this man was crazier than I was.

Francis barked off a quick laugh before stifling it into a fit of chuckles.  “Me?  Human?”

Frowning, I didn’t know if he was serious or not.  Best to play along.  “So what are you then?”

“Tell me kid,” Francis began.

“Don’t call me kid.”  I interrupted.

“Are you ‘fraid of the ghosts?”

“What kind of question is that?”  I retorted.  “No, because they’re not poltergeist.”

“How ‘bout vampires then?”  Francis asked as he pulled out a slice of meat from the depths of his sandwich and jammed it into his mouth.  “Would you be ‘fraid of them?”

I shrugged, “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Then what ‘bout the big bad wolf?”  Francis asked looking straight at me.

About to answer, I closed my mouth when I returned his stare.  The blue slowly faded from his irises to pale amber until his eyes didn’t hold a single speck of blue.  It took my mind a second to realize what he was showing me.  The man is a werewolf.  Is that what the ghosts think I should become?  A werewolf?  How would that help my little dilemma of controlling my dark secret?

I couldn’t displace the idea of werewolves existing.  It doesn’t surprise me to sit across from a folklore legend.  Neither did the fact that his revelation about his wolf didn’t faze me in the slightest.  I’m young but I’ve seen the darker side of the coin.  I don’t think werewolves can scare me.

“Does it hurt?”  I asked, sitting forward with general interest.

“What?”  Francis looked taken aback.  “Does what hurt?”

“You know,” I urged, “the change.  Does it hurt when you…do it?”

An incredulous look passed over Francis’ face as he stammered, “I knew there wasn’t something right in your head.”

“It’s the medicine,” I waved his concern away; “it’ll go out of my system in another twenty-four hours.”

“It can…”

“Can what?”  I prompted.

“Hurt,” Francis mumbled, “it can hurt.”

“Hmm…”  I sat back in my seat, studying Francis with renewed interest.  “So does this mean that you’ll help me?”

Stuffing the last bit of the sandwich into his mouth, Francis glared at me as he slid out of the booth.  Marching to the cash register, I think Francis meant to leave me behind.  Slipping out of the booth, I ran to catch up.  Standing next to him, I felt small at five foot four.  The man probably stood at a good six feet with most of the weight on him muscle except for the old man belly.

Pulling out his wallet from his back pocket, Francis didn’t wait for Rachel.  Instead, he tossed a ten-dollar bill in front of the cash register’s drawer.  He glanced back at me once as he pulled a toothpick out of the small container to the right of the register.  Sticking the thin piece of wood between his lips, he left.  I, hot on his heels, followed him out into the oppressive heat.

Squinting, I tried blinking to adjust my vision but I saw everything in a funny techno-color.  I needed to get out more often, a lot more often.  I don’t think the sun affected Francis as he strode across the street not bothering to look for oncoming cars.  I guess in Barstow you didn’t need to worry about oncoming traffic coming down desolate looking streets, even though I could hear the freeway a few streets over.

“Does this mean I get to work with you?”  I asked as I raced by the three ghosts.

The girl smiled and waved a small hand as I glanced over my shoulder.  She wore a flowered summer dress with red ribbon tied around her pigtails.  Then I noticed her shoes, or her lack thereof.  Barefoot.  Why was she barefoot?

Francis didn’t reply, only grunt.  Pulling open the glass door to Saving Grace Auto, Francis let a rush of cool air escape the lobby area of the shop.  A strap of leather attached to the door swayed causing a series of bells to jingle.  What’s with this town and bells?  I wondered as I let the door swing closed behind me.

The interior design reminded me of episodes of the Brady Bunch.  All avocado green or dandelion yellow, with some brown thrown in for balance.  Magazines littered the coffee table in front of the L shaped line of chairs.  I think the place needed a woman’s touch.

Speaking of a woman…one sat behind the waist high counter smacking on blue bubble gum while thumbing through Vogue, using the tips of her acrylic nails to turn the pages.  A pea-sized rock on her ring finger caught the light filtering through the front windows.  Auburn hair fell down her back in thick waves complementing her pale skin.  She wore a black poke dot sleeveless shirt that looked like polyester.  Again, reminiscent of the Brady Bunch.

Sighing, she looked up from her glossy paged magazine.  Her voice silky, yet stern as she asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Here to see the boys.”  Francis stated as he kept walking to the back rooms through a swinging half-door attached to the counter.

Calculating, came to mind when her brown eyes registered my existence.  I tried not to squeak as her eyes roamed over me.  A small smile played at the corners of her lips.  Walking beyond the counter, I noticed she sat on a bar stool in a black skirt that reached mid-calf.  Her legs crossed at the knees, she idly kicked her left leg, balancing a leopard print high heel on her foot as she did so.

“Only one of them is back there.”  The woman sighed as she pretended to go back to her magazine, her dark eyes targeted on Francis’ back.

I don’t know if Francis heard her or not, but he didn’t make any effort to respond.  I don’t think they got along.  All but stepping on Francis’ heels, I didn’t want to him to leave me behind in the lobby with the bitch of a woman.  I followed him down a hall that ended at a wood door with a small window at head level.  Halfway down the hall, there was another door but without a window, that left me wondering what would be behind door number one.

Francis opened the door to the work area of the shop.  Two cars filled up the two mechanic bays, one raised up in the air while the second furthest from the door had its giant hood open.  A radio played amongst the workbenches with the faint melodies of classic rock infiltrating the sounds of a torque wrench working.  Grease perfumed the air along with motor oil.  Various tools lined the walls and workbenches opposite the opening to the bays.  Two pillars supported the high ceiling; the concrete was painted white with pictures of classic cars and half-naked women taped to it.  I had to see all of this around Francis, who blocked the doorway with his large frame.

From my vantage point, I only noticed one person in the garage with their back to us.  Obviously, a well-muscled man, bent over the car with its hood up.  He wore a pair of dark blue coveralls but only up to his waist leaving his chest bare.  Even in the distance, I could see sweat run down his back following the trail of two sets of claw mark scars.  A small fan whirled above the man, attached to the closest pillar with a bungee cord.  The air ruffled a few wisps of the man’s blond hair.  The man stood up and rested his hands on the frame of the car, his head hanging down.

“What do you want dad?”  The man’s voice sounded worn yet strong.

A deep voice, so it massaged the back part of a woman’s brain in a reproductive response.  At least, that’s what the television told me should happen and I think that’s what I felt right now.  Strange how my first few interactions with men outside of the nurses at the psych ward and it gave me warm fuzzies.  I wonder what would happen if I saw the man’s face not just heard his voice.

“Here to chat.”  Francis replied as he stepped down into the garage.

I took up his spot in the doorway watching the interaction, holding the door open by resting my right shoulder against it.

The man scoffed.  “Yeah?  ‘Bout what?”

Francis glanced at the undercarriage of the car lifted into the air.  “See you’re still married to that bitch Tiffany.”

“Dad, that’s not why you’re here,” The man scolded barely looking over his shoulder, “I heard you were in town for a different reason.  So don’t play me for a fool.”

“You’re right.”  Francis sighed.  “I’m here to make your brother a vampire hunter.”