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When I came to, a big man with a white beard was leaning over me. “Don’t worry, man. It’s cool,” he said. “You’re dead.”

I lifted my head. A knife was sticking out of my stomach.

“Is this a dream?” The knife had a big wooden handle, like a kitchen cleaver.

“Heh heh. Not on your life.” The man gave me a shy smile that made his round face look boyish. “Look, I get this all the time. No, no, I can’t be dead. I still have so much to do,” he mimicked. “Next thing they’re thinking how cool it is they can walk through walls. By the way, I’m Bart.”

“You’re insane.” I sat up, wondering why nothing hurt. My blue shirt was trimmed with a broad bloodstain. I felt lightheaded, but calm. “If you want to be helpful, call the cops,” I snapped.

“Cops, that’s sweet,” said Bart. “Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters!” As he chuckled, his beard swung from side to side like a curtain. “Sorry. I died in 1984 and that song stuck in my head.”

As I stood, the room spun and something caught my foot. Looking down, I saw it was my own body. It was lying on the tile floor of my kitchen with my right foot stuck inside. Baffled, I wrenched my foot free and fell. That didn’t hurt either, but I seemed to sink into the floor. Bart grabbed me and pulled me up until I was standing over my body again.

“Here, drink this.” He unscrewed a silver thermos and held it out to me. I sniffed it and took a sip. The liquid was cool as water on my lips, but it burned on its way down my throat, like vodka, but oddly sweet. “Have some more,” Bart said.

That was when I noticed the cops standing near my body. There were two of them, both in the uniform of the San Diego Police Department. There was a woman with them, a tall brunette with a muscular build. When she turned her head I saw it was Kendra, my wife’s best friend. She lived down the street from us. Her lips were moving but her words were inaudible.

“Hey! Kendra! Over here!” I yelled.

“Bro, you’re a ghost. It’s not like they can hear you,” said Bart.

I stared down at my body. Not that I was going to admit it to Bart, but I was beginning to panic. There I was, in my own kitchen, with its familiar cherry-wood cabinets and granite island and mosaic tile floor, now accented by a big pool of blood around my body. My eyes were fixed on the ceiling. I counted to 20, then 30, then 60, and those eyes didn’t blink. “Did someone murder me?” I almost squeaked.

“The rules bind me. I cannot answer that question,” Bart sounded strangely formal. “Sorry, man. Have some more Lethe water. It helps you forget.”

“But I want to remember! I want to know why I’m dead. Where’s my wife?”

Bart shook his head. “The rules bind me. I cannot answer…”

“Shelley, where are you?” I yelled.

“Don’t do this, man.”

I ignored him. “Shelley!” I yelled. The kitchen dissolved around me, and I was yanked forward like a marionette. There was a sound like crystal breaking, and everything went dark. The next thing I knew, I was crumpled on a white carpet, this time in a room with a big canopy bed. My wife’s bedroom, I realized. There was our wedding photo, framed in silver on her dresser. The bed’s white silk drapes were pushed back and my wife was sitting on the edge of the mattress. One paramedic was wrapping her left forearm with gauze while another dabbed at her neck. I could see where the blade of a big knife had sliced into her.

There was a cop standing in front of Shelley. His questions were making her cry. She was sobbing into a crumpled fist of Kleenex. I couldn’t hear her words, or his either.

“Shelley, baby, can you see me?” No one in the room flicked an eyelash at me. I kicked the dresser and my foot passed through it. As I fell to the floor, I started to slide through it. “No, no, up, up!” I screamed, waving my arms frantically as if I were a fledgling. A meaty hand grabbed my arm.

“Man, you’re going to get yourself in a pickle,” said Bart, pulling me up again. “You need to tiptoe, man. Otherwise you’ll sink through to China.”

He didn’t sound like he was joking. “Where did you come from?”

“I heard you yelling. Good thing, cause this is a monster house.”

“There are monsters?” I whispered.

“No, man, I mean it’s huge.” Bart spread his arms out. “For two people? Come on?”

“My wife and I are very fond of this house. We built it together.”

“That so?” asked Bart. “How long you two been married?”

“Twenty-five years, in June.” Something about the memory made me blank out for a moment. “Why do I feel so lightheaded?”

“You’re in a transitory phase,” said Bart. “Means you’re passing through. Seriously, man, you need to drink some Lethe water.”

“Lethe? That was one of the pools in Hades, wasn’t it? The one people drank from to make them forget their lives.”

“Wow, dude. You must’ve really paid attention in ancient history class. The thing is, you have to drink it. Otherwise you can’t go on.”

“I’m not going anywhere! I want to find out who killed me and attacked my wife. I’m not going to leave her alone.”

Another detective came into the room. He wore latex gloves and held the huge knife that had been in my gut. In was in a giant baggie, and the blood was so fresh you could see red ribbons dribbling down the side and pooling at the bottom. A uniformed cop pointed at the wound on Shelley’s neck and gestured at her gauze-covered forearm.

“Was she attacked with the same knife?” I asked Bart.

“You know what I’m gonna say, don’t ya?” He lifted a shaggy eyebrow. “The rules bind me.”

“Whose rules are these anyway?”

That earned a sigh. “Look, dude, I’m not the netherworld’s information booth. I’m here to help you get from one plane of existence to another. You’re not making it easy.”

“I was just murdered. What do you expect?”

Bart sighed. A cop put a jacket around my wife’s shoulders. She stood up and left the room with him. The medics started packing up. “Where are you taking her?” I shouted.

“Look, in case you missed this, you can’t interact with them. They’re alive, you’re dead,” Bart spoke slowly, as if I were stupid as well as deceased.

“I can follow them. See what’s going on. Figure out who’s guilty.”

“Whoa.” Bart planted his body in my path. “You sure you want to know? Think about it. You might remember more than you want to.”

“Get out of my way. I need to follow Shelley.”

“You can always reunite with her, dude.” Bart clapped one hand over his mouth. “Oh no.”

“What does that mean, I can always reunite with her?”

“It’s not mentioned in the rules. But I’m still not supposed to tell you.”

“You want to stand here forever? Cause I’m not budging till you spill it.”

“Okay, okay,” said Bart. “If you had a strong emotional connection to something in life, that doesn’t die when you die. It’s like a rubber band. It can go slack, but it can also pull you back together suddenly.”

“That was what pulled me into Shelley’s room?” Bart nodded silently. “So anyone I love, I can… follow them?”

“You’re not supposed to, man. It’s against the rules.”

“To hell with the rules,” I answered.

*          *          *

I didn’t learn much at the police station. Shelley talked to the cops for two hours, but I couldn’t hear a word. When I tried to lip read, my eyes lost focus. I settled for looking over the shoulder of the cop who was making notes.

SC home alone, he scrawled in tiny chicken scratches. SC? Shelley Cervale.

Spoke to husband. Went to bed. OTC sleeping pills. Heard noise downstairs. Oh, Shelley…

Husband said he “wanted to talk.”

Uncontrollable rages. Legal separation – check date. Affair with stripper. Pawned SC’s jewelry. Drugs – cocaine? What the hell? What was that about?

He was crazy – told her he would kill her. Must be talking about the guy who broke in.

Defensive wounds? Like Shelley was going to let anyone but her cosmetic surgeon get close to her throat with a knife.

The cop’s notes were crap. How was he going to solve the case with that? My attention wandered to the file on his desk. The top page had a photograph of a mesh bangle bracelet that was studded with diamonds. Stolen from the home of James and Shelley Cervale, date uncertain. Harry Winston bracelet, total diamond weight 40 karats. Platinum setting. Reported missing by Shelley Cervale, Oct. 8. That was a month ago.

I’d bought that bracelet for Shelley on our tenth wedding anniversary. She’d already announced that she wanted to sleep in separate rooms. I remembered hoping the gift would persuade her to ignore my snoring, but she was adamant. I tried to lift the page to see what was underneath, but I couldn’t. My fingers sank into the pile when I applied force. I tried blowing on the pages to scatter them, but that did nothing. Another cop came in with a German shepherd. It strained against its leash, barking and trying to get at me. Why could I hear it but not human voices? Great, I thought, mutts can see me. I’d always hated dogs.

*          *          *

After Shelley was done at the police station, a couple of patrolmen drove her home. I sat in the backseat with her, and I could tell she was badly shaken. She stared out the window and gnawed on a fingernail. “Shelley,” I whispered. “It’s me, James. I love you.” But she didn’t hear a word.

Bart was stretched out on my living room sofa, hands knitted behind his head, eyes closed. “So, you learn anything?” he asked.

“Not much, except that a bracelet I gave my wife was stolen in January.” It was a distinctive piece. If some con tried to fence it, he’d be picked up by the cops immediately. No one took Harry Winston to a pawnshop.

“You need a drink.” Bart held up the thermos again.

“No, I don’t want to forget anything. I need to remember more. Bits and pieces are coming back to me.” I watched Shelley pour herself a scotch and make a phone call. More than anything, I wished I could hear her voice.

“That’s a bad sign, dude. Look, I don’t want to get rough with you, but you can shrivel up and evaporate while you’re between planes like this.”

“Why can’t I hear what people are saying, even though I can hear other noises?”

“Rules. You can’t communicate with the living,” Bart said.

“But how am I supposed to go on like this?”

Bart shook his head, making his beard sway across his chest. “You’re not supposed to stay, just pass through.”

“What are you doing here then?”

“It’s my job, man. Not like I’ve got a choice.”

“What is your job, exactly?” I asked him.

“I’m a ferryman.”

“No way! Like Charon? Are you kidding?

“Wow, you know your Greek mythology,” said Bart.

“So is there a river somewhere I’m supposed to cross?”

“You’re standing in it, dude.”

I didn’t doubt him. “So what happens after this?” I asked, nervous.

“I’m not exactly a hundred percent sure,” Bart admitted. “It’s a one-way ride.”

“So it could be oblivion waiting on the other side?”

“Look man, if it were oblivion, you’d be dead and that would be that. You wouldn’t need a ferryman to bring you over to it. Right?”

“But you don’t know. I mean, you’ve got rules for this part, but you don’t really know the rest.”

Bart sighed. “I’m kind of going nuts with curiosity, man. But I’ve got to do my job. That means getting you over safely.”

“If you’ll help me find whoever attacked my wife and killed me, I’ll cross over.”

Bart stared up at the ceiling, as if it were giving him guidance. “Can’t do it. Sorry, man.”

“I know. Rules.”

The doorbell rang and Shelley answered it. Her friend Kendra was there. She handed Shelley a gift bag and hugged her. Shelley seemed to be crying on her shoulder and Kendra stroked her hair. Shelley finally pulled herself together and Kendra went away. I looked inside the bag. There was a box of chocolates from Donnelly’s — Shelley’s favorite — and a bottle of champagne. Champagne? I’d always hated Kendra.

Shelley went upstairs and I followed, Bart in my wake. When she came out of the bathroom, she went to the dresser and turned our wedding photo face down. Whatever I had left of a heart skipped a beat. Don’t be angry with me, I thought, afraid of what I’d done. She took off her dress and I barely resisted the urge to whistle.

“Wow. She’s a hot chick,” said Bart.

“Don’t you dare look at my wife!”

“Sorry, man. No offense.”

He was right, though. Shelley was stunning. Possibly more beautiful than she had been when we’d married. I thought about the warm nape of her neck and how soft her skin was and I swooned again.

I watched her sleep for a long time, then backed out of the room and headed down the hallway. There was a closed door at the end. I touched the handle, but it didn’t budge.

Taking a couple of steps back, I made a run at it. As I passed through, I felt its weight, like you would feel steam on your skin in a sauna. Then I was in.

Bart came through the door behind me at a leisurely pace. “You don’t have to barge through it, man. Relax.” His eyes took in the mahogany furniture and the art, lingering on a painting of a woman undressing. “So this was your room, huh? Some taste you got.”

I tried to open a dresser drawer, but it wouldn’t give. Frustrated, I put my hand through the wood, but I couldn’t grab anything inside. Finally, I stuck my head in. It was awfully dark in the drawer.

“How the hell am I supposed to do this?” I asked Bart.

“What are you looking for, dude?”

“A clue. There must be something here.” My room looked clean, almost sterile. Had somebody scoured away the traces of me already? Suddenly, memory hit with a force that made me gasp. “I wasn’t living here anymore. I was staying at a hotel.” I closed my eyes to summon the name and had a vision of a pink hotel overlooking the Pacific Ocean. “La Valencia. La Jolla.”

When I opened my eyes Bart had the thermos open and was holding it out. “Seriously, drink this.”

“No,” I pushed his burly arm back. “Don’t you understand? I was staying in a hotel, and I came back here to… to…”

Bart threw some Lethe water on me. A little splashed into my mouth. “What did you do that for? I was trying to remember!”

“Dude, that is exactly the thing you’re not supposed to do. You’re supposed to go on with your memory wiped clean, like a baby coming into the world. You can’t hold onto your memories.”

“You can’t stop me!” I shouted. “La Valencia!” Nothing happened. “La Valencia Hotel in La Jolla!” Nothing. I glanced at Bart.

“That only works with things you truly love.” He sounded weary. “You have to be really connected with someone or something to have that work.”

“So how do I get to the hotel?” I asked. Bart shrugged. “Fine. I’ll find it myself.”

*          *          *

That was easier said than done. I remembered that the hotel was a 15-minute drive from my house, but I couldn’t drive. I guess I could have walked, but walking for miles in Southern California would have been weirder than being dead. Instead, I hitched rides in cars. No one saw me get in, and no one saw me hop out. But Bart was waiting for me in La Valencia’s lobby.

“How did you do that?”

“The rules, bro. I can’t tell.”

I went to the front desk. There was a note on a sticky yellow pad. Mr. James Cervale, 526. Police will call before noon. DO NOT CLEAN ROOM. At the elevator, I waited for another passenger to push the right button, and rode up to the fifth floor. The door to my room was closed, and I walked through it.

Inside, a dark-haired woman was pawing through the clothing that hung in the closet. “What are you doing?” I called, forgetting she couldn’t hear me. She didn’t turn around. I watched her take a pair of gold cufflinks out of the pocket of one of my jackets and toss them in a big black bag that was sitting on the bed. I peered into it and saw cash, credit cards, even a gold pen. This thief was clearing me out.

When she turned, I realized that I knew her. She was tall and lean and tan, but with an inflated chest that suggested a career in adult entertainment. Her eyes were big and blue and her mouth was plump, but her face was haggard, as if she were seriously ill.

“Jenny?” I said. “Or Julie? Jessie? What the hell is your name?”

She took one more look around, then opened the door. I followed her out. She scurried past the front desk. Outside, her flip-flops fluttered on the pavement. I saw the tattoo of a star on her ankle, and I remembered that there was a dolphin on her hip. How did I know that? Down the block she went into the parking lot of a fast-food joint and got into a beat-up Honda. I couldn’t hear what the man at the wheel said to her. His head was shaved and there was a dragon tattoo on his neck. Veins bulged under it and his skin looked faintly green. He grabbed her bag and rifled through it. His face got red and contorted. He was shouting at her. I’d never noticed before how ugly people looked when they yelled.

I rode in the back of their car until they came to a ragged motel that was nowhere near the Pacific. Inside their room was even grimmer, with yellowed walls and a brown bedspread. The man continued to yell, and then the two of them were screaming at each other. He poured the contents of the bag on the bed, pocketed the cash, and set the other valuables aside. There was a bag of white powder he stared at with obvious lust.

The man sat on the bed and spilled some of the powder on the bedside table. The woman sat next to him and he shoved her, but when she came back he let her sit. He cut the drug into neat lines with a razor, then snorted two. He did the same for the woman, then a couple more for himself. When he grabbed her hair and pulled her on top of him, I left the room. I didn’t want to see any more.

*          *          *

Bart found me walking by the side of the road. “What’s up, dude?” he asked.

“Leave me alone.”

“Aww, don’t be like that. Are you depressed ‘cause you’re dead?”

I walked on silently. Maybe if I walked long enough I’d evaporate in sunlight.

“Come on, man. You can tell me.”

I shook my head.

“You remembered something, didn’t you?” Bart looked sad. “This is why you need to let go.”

“I think I stole the bracelet I bought for Shelley and pawned it to give money to that woman.” The words were hard to lodge out of my throat, but I remembered the cop’s notes. There were tears in my eyes and I tried to keep Bart from seeing them. “I was cheating on my wife with that woman. The stripper.”

“I know, man.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Like I said, bro, I’m the ferryman, not the information booth. I’m not supposed to tell you anything. Rules, okay? You leave your memories with me.”

“That’s how I pay you,” I realized aloud. “How you pay the ferryman.”

Bart nodded.

“But why would I do it?” I asked him. “I mean, I know I can be stupid, but Shelley is so beautiful, and that woman…” I shuddered. “She looks like she’s ready to die.”

“Death changes the way you see the world. Shelley looks beautiful to you because you love her. That woman looks repulsive to you because, deep down, you were disgusted by her.” He held the thermos out. “Now will you drink it?”

“No. I have to protect Shelley.” I focused my thoughts on her and heard shattering crystal again. Then I was back in our house, watching her as she wandered from room to room like another lost spirit.

*          *          *

“How long do you plan to stay here, man?” Bart asked me.

I tore my eyes away from Shelley. Kendra and a few of her other friends had come over to the house. They were getting drunk on chardonnay together. From the way their faces moved, I could tell there was a lot of laughter.

“What are you hoping to accomplish?” Bart’s voice was low.

“What if the killer comes back?”

“Nothing you could do about it, bro. Let it go.”

“There’s got to be something I can do,” I insisted.

Bart grunted. We sat in silence for a while. The women started to clear out around eleven. When they were finally gone, Shelley went upstairs and brushed her teeth. Then she put on an ice-blue negligee I’d never seen before. Wow. If I knew she was dressing like that for bed, I wouldn’t have been in a room down the hall. Then I felt ashamed, remembering I’d been screwing around with a stripper.

Shelley sprayed on some perfume. The doorbell rang. Shelley rushed downstairs. Kendra, her best friend, was at the door again. She came into the living room and gave Shelley a small box. The two of them hugged for a minute. That was nice of her, comforting Shelley, I thought. Then Kendra went to the kitchen and I heard the sound of a champagne cork popping. Shelley opened the box and I was riveted by the sight of the missing Harry Winston bracelet. There was no mistaking it. Shelley held it up to the light and put it on her wrist. Kendra came out of the kitchen with two champagne flutes. They toasted, drank, and kissed.

“No,” I said, watching them in horror. “No, they can’t be…”

“Do you remember everything now?” Bart asked.

It was all flooding back. Shelley calling me at my hotel, saying she wanted to talk. Me sending the stripper away, then coming over to the house. Shelley leading me back to the kitchen for a drink. Shelley saying she knew I’d stolen her bracelet and spent the money on that whore I was sleeping with. How was she supposed to forgive me for that, she asked. Then I remembered hearing footsteps. I’d barely caught sight of Kendra when she jabbed the knife into my stomach.

“Shelley planned the whole thing.” I sank to the floor, the room swirling around me. “But if she killed me, why does she look so beautiful to me?”

“Because,” Bart said, “you’ve already forgiven her. Besides, the two of two did a lot of terrible things to each other. You really did pawn the bracelet for the stripper, you know. Kendra found it and got it back.” He held the thermos out to me again. “James, it’s time you drank this.”

He was right. I took the thermos from his hand and gulped it all down.

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Hilary Davidson’s first novel, THE DAMAGE DONE, will be published by Forge in October 2010. Her short fiction has appeared in Thuglit, Beat to a Pulp, A Twist of Noir, Crimespree, Spinetingler, The Rose & Thorn, and Well Told Tales. Her story “Anniversary” is in the anthology A PRISONERY OF MEMORY, and her “Son of So Many Tears” will be in Thuglit’s 2010 collection. When she’s not writing about murder and mayhem, she’s on the road as a travel writer. Visit her online at www.hilarydavidson.com.