“Please… find our son.” Mrs. Garcia’s makeup ran down to her chin. Her teardrops left black spots on the violet tablecloth, blotting out the tacky silver stars printed on it.

  Psychic Vincent Fey had heard hundreds of pleas since he started work as a medium. Why were their chakras out of sync, when were they going to die, where would they find their soulmates, what were the winning lottery numbers—none of which he could answer.

  Mrs. Garcia’s question, however, Vincent could answer. As the woman squeezed a bracelet into his hands, images of shipping containers, the smell of the sea, and bone-chilling fear seeped into his mind.

  Her son was dead.

  Vincent could find the dead.

  Mr. Garcia clutched his cross tighter, muttering prayers in Spanish while Vincent stared into the vision the brief connection gave him.

  “So? Can you find him?” The boy’s mother had hope in her eyes, the kind of desperate hope that would lead a person to ask a psychic to find a missing person.

  “Your son…” Vincent began, using the soft, wispy voice he learned from shitty TV magicians and wannabe vampires. “Could you leave this bracelet here for just tonight? Spirits speak to me in my dreams. They’ll help me find him.”

  “Ximena, look, he can’t find Mateo. Leave it to the police,” Mr. Garcia hissed into his wife’s ear.

  She ignored him. “Yes, yes, hold onto it. Please call with any information. Dios te bendiga, Vincent. I have faith in you.”

  Vincent led them out of the garage he converted into his psychic business. A thick black curtain blocked the table they’d sat at from the muted sunlight filling the small lobby area. The gaudy neon signs in the floor to ceiling windows cast blotchy shadows across the cement floor.

  He didn’t even watch the couple walk down his driveway as he flipped the “open” sign off and flung the curtain shut again. Another curtain blocked the door into the main house. He nearly tore it off its track to get into the sweet relief of couch cushions and loose clothes.

  To fit the image of a medium, Vincent took fashion cues from the same cheesy magicians he mimicked the voices of. His wavy hair dyed black, eyes ringed in thin black eyeliner, a translucent shawl he could drape over his head and eyes when he didn’t have time to touch up the previous two. He wore a black vest over a black shirt with unnecessary ruffles over his chest, both of which were extremely impractical and uncomfortable. Those came off immediately.

  The bracelet.

  Cursing, Vincent returned to the stuffy, humid garage to snatch the bracelet from the table where he left it.

  A chill swept over his bare torso as the spirit connected to the bracelet reached out again. He was as desperate as his mother to be found. Vincent brushed his thumb over the gold bar with “Mateo” etched in neat script.

  For his parents to ask a medium to find him, they had to know he was dead, didn’t they? Or were they also unclear on the extent of Vincent’s abilities?

  Either way, if he could put off telling parents their kid was dead, he would put it off as long as he could.

  Living near the ocean meant dozens upon dozens of places one could find shipping containers. The number of dots that appeared in his map app when he searched pulled a long groan from deep in his chest. Wherever Mateo was, he could hear seagulls and smell brine and fish, which at least scratched the inland depots off Vincent’s long list.

  He collapsed onto his sofa, the soft cushions and darkness granted by his blackout curtains welcomed, dangling the bracelet from one finger. Constantly reaching out for information made his head pound, and Mateo refused to move to a higher vantage point—not that Vincent could ask him to do so from home anyway.

  “One more try. Look at something useful or rot alone forever, dammit,” Vincent muttered, clutching the bracelet again.

  The sun had begun to set, lowering the chance of seeing anything significant or unique. He was ready to fling the bracelet into the wall when voices and the jingle of a collar approached.

  Vincent pushed through the worsening headache to maintain his connection. A pair of men in security uniforms crossed the container Mateo was trapped in with a German shepherd padding along between them. Vincent ignored their boring small talk and focused on the company logo on their shirts.

  Then Mateo turned away from the men.

  Vincent flung the bracelet into the wall.

  In the glimpse he got, he could only make out the vague shape of a shield with some blue around it.

  “All security companies have a fucking shield in their logo!” Vincent rubbed his hands over his face and closed his eyes. Mateo wouldn’t be any less dead in the morning. Maybe he’d try again once his headache faded….

  The jarring, high-pitched ring of the phone on the other side of the room shot like lightning through his head. He glared at the antique brass rotary phone, willing it to stop ringing. But, as with Mateo, spirits never did what he wanted.

  This phone sat on the small table next to a shelf of occult books, tarot decks, and other supposedly “haunted” or “cursed” items people brought him. Most of the items were mundane. Only this phone matched its story: that it would ring when not connected to a phone line and no one would be on the other end.

  “If you want help, come here,” Vincent snapped into the receiver.

  A mournful wail was the only response before the line went silent.

  It acted more like an annoying payphone, where any spirit in the vicinity could use it to speak with him. But it meant nothing if Vincent didn’t know where they were or what they wanted.

  He slammed the phone down with a sigh, hoping to someday break it enough that it wouldn’t ring, and headed back to the sofa.

  The distraction proved useful, however, as the discarded junk mail next to the phone sported a familiar logo. A shield with an anchor, surrounded by blue waves, and a golden M at the top was the Maer family crest and the logo for their myriad companies in the area. They owned most if not all the industrial land along the coast, which included shipping container depots.

  That narrowed the search down enough for Vincent to change into a comfortable loose hoodie—though most clothes were loose on his lanky frame—and pull up the station closest to the first depot. He’d have to search one by one, avoiding dogs and security, and hope he found Mateo before the last train.

  Bulky headphones and his resting scowl made his trip on the rush hour trains manageable. As he got closer to the industrial area, his connection to Mateo grew stronger. Once amid the conglomeration of warehouses and shipping depots, no direction felt particularly better than another.

  With his hands in his pocket and a fast stride, he just looked like someone cutting through the alleys on his way home. No one paid him any mind and he made quick work crossing the first depots off his list. Squeezing through fences or between stacks of containers, however, became ever more difficult as his head and joints protested the unusual amount of physical activity.

  Every depot he checked was clear of corpses—or at least corpses with lingering souls. He had just over an hour before he missed the last train and only one depot left.

  “I can just go home,” Vincent muttered to himself, even as his feet took him along the fenced perimeter. “The cops’ll find him eventually.”

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  As far as he knew, no one else had an ability like his. No one else could see spirits and help them pass on. He felt their fear, confusion, sadness, and anger as they lingered, tethered to this plane for whatever reason. How could he just leave them?

  Once he crawled through a corner of fence cut by some other miscreant, despair that wasn’t his own filled his heart. Even from multiple containers away, Vincent felt the helplessness binding Mateo’s spirit. His vision went dark the moment his fingers brushed the bracelet in his pocket. Mateo was trapped in pitch black darkness, alone.

  Keeping to the shadows, Vincent crept between containers. Sooner than he expected, he heard a man’s voice. It sounded too old to be Mateo. Vincent pressed back against the nearest container, eyes darting up and down the narrow path looking for a place to hide.

  “C’mon… I just saw the guy’s post a couple hours ago,” the voice complained. “No way it’s gone already.”

  A man in cargo shorts and a fishing vest carrying a backpack shuffled into view. Every pocket was full of tools and gadgets that Vincent had only seen in D list horror movies. He was slapping something that looked like a taser missing the prongs that did the tasing.

  Vincent left his subpar hiding place and strode past his fellow trespasser.

  The man jumped and the device flew from his hand, shattering on the ground. “You—why didn’t my equipment pick anything up?”

  Vincent refocused on Mateo, ready to tune out whatever threats the man was about to make, blaming him for his broken toy. He didn’t expect a hand coming toward his face, flinching away from the light touch to his cheek.

  “You’re not dead…. I thought you were a ghost.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you by being alive.” Vincent scanned the area. Mateo was close. A few rows away, light glimmered as something darted into a nearby container.

  “I’m not! A little mad you scared me like that, but not disappointed.” The man gathered his broken toy and scurried after Vincent, his full cheeks flushed from the effort of keeping up with Vincent’s long stride. “Are you ghost hunting, too? Do you mind if I film when we find something?”

  “We? I’m not part of your little game.” For probably the millionth time in his life, he cursed the popularity of paranormal investigators. They did nothing but get in the way and upset spirits.

  The man’s pace slowed to a stop and he didn’t respond. Only some high-pitched beeps followed Vincent to the unmarked container stacked atop another belonging to Maer. The bottom container was taller than the others and, even if he could reach, Vincent didn’t have much confidence in his upper body strength to climb up.

  “Mateo?” he called. “I can see you, so come out and talk to me.”

  The man shuffled closer, freezing when Vincent turned to look at him and jumping when a dog barked nearby.

  “Hey! Who are you? What are you doing?” One of the security guards Vincent saw through Mateo approached holding the dog back with one hand and pointing a taser at them with the other.

  The ghost hunter answered first. “Oh, um, we’re just—”

  “There’s a body in the container up there. You should call the police,” Vincent replied, not taking his eyes off the trembling form of a teenage boy drifting through the metal walls.

  “Wait,” the alleged ghost hunter hissed, “Won’t we get arrested?”

  Vincent shrugged. “You might.”

  The man paled, watching the security guard approach. He visibly jolted as an idea struck him.

  “Are you the one who posted that video? With the rattling doors and sudden chill? You did ask for help, didn’t you?” The ghost hunter seemed to regain some of his enthusiasm when the security guard eyed the container Vincent pointed at nervously. “It would make sense if there’s a body, then, right?”

  “W-we’d need to check….” The security guard fumbled in his belt to replace the taser with his radio, calling for someone else to open the container.

  In the meantime, Vincent gazed into the gap between Mateo’s stack and the next row of containers to find the timid spirit. He reached out and felt the chill of Mateo’s hand on his. The sensation of “touch” was more like the resistance between magnets of the same pole, Vincent’s hand unable to close fully due to an invisible force.

  Vincent held the cold, incorporeal form and pulled him through the containers into full view. “Mateo, your mother sent me to find you. She’s been worried.”

  “Mama….” Mateo’s lips moved, but no real sound came out. Vincent usually relied on his connection to spirits to hear them. “I didn’t mean… I didn’t want….”

  “I know. She’ll hurt for a while, but she’ll be happier knowing you’ve gone to a better place. Don’t linger here.”

  “I want… I want to see her again.” The boy broke down in tears, fading in and out, rambling incoherently. The tether holding him was weakening.

  While Vincent let Mateo cry, two more security guards came with bolt cutters and a step ladder. After some coaxing, they got their dog up to sniff the sealed container, his growls and barks confirming the need for further investigation. After some discussion, the guards called the police and waited.

  “They’re gonna find my body…” Mateo muttered, both hands now clinging to Vincent. “I-I’m dead.”

  The extended contact made his head throb and heart ache, and the spirits touch filled his body with ice. “You are. They’ll contact your parents so your mother can have some closure.”

  “She’ll blame herself. Please… please tell her it’s not her fault,” Mateo sobbed. “Tell her I should’ve listened. Tell her I wish I’d stayed home and helped peel corn and mango and whatever. Tell her I was stupid and it had nothing to do with her.”

  The hook of a crane swung overhead as they prepared to move the container for the police. Soon someone would drag Vincent away from Mateo.

  He glanced at the cross around Mateo’s neck. “I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her and you’ll be able to hear her response from heaven.”

  “Will I go to heaven…?”

  No idea. The thought formed before Vincent could stop it. He spoke over himself lest Mateo heard his initial answer, “Of course you will.”

  “Are you an angel?” Mateo’s sadness and pain transferred to Vincent. His touch almost felt warmer as the tethers of regret eased their hold.

  Sirens blared from the road outside the depot. The police were uncharacteristically quick.

  “I’m whatever you need me to be. Now, go on. Don’t stay here and make your mother worry more.”

  Mateo nodded as his spirit was engulfed in a bright light. A second later, the cold touch and connection were gone. All that remained was the residual despair still clinging to Vincent’s heart. He wiped his face of the tears Mateo’s emotions pulled out of him and leaned against the container while he waited for the waves of nausea to pass.

  “Are you alright?” A soft voice and gentle hand pulled him from the shadows between containers. The ghost hunter knitted his brow when Vincent turned to face him. “Wow, now you actually look like a ghost…. Er, no offence. Did… did you know whoever you think is in there?”

  “No. Only just met him. His mother was looking for him.” Vincent blinked through the pain, both the headache and slowly dissipating sadness, and started to leave the way he came.

  “Oh, no…. It’s a kid? That’s….” The man trailed off, his attention taken by the arrival of a pair of cops.

  A young uniformed officer marched toward them, fingers in his vest, as a crane moved Mateo’s container to an empty space. His partner was still chatting with the security guard.

  “That security guard said you tipped him off. Why do you think a body is in that container?” The officer looked Vincent up and down before dragging his eyes over the ghost hunter.

  “The boy’s mother asked me to find him and his spirit led me here. We spoke and he passed on, but he should get a proper funeral and his family deserves closure.”

  The officer’s eyebrow shot up to his hairline. “And how did he end up in there?”

  “Why would I know that?” Mateo’s memories seeped into Vincent’s mind. He forced them into a box deep in his mind. “Besides, a medium’s visions aren’t admissible in court.”

  “Don’t bother with that guy. He’s just some crazy that thinks he can see ghosts. Dealt with him a couple times already.” The other officer, Matt Jenkins, arrested Vincent the first time they met. He’d found him standing over a dead woman, after all. “One day I’ll find the connection he has to these bodies, but until then, he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

  “You wouldn’t have to prove anything if you believed him,” the ghost hunter interrupted. “He doesn’t seem crazy at all.”

  Jenkins scoffed and jutted his chin out at the ghost hunter. “And this one?”

  “He’s just as crazy as me, searching for the kid’s ghost,” Vincent answered.

  The younger officer took down their statements regardless, holding back laughter the entire time. He also cited them both for trespassing.

  The whole time, Vincent’s eyes were fixed on the random man running around with pockets full of beeping toys. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead and neck by nervous sweat as he shared the security guard’s video. Even under the stress of a possible arrest, his almond eyes glittered at the mere thought of paranormal activity.

  Unable to find a reason to arrest the trespassers without permission from the owners, the police sent the security guard to escort them off the property.

  “The depot isn’t haunted, is it? These late-night shifts are no good for my heart as it is….” The guard looked more than happy to walk away from the container.

  “The spirit passed on. You did what he wanted you to do, getting his body out of that container,” Vincent replied.

  The guard nodded and let them out the main gate. “But I’m not defending you two over my job, so expect Maer to let the cops do what they want.”

  He slammed the gate and returned to his guard shack, light on his feet with the fear of ghosts gone and scapegoats protecting his job.

  “I guess meeting a psychic makes me feel a little better about the citations,” the man said, turning to Vincent. “What? I don’t think you’re crazy. Or a murderer. You can really communicate with the dead, then?”

  Vincent blinked away his shock and fixed his expression back to indifference. “You just said you don’t think I’m crazy. Do you think I’m a liar then?”

  “Well, no, I just wanted to start a conversation….” The man glanced around the area, looking anywhere but at Vincent. “So, do you help with police investigations?”

  Vincent folded his arms and scoffed. “Any information I have will either be ignored or get me arrested, so no. They can do their own damn jobs.”

  “But you could just ask—"

  Vincent pulled out his phone, ending the conversation. “I’m going to miss the train.”

  “I can give you a ride if you want!” the man called. “My name’s Eric, by the way!”

  Vincent ignored him as he walked away. The only people who believed him wanted something and, in his experience, no good ever came of helping the living.