No Rest for the Ghosted

1

No Rest for the Ghosted

Nora

“She’s alive! She’s alive!”

I held Charlotte above my head. I’d rescued the spider plant from the clearance shelf at the home improvement store, half-dead and marked down to sell. A month ago, her leaves had been limp and brown. Now they were glossy green, with new growth unfurling from the center like a fist opening.

Sunlight poured through the solarium’s glass ceiling, warming the tiled floor. The air smelled of damp soil, rosemary, and eucalyptus.

I set Charlotte back among the other recovering patients, the section I lovingly called the plant ICU. “You’re looking gorgeous, my girl. Keep this up, and you’ll be promoted to general population.”

A rhythmic tap-tap-tap came from behind me as Edgar trotted into the solarium with way too much confidence. A twelve-pound PomChi should not have had that much authority. His fluffy tan tail swished as he stared me down.

“What? You’ve eaten. We played. You were just outside.”

Edgar gave one of his trademark nose poofs and sneezed.

“Really. Again.”

He spun in a tight circle, whining.

“I’m saving lives here, you know.” I gestured at Charlotte.

Another sneeze. More attitude.

“Fine. Let’s go, Your Highness.”

I was still in plaid pajama bottoms and an oversized sweatshirt, my slippers whispering across the hardwood as I followed him through the kitchen and out onto the deck. My breath clouded in the morning air.

Autumn had arrived in South Dakota with full dramatic flair: mornings near freezing, afternoons warm and sunny, and trees beginning to flirt with burnt orange and fire red. I wouldn’t miss summer. Gardening with sweat dripping in places where sweat shouldn’t? I’d had enough.

I stood outside, hair whipping into my mouth, while my tiny fur child conducted his inspection. Edgar couldn’t be trusted to go outside alone because he treated gravity more as a suggestion than a law. He’d tried to launch himself off the deck stairs in pursuit of squirrels, birds, and once, memorably, dried corn stalks. There were only three stairs. That was still three too many.

I’d had a gate once. One aggressive gust of January wind sent it over with a bang that took a year off both our lives.

“Buddy.” He was sniffing the lavender planter. “Any chance you could do your business? I’m seconds away from texting your grandpa to stop feeding you cheese.”

Edgar peered at me. He knew it was an empty threat. Dad had been slipping Edgar cheddar since the day we moved back, and nothing on this earth was going to stop him.

And because nature enjoys irony, my alleged descendant of wolves was allergic to grass. Which is why he had a faux-grass potty patch on the deck instead of, you know, a yard.

Wind thrashed the trees and sent empty flowerpots rolling. A flock of geese fought to hold their V overhead. Edgar reveled in the chaos and took his time.

Eventually, after what felt like a hostage negotiation, he finished.

“All right, little monster. Inside for a chicken treat.”

The magic words. He bolted through the open door.

Inside, the warmth hit me. Edgar shook himself dramatically, then screeched at me like a deranged parrot.

“I know, I know.” I grabbed a treat from the container on the counter. ”Your suffering was immense.”

I tossed him a treat. He inhaled it whole.

“Chewing is generally encouraged.”

He gave an indignant snort and trotted off toward the living room.

“You, sir, have a foul mouth.”

I turned to the morning’s true priority.

More coffee.

My coffee pot wasn’t reliable. It leaked if I filled it past halfway, sputtered like an asthmatic tractor, and almost certainly violated several electrical codes. It was also sacred. Without four cups, I was a danger to society, and at forty-five, energy came in liquid form. I wasn’t ashamed to worship at the altar of caffeine.

The machine groaned, clicked, and whirred to life. The smell hit a moment later, rich and bitter, curling through the air like a promise that I might survive the morning.

Overhead, a floorboard creaked.

Then another.

Slow footsteps crossed the second-floor hallway, unhurried and familiar enough that I didn’t need to look up.

“Morning, Alice.”

Three loud knocks answered from upstairs.

“You’re up early.”

No knock for that one. Alice wasn’t a morning gal. I could relate.

While I waited, I admired my newly renovated kitchen. The forest-green tile behind the range caught the overhead light, its color deep and soft as moss after rain. Dark-stained cabinets rose to the ceiling, their grain visible because painting good wood is sacrilegious and I will fight about it. Nothing in the room technically matched, yet somehow it all worked.

Then my gaze drifted to the corner of the counter by the window.

The memorial card.

Creased. Warped. Nine months old and still exactly where I’d set it down the day it came.

Stupid little snowy scene. A bright red cardinal on a branch. Someone at a card company had decided that’s what comfort looks like. All I saw now was a blurry wash of watercolor where the ink had run, my tears, and probably some snot, because grief is not a glamorous process.

I treated it like a shrine. Melted candles. Little mementos arranged around it in a semicircle, like an offering. So many nights spent crying until my head hurt.

These days I mostly wanted to burn it and watch the flames take it.

I did neither. I just left it there. We’d been at that particular standoff for three seasons.

The coffee maker gurgled, hissed, and beeped, hauling me back before I disappeared down the hole entirely.

I grabbed my Uff Da, MF mug—the most accurate expression of Scandinavian exhaustion ever fired in a kiln—and poured myself a generous helping of dark liquid sanity. Lifted it like an offering.

“Thank you.”

I took a careful sip. The burn was exquisite. A scalding, beautiful punishment for my impatience. A deeply undignified moan escaped before I could stop it.

“Why do you still have that?”

He stood by the kitchen window. Of all the spirits I’d encountered over the years, Will was the only one who could undo me with a single look.

Most people would scream upon finding a dead man in their kitchen. I wasn’t most people. I was furious, and being furious at Will was easier than admitting how much I missed him.

I took my time with another sip. Then I turned. “Why are you here this early?”

“Wow. You’re in a mood.”

Even dead, he was infuriating to look at. It wasn’t the hair, though it still did that thing in the morning light where the brown gave up and admitted to auburn. It wasn’t his eyes, either.

It was his leaning.

One shoulder against a wall he couldn’t actually touch, ankles crossed. He’d stood in doorways that way his whole life. Flannel sleeves shoved to the elbows, hands in his pockets, perfectly willing to wait me out until I said whatever I was refusing to say.

“I’m not in a mood,” I said, glaring over the rim of my mug. “I haven’t had enough caffeine, and my dead ex is standing in my kitchen on a Saturday telling me what to do.”

“Ouch.” He drifted closer. “We weren’t just exes.”

That was the problem.

Will and I had spent most of our lives orbiting each other. Wrong timing, or wrong versions of ourselves, over and over. Every time one of us started building a life somewhere else, we found our way back. Comfortable. Familiar. Infuriating.

At eighteen we made a pact: if neither of us was married by fifty, we’d elope.

He died at forty-six. So now I was grieving a future that never even happened.

“Nora—”

I set my mug down too hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim. “You left.”

Sharper than I meant it. That’s what nine months of swallowing grief will do.

His expression flickered. “What, because I died?”

“Yes.”

He laughed, dry. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t choose the ghost life, Nora. The ghost life chose me.”

“Who goes out for tacos on a snowmobile during a blizzard?”

“I was hungry.”

“You died for a burrito.”

“Sir Taco has excellent burritos.”

They do. I can’t argue that. Sir Taco stayed open through blizzards that shut down half the county because men like Will considered spicy refried beans a survival necessity.

I stared at him until the joke drained out of the room.

“We had a deal,” I said quietly. “We were supposed to survive our disasters together.” My voice cracked straight down the middle. “Not this.”

He hovered inches away now. Sometimes I forgot he wasn’t alive anymore. Then there’d be moments like this one, where the air between us stayed cold, and I remembered all over again.

“I’m still here,” he said.

“It’s not the same thing.”

The silence stretched. Will had always known exactly when I was about to come apart, and he’d never once let me get there.

“Look on the bright side.” The smirk arrived right on schedule. “At least I’m not drinking all your coffee.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love me.”

I looked away. That answer still cost too much.

He nodded at the card again. “Put it away.”

“No.”

“I’m serious. If you don’t, I’ll have Mr. Dalton mess with your electronics again. Or send One-Eyed Willy to check on the library renovation.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Try me.”

Then he vanished.

“Coward.”

Tiny nails clicked across the hardwood. Edgar trotted in and whined.

I crouched to rub his ears. “He’s right. I hate that he’s right.”

Edgar sneezed in agreement.

“Nobody asked either of you.”

***

I topped off my mug and came through the swing door into the living room, where sunlight came through the front windows and hit the suncatchers, throwing a hundred small rainbows across the deep green walls. They slid over floorboards worn smooth, every nick and scratch left by someone who lived here before me. Children running. Furniture dragged. Hands wrestling stubborn windows open on humid August afternoons.

This old house remembered everything.

A 1912 American Foursquare, and an absolute disaster when I bought it. Too big, too expensive, far too much square footage for one woman and a twelve-pound dog. My family had opinions.

It’s too big for you.
That’s a lot of house to clean.
There’s no toilet on the first floor.

Thank you. Your concerns have been noted and filed accordingly.

But I hadn’t been shopping for practicality. I’d been shopping for roots—for something that had survived its storms and was still standing.

I’d just turned forty, with a down payment and years of overpriced Minneapolis apartments behind me. Then Grandpa Robertson died, and the pull back toward my charming, slightly feral hometown became something I could no longer argue with.

He still turns up now and then. Never when I want him to, never for long.

Usually in the kitchen, with an opinion about how I’m making gravy.

The dining room still had no table. The dark floors and the built-in buffet under the windows were begging for the right one, and I’d been losing that particular hunt for two years. But I’d restored the antique chandelier myself, and its crystals and leafy ironwork twinkled overhead like they’d been waiting for me the whole time.

Upstairs, something small and heavy dropped and rolled.

“Mr. Dalton is up to something.”

I finished my coffee, set the mug in the sink, and went upstairs to get dressed and pretend I was a functioning adult.

***

My curls were behaving better than usual, silver threading in at the temples. I didn’t mind. The older I got, the less interested I was in pretending time wasn’t passing. Makeup and my skin had maintained a hostile relationship for decades, but red lipstick was non-negotiable. It went on before anything else, every day, deliveries included.

It wasn’t decoration. It was armor.

Straight-leg jeans. White tee with a tiny embroidered cherry near the pocket. My favorite houndstooth coatigan. And red Converse, because I’ve worn some version of the shoe since I was thirteen and fully intend to be buried in a pair.

Edgar had entered his fourth nap cycle of the day in a patch of sun near the fireplace.

I went back through the solarium for a final check on the plants. Every one of them had a name. I’m aware of how that sounds. The steam distiller was still cooling from Thursday’s batch, so I loosened the clamp and let it breathe. The bundles in the drying room needed two more days—I ran a thumb over a sprig of yarrow, and the stem was still soft.

Somebody bolted this room onto the back of the house in the late nineties and had no idea they were building me a workshop.

Rare plants, herbs, custom arrangements, terrariums. And, increasingly, funeral work.

That last part wasn’t intentional. It turns out grieving families appreciate a florist who can pass along a message.

Not exactly what I’d envisioned when I named the place.

Oh, Fern Sure: Plants So Nice, You’ll Say Uff Da Twice.

Yes, that’s the name. Yes, that’s the slogan. No, I have no regrets.

Clients drive all the way out here and never mind the trek. Everyone else, I pack and ship. Roots don’t have to stay local.

“Behave yourselves while I’m gone,” I said to the plants and the ghosts alike.

A faint knock came from upstairs.

“Thank you, Alice.”

I grabbed my purse, my delivery tote, and my sunglasses, then headed out. The air carried the scents of earth, river water, and woodsmoke. For a second, standing under that ridiculous blue sky, I felt okay.

The house sits along a bend in the Big Sioux, on the edge of town, on land that feels older than the concept of land ownership. Oaks and birches and cottonwoods lean over the roof. In summer the canopy is dense enough to dim the sky. In autumn it goes up like fire and then buries the whole yard, which my all-too-willing cousins have never seemed to mind.

Big Mitch—my black Jeep Wrangler—was already warming up in the garage thanks to remote start. Whoever invented remote start deserves a federal holiday.

I slid the tote onto the passenger seat.

Then I felt the familiar cold at the back of my neck and looked up.

Will stood in the third-floor window, watching me leave. He was still lingering. Still stubborn. Still woven all the way through my life, even from the other side of it.

Some people would call it lucky, getting to see the person you loved after they died. Some days I agreed. Other days it was just the same wound, reopened on schedule.

I swallowed hard, climbed in, and backed out of the garage.

***

By one o’clock I’d knocked out nearly every delivery on my list.

“Lavender and holy basil for Mrs. Larson,” I muttered, parked on Skol Street. “She needs to stop asking me about poisonous plants after the schnauzer incident.”

The neighbor’s dog had destroyed her award-winning lawn. Two years was still a long time to hold a grudge—especially the kind of grudge that comes with follow-up questions about foxglove.

I checked off the rest. Boobie cactus for Maddie Marsh’s mammogram celebration. Graveyard terrarium for Oscar’s wife, which had gone about how you’d expect. African violets for Evelyn.

I tossed the clipboard onto the passenger seat. Yes, a clipboard. I contain multitudes.

“I deserve coffee and a doughnut.”

My reflection in the rearview agreed wholeheartedly.

A few blocks over sat But First, Fika—my best friend Louisa Watterson’s café, in the heart of downtown Andersson Township, among brick buildings that looked weathered and stubbornly unkillable. Lou and I had been inseparable since first grade, when we bonded over glitter glue and a shared contempt for the boys’ table.

Andersson Township is split down the middle by a century-old Scandinavian pride war. Olaf Hills on one side, Vasa Grove on the other, and a lefse rivalry that still simmers under every church potluck.

Outside the café stands the town’s most beloved nightmare: a giant Dala horse known as Big Red. Tourists constantly ask whether it’s a sports mascot. Lou refuses to explain.

The plaque underneath reads:

In honor of tradition, stubbornness, and strong coffee. Don’t climb it. Don’t question it. Just fika.

My phone chimed.

Dad: What’cha up to, daughter? ☀️☕❓

I’d recently taught my father about emojis. There have been consequences.

Me: Finished deliveries, heading to Lou’s. You?

Dad: Your mother is dragging me to the fabric store. 🤦

Me: She doesn’t even sew.

Dad: I’ve learned not to ask questions. ❌

Dad: 😢🍺🦎

Before I could work out the lizard, he sent a GIF of a man taking a very long pull from a beer.

Forty-eight years of marriage: smile, nod, survive. Honestly, it’s a solid strategy.

Inside, warmth and sugar and coffee hit me all at once. Every booth was full of locals solving the world’s problems over pastry. The place looked like a fairytale exploded in it—floral wallpaper, soft blue wainscoting, enough blond wood to make IKEA weep.

“Hey!”

Lewis Campbell, from his usual booth, white beard swaying like a woolly metronome as he launched into the Ghostbusters theme in a broad Upper Midwestern accent.

“Who ya gonna call? Ghooost Giiirl!”

Across from him, his wife put her face in a napkin—the universal signal for Lord, take me now.

“That never gets old, Lewis.” My smile was more fatigue than enthusiasm.

It had, in fact, gotten old around 1998. But Lewis was older than expired milk and sweet as anything, so he got a pass.

“Hey, Lady!” Lou called from behind the counter, dark curls piled in a messy bun that somehow looked effortless. I was a little jealous of that.

“You already started my order, didn’t you?”

She held up a chocolate raspberry doughnut. “Black coffee, too.”

“You know me so well.”

“I know you skipped breakfast.”

“I had a banana.”

“Progress.”

She lowered her voice as she poured. “So. Any sightings today?”

“Yes.”

“The special one?”

I gave her a warning look. “Can we not discuss my dead situationship in front of the entire town?”

Lou glanced around the café. “Pretty sure everyone already knows.”

In a small town, secrets aren’t private. They’re community projects.

“He’s being bossy,” I muttered.

“Wasn’t he always bossy?”

Fair.

I leaned on the counter while she boxed the doughnut. “How are Ethan and the girls?”

“Gymnastics, art class, and sass. Ethan’s chauffeuring.”

“Mia still planning world domination?”

“On the daily.”

“And Taylor?”

“Already cultivating tortured artist energy.”

“You know I support both paths equally.”

Lou grinned. “That’s why you’re their favorite auntie.”

“Heck, yeah, I am.” I gathered my coffee and doughnut. “All right. I should get home before Edgar attempts another death-defying stunt.”

Lou smirked, one brow up. “Oh, he’s definitely done something.”

“Without question.” I blew her a kiss, balancing the box. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Her expression softened. “Text me later, okay?”

I knew what she meant. Tell me if seeing Will gets bad again.

“I will.”

The door chime followed me out. Halfway to Big Mitch, a cold went through me, quick, like stepping off a curb I didn’t see.

I stopped. Waited. Nothing.

Low blood sugar, probably. I got in and started the drive home.

The farther I drove from town, the heavier the air became. Then the cold came up my spine, slow and deliberate, like fingers dragging along bone.

I know that feeling. I get it when spirits are restless, when the echoes of the dead start stirring the air around them.

This wasn’t that.

Every cold I’d ever felt came off something that used to be alive. There’s a thinness to it, like a sound coming from far away. This one was close. This one had weight.

I turned off the highway onto gravel. The cottonwoods closed over the road the way they always do and the light went green and dim, and my hands were sweating on the wheel with the heat off.

Dead people wander through my kitchen and hallways, and I had never once been afraid.

The house came up through the trees.

Something was waiting for me at home. I just didn’t know what.