The motel room is dark and quiet, the TV is off, and I even shut the air conditioning off just to make sure my silence wasn't interrupted. I slowly roll over to take a look at the alarm clock and realize I'm not going to be able to get any more sleep tonight. Less than three hours again. Lack of sleep only makes the voices worse, and in turn makes me more irritable. The nightstand table has the little remainder of the cheap whiskey and sleeping pill cocktail I took last night. All that and only three hours of sleep. A howl in the distance means that my alone time will be over soon. My hair and face are damp with sweat from the humid room.

I finish off the whiskey and roll out of the cheap, uncomfortable box spring mattress that the motel calls a bed, checking my back to see if the springs I slept on managed to cut me. They'd love that, I'm sure. There's nothing there, and I turn the light on in the bathroom to piss. When I finish, I splash some cold water on my face, the hot water handle is missing, and I'm no plumber. I wouldn't be surprised if this place doesn't even have hot water, and they've removed all the handles just to hide that fact. The man in the mirror is one I hardly recognize, sure he looks familiar to someone I once knew, but so much older and worse for wear. The face of a man who's haunted by the ghosts of his past and the spectres of his mistakes. The stubble is starting to grow back, and the deep purple bags under my eyes grow with each passing night.

"You look like shit," I said.

I do. A year and a half on the run hasn't done me any favors. Handsome in a gaunt, strung-out, insomniac kind of way; not that it matters much anymore. Amber would never approve of me dating anyone, and I don't have the will to see someone willingly. I tie my damp hair back into a ponytail and use the crummy toothbrush and mouthwash to clean my mouth and mask the smell of the alcohol.

Another howl, this one closer, they're almost back. It's about that time when I'm going to need to leave this town behind. I move the curtains and check the parking lot. There's a Harley bike out front calling my name. That's the one. I go back to the bathroom to grab my drying clothes. Washing the black button-up and my jeans in the tub with a bar of soap was a chore, but a necessary one. It's one thing to look dirty, it's another to be actually dirty. Business owners will overlook a lot, but smelling like shit tends to get you thrown out of places. I'd know. I slip into the jeans and finish buttoning the shirt just as I hear a howl that's probably just down the road.

Grabbing my worn leather jacket off the chair, I put it on as I walk out the door of my room. Looks like I was right. Despite how late in the night it is, I can see them bounding down the street, their phantom white forms glowing in the darkness. The four phantom wolves are running down the pavement, but their steps make no noise. The canines are similar to their regular counterparts, except for looking like they're made out of moonlight and the eerily intelligent eyes they possess. All of them rush right at me, pouncing all at once. Despite their spectral appearance, they do not pass through me, but get absorbed into my body. It's always disappointing how quickly five hours pass.

As the souls settle within me, they appear. As always, she's the first to materialize. Her sandals show off her turquoise colored toenails leading to her long legs in black booty shorts struggling to contain her curves. A tight spaghetti strap shirt that stops right above her belly button. Her outfit allows for plenty of her gorgeous black skin to show. Her beautiful face is glaring hatefully at me, her braids hanging over the left side of her head. She's as perfect as the day we met, except for one detail: her neck is covered in black bruises from the last time we fought. What I thought would be our last fight, but it was only the beginning, thanks to my curse.

"What are you thinking about, you pathetic fucking loser?" Amber spat at me.

"About how badly I messed things up. I'm sorry," I apologized.

"Oh, well, if you're sorry, then I guess all's forgiven. Except wait, I'm still dead, Jackal. Because you fucking murdered me," she screamed at me.

"Do not call me that," I snarled.

"What are you gonna do about big man, kill me twice?"

"I didn't mean to," I said softly.

"God, how did I raise such a worthless excuse for a man? You can't let a woman talk to you like that. You need to put her in her place, you miserable pussy. Show her you're in charge, give her a hit or two, and she'll wise up quickly," the ghost of my father criticized.

I don't look at him, because I know what will happen if I do. I'll vomit up the little amount of food I ate yesterday. He'll be looking at me, disappointment clear in the half of his face still remaining. The half that has a working eye, an attached ear, and wasn't mangled by the buckshot from the shotgun that killed him. He'll be dressed in his work uniform as the manager of our local grocery store chain, covered in blood from his violent death. There are holes in his shirt from the pellets that didn't hit his face or neck. Every time I see his face, my stomach churns. He made me feel small as a kid, and hearing his angry voice sends me straight back to my childhood.

"Boy, look at me while I'm talking to you. No son of mine is gonna disrespect his father like this. I SAID LOOK AT ME, BOY," he shouted.

Engaging with Amber or the others is one thing, but I will not give a second to the man who made me and my mother's lives hell. Ignore him. The moment I respond, it will only encourage him to berate and abuse me further. You can't win against my father; you can only steer clear of him. Burying my head in my hands, I brace for who is coming next. Quiet laughter, hoarse from straining, comes from my left. Amber backs away as Chester comes out, but not Jack Miller Sr. When faced with a dangerous psychopath, my father doesn't cower; he acts brave. My old man is the kind of man who believes weakness is a sin and that children shouldn't cry.

Chester looks like a regular guy, a completely normal neighbor you'd see anywhere—the kind with kids of his own, a gorgeous wife, and a white picket fence. And that's because he was, if you ignore that he was killing prostitutes on his weekend work trips. Perfectly combed hair, a green and white sweater vest, brown slacks, and freshly shined shoes, he looks like a librarian. The knife sticking out of his forehead is the only clue he's not as alive as he seems. I picked him up in Chicago after he killed a friend of mine. Delilah. A girl down on her luck and trying to make the best of a bad situation. She was turning her life around until this sick freak killed her. Hiring sex workers, fucking them, and then torturing them by chopping them into pieces was Chester's MO. The only passenger I don't regret, Chester, needed to die.

"Good evening, Jack. Amber, you look as exquisite as you always do. You remind me of my dear Maria when we first met," Chester said soothingly.

"Fuck off, creep," Amber said.

"Leave her alone, Chester," I said sternly.

"Oh, Jack, I would never try to get between true love. I'm but a fellow appreciator of art, and if Amber doesn't classify as such, then what can claim to be?" Chester asked.

A part of me likes Chester despite his gruesome nature. He's charming, supportive, and friendly. A close confidant who just wants to be my friend. He's the only one of my ghosts who doesn't make me feel like a piece of shit. Which is funny considering his death was the one I never felt an ounce of remorse for. Sniffling, followed by hiccuping tears, is the sign that Joey is here now. The small six-year-old boy is scared and tired. I don't blame him, and looking at his snapped body fills me with such revulsion and self-hatred that I contemplate ending it all. A drug-fueled bender where I tried to escape the shadows haunting me, that started with stealing a car and ended with a dead child. Now, Joey is trapped, tethered to me like the other ghosts.

"I miss my mom," Joey whined.

"I know, sweetie. I know," Amber said, comforting him.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Coddling the child will only make him as feminine and weak as my pitiful bastard. It's his mother's genetics at work, making him as fragile and stupid as she was," my father said.

"God, will you shut the fuck up?" Amber hatefully asked.

I close my ears, blocking out the noise from my bickering passengers. Killing myself would end my suffering. If I weren't too scared to end it all. But after seeing how awful the spirits who haunt me are, the idea of an afterlife, or lack thereof, scares the hell out of me. Despite ending four lives, the idea of the fifth terrifies me. So instead, I wander around, tormented by souls my selfishness claimed. For so many, powers are a gift, but how could mine be anything other than a curse? I kneel down and get to work starting the motorcycle in front of me. It takes me a few tries, but at this point in my cross-country journey, I'm pretty good at hotwiring vehicles. The Harley roars to life, drowning out the sounds of the four of them. I hear someone yell, the owner, probably, as I ride off with his stolen bike. I go where the wind takes me.

The bike is running out of gas, and I'm almost out of money. I'm going to need to either find somewhere to work for a bit or rob a place. I see a sign that there's a town ahead, called Serendipity. Better than nothing, maybe I'll get lucky and they won't recognize me. I pull into the local mechanic shop/gas station named Ole' Carls. It's got a single pump, and the shop is empty of any cars being worked on. Serendipity seems like a tiny place cut off from the rest of the country—a town where, hopefully, no one asks questions about a stranger just rolling through. An older man comes out from the small shop, his skin tanned like dried fruit leather. He stares at me warily, and for a moment, I wonder if he recognizes me.

"You could always kill him. I know I wouldn't mind the company. I can talk you through it, and no one would ever have to know," Chester said.

"I'm not a killer," I whispered under my breath.

"Is calling you a killer hurting your feelings? You've murdered four people, you freak. What else do you call someone who does that?" Amber asked.

"It was an accident," I mumbled.

"It sure didn't feel like an accident as you choked me to death, as I fought against you, as I begged you to stop. And I don't give a fuck whether you meant to or not. I'm dead because of you, and I will never stop reminding you of that," Amber said.

"You okay, son?" The older man, presumably Ole' Carl, asked.

"Y, yeah. Sorry, I've been riding all night and I'm equal parts tired and hungry," I answered.

"In that case, you should go check out Krystal's Kitchen a little bit down the road. Her hotcakes are to die for. They get their milk, eggs, and honey from McKnolly's farm. Can't beat that," Ole' Carl said.

"I'll have to check it out then," I laughed.

I finish filling up the bike and give him my second-to-last twenty-dollar bill. If my last twenty can't pay for Krystal's food, then I'm going to either get a job there or have to liberate their cash register. Ole' Carl waves at me as I pull off, heading toward the place. The four ghosts perfectly follow me. They go where I go, they're inescapable. About half a mile later, I spot the restaurant. It's an unsuspecting place, with metal siding making up the majority of the place, except for the large glass windows on the front of the building. There are a few cars parked in front, the gravel parking lot not having lines. I pull in and leave the bike behind as I walk inside.

There's a family of three in a corner booth, as well as an older couple sitting at a table. Three men sit at the bar, each reading the newspaper and occasionally making one-off remarks to each other. From the state of the place, I should be fine with what remains of my meager money. Looking around, I pick a booth off to the side once I see that there aren't any televisions. I should be safe here. Such a small town probably doesn't pay attention to manhunts. Joey asks whether they have French toast, and that diverts Amber's attention to him and off of me. Seeing her act so motherly makes me yearn for her touch, her warmth, and the future we could have had together. But we can't touch, my hands just pass through her, and she can't feel a thing anymore. Any future we could have had is strictly spoken of in hushed tones and the past tense. The only thing that's keeping her warm is her burning hatred of me and what I took from her in a moment of misplaced passion. Chester wanders around the diner, and even though I know he can't touch these people, my heart pounds nervously. Amber and Joey sit at the table on my left, and my father decides to sit across from me.

"Stop slouching like a migrant vagrant. You've got Miller blood, however diluted by the fragility of your mother's pampering and gentle touch, and Miller men are made of stronger stuff," he barked.

"Showing a child love and compassion is pampering or weakness, you frigid fuck," I said with my head in my hands.

"You say somethin'?"

I spread my fingers and see that a waitress is holding a coffee pot. She's the one who spoke to me. I smile, but it's forced and weary. Thankfully, she doesn't question it and just fills my cup up with the scalding hot brown liquid before walking away. Coffee is something that I've grown to love as I wander. Anything that keeps me focused and alert is a benefit, and even more so if it isn't absorbed through my nose. Not that artificial drugs have any effect on me anymore. The same curse that makes these miserable wraiths hound me also makes me immune to poison. I take a sip, and the burned and clearly reheated liquid flows down my throat, sending pleasant shivers down my legs. I grab the menu and look through it. The little girl shouts something about curly fries as the waitress drops off their food. She comes back after a few minutes to refill my cup and take my order.

"Can I get three hotcakes with honey and butter. And two eggs, sunnyside up, with bacon," I asked after doing the math in my head.

"Sure, be right out with it," she said, walking away.

"Can I have one of your hotcakes, mister?" Joey asked me kindly.

I just don't have the energy to explain that he can't even eat it, so I just nod. Amber's face softens for a split second before she remembers she despises me. The waitress comes back shortly, holding two plates with the food on them. The hotcakes are hanging off the plate; they're so large. The smell of everything makes my stomach grumble. I keep my head down to avoid seeing my father's mutilated face so I don't ruin my appetite. Scarfing down the eggs, bacon, and all but one hotcake that I leave on the plate. I get up and put it on the table where Joey and Amber are sitting; none of the other patrons see me do it, which saves me from having to explain my strange actions. I flag down the waitress again to get my check. This place doesn't deserve trouble; I'll find money some other way.

"You're all set," she said, pointing over at the family. "They paid for your meal."

"Okay."

I gotta at least say thanks. Walking over to them, I notice just how big the man is. He's like some kind of bodybuilder. His face is angular with a strong jaw, unlike my own. His eyes are a mix of green and brown that remind me of Joey's for some reason. His face transitions into a smile when I arrive at the table. The woman's got a weird haircut that's growing back unevenly, but she's very kind-looking. The daughter, the one who yelled about curly fries, also smiles at me. What a happy family.

"Hey, sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to say thanks for the meal. Kindness from strangers is a rarity nowadays, so thanks," I said sheepishly.

"You've been alone for so long you've forgotten what kindness feels like, haven't you?" The mother asked me.

"Look at you groveling at the feet of strangers. Disgusting," my father spat.

"Don't hurt them, Jackal," Amber said.

"Can you tell her I said hi?" Joey asked me.

Chester is the only one to remain silent, which weirds me out more than if he said something creepy. Her words cut deep. I'm surrounded by negativity nearly every waking second, and it's wearing me down to the bone. I've gotta get out of here before I start crying in front of strangers. Before I can turn away, the woman puts her hands on mine.

"God has a plan for all of us, child. Only he can provide salvation. His love fills us with warmth and helps settle our souls. Take a seat," she said.

Oh, she's one of them. I wait for one of my passengers to say anything, but they're all silent. There's a warmth from her hands that makes me feel at ease. Is this what she's talking about? A sense of peace fills me, and the large man scoots over, beckoning me to join them. Even though I was planning on leaving just a minute ago, I take her invitation and sit down in the booth. The voices are still silent, and as I pull my eyes away from the woman, I don't see my ghosts anywhere. The calm tranquility of the moment centers me, and I relax, tension bleeding away from me. My problems, my mistakes, and my ghosts are gone right now. I can't remember the last time I felt this safe and comfortable. I need to thank her for this.

"Thank you so much," I said, tiredness threatening to make me slumber.

"It is His will," she replied.

"Who are you?" I asked, my eyes struggling to stay open.

"You can call me Mother," she answered.

"Mother? Seriously, whatever you're doing, thank you," I said.

The last thing I hear before my head hits the table is her voice speaking softly to me.

"Of course. Mother loves her children."

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