Can You See It?

CW: Mental health issues, violence, sexual assault, and murder.

“Can you see it?”

 I have never wanted to lie to my brother as much as I did in that moment. We were standing in a crowded corridor in the medical center, outside the psychiatrist’s office that Paul had just left. People were walking busily up and down the hall. Some of them carried cell phones, others held clipboards and paperwork. Some people in the hall were medical types, others clearly civilians.

Paul was in a straitjacket. I’d never seen him so miserable. He looked ten years older than his actual age of 33. I tried to avoid looking into his eyes. The strangers hurrying about their unknown lives proved a great distraction.

My brother and I grew up with very detached and distracted parents. Often left to our own devices, we played together constantly as kids. We were only two years apart in age. We were never far apart geographically, even after we grew up and went on to our adult lives.

Paul got married a while back, but it didn’t last very long. He chose a woman who turned out to be as distant and cold as our parents. I stayed close enough to help him pick up the pieces when it was over.

When he was single again, we started to rebuild our youthful closeness. Which meant that it wasn’t out of character for him to call me in this, his hour of great distress.

This hospital is the regional trauma center where the critically injured, suicidal, and obviously insane are brought first. I suppose the first responders to Paul’s workplace had judged him to be of the latter type.

Now he stood looking at me with such abject terror, I knew I had to give him an answer. And, much as I wanted to, I didn’t lie.

“Yes, I can see her,” I said. I refrained from using the pronoun, “it,” as he had done, because if she was not a hallucination as his doctors believed, then she was most definitely a she.

He seemed relieved by my admission, but it didn’t last. “If you can see it, then I’m not crazy,” he said. “It’s really there. What does it want?”

The “it” he referred to was an apparition, a ghost. Specifically, the ghost of a young woman. She was on fire. Her gaze never left him, even when I spoke, but I knew she was aware of my presence.

She stood very close to him and if she hadn’t been incorporeal, he would’ve felt the heat. I could almost practically feel it. She was transparent, but still I could see every detail of her. She was wearing jeans and a leather jacket. She had tattoos and piercings all over. The expression on her face was odd. I put it somewhere between anger and sadness.

Did I mention she was on fire? Because she was, literally. The woman-who-wasn’t-there was completely engulfed in flames. The pain in her face didn’t seem to come from the fire, though. It looked deeper than that. It was an emotional anguish so intense that I wanted to pity her. But why was she haunting my brother?

“You tell me,” I said. “I don’t know who she is.”

“I don’t know!”

I didn’t believe him. “Ghosts don’t just show up to stare at you if you don’t know who they are. If she’s here, you know her. Tell me. Otherwise, we’re not likely to see the end of her any time soon.”

He looked at his feet. “Can’t you just ask her?” he mumbled.

I tried not to roll my eyes. “What did the doctor say?” I asked, hoping a slight change of subject would soothe him a little. He kept stealing glances at the apparition. I wished whatever medication they’d given him would kick in soon.

“He said I’m having some kind of breakdown brought on by guilt. But if you can see her, then she’s really there and I’m not crazy.”

“No, you’re not crazy,” I assured him.

The flames continued unabated. But she never stopped having hair to burn or clothes to melt. She was a horrifying presence. I knew Paul was probably more terrified now that he knew she was real.

“What did you do?” I asked. The spirit looked at me. He had done something to her. Did Paul kill this woman?

Two men in white coats came and positioned themselves on either side of Paul. “Let’s go to your room now, Mr. Havens,” one of them said. He gently put a hand on Paul’s elbow and began steering him down the hall.

“Talk to the doctor,” Paul pleaded with me as they left. “Tell him I’m not crazy. And please tell it to go away!” The specter followed them.

As they walked away, I saw a middle-aged man in a suit leaning against the door jamb of the office my brother had just exited. I surmised that this was the doctor Paul referred to, so I went over to him.

“And you are?” he asked. He smiled a knowing smile and I knew he’d been watching us.

“I’m Paul’s sister, Anna,” I said. “This is so not like him. I can’t believe what’s going on.”

He extended his hand to shake, but I ignored him. He looked momentarily confused, then regained his composure.

“I’m Dr. Drake,” he said. “Come into my office for a moment, won’t you?” His tone was condescending.

I followed him into his office and took a seat in front of the desk that dominated the dark room. I assumed he was going to tell me what had set my brother off, or worse, what kind of crazy he had diagnosed in my brother. Before he sat in the oversized leather chair behind his impressive desk, he offered me coffee.

“Do you take cream and sugar?” he asked.

“No coffee, thank you. 

He nodded and made one for himself, then sat.

I looked around and found the office charming in a cliché sort of way. The furniture was big, expensive-looking, and made of dark wood. The doctor’s desk was enormous and matching bookcases and tables stood about the room lending an authoritative air.

“He says he can see a woman staring at him. She’s on fire,” he said.

It was then I decided to have a little fun with this doc.

“Yes, he told me as much,” I said.

His eyes searched mine. I guess he expected me to look shocked or frightened, but I didn’t give him any satisfaction.

“I wouldn’t call it a breakdown exactly,” Drake continued. “I believe the hallucination is a product of Post Traumatic Stress.”

“PTSD? From what?” My fear that Paul must have killed this woman was gnawing at me.

“Your brother admitted to me that last night he’d had a few drinks before going home. It was after one in the morning. He said he was stopped at a light and there was no other traffic. There was an alley near the intersection, and when he looked over that way, he saw a young woman being attacked by two men.

“He sat in his car watching while they doused her with some liquid and then set her on fire. He said he was so horrified by the sight that he just took off and never looked back. He said the burning image he’s seeing is that same woman,” he finished.

It sounded plausible, coming from a psychiatrist. But I knew, even if he was in a slightly inebriated state, my brother would never have left someone to die. I said as much to Dr. Drake.

“That’s the story he told me,” he said. “You may draw your own conclusions.”

I had to hear it from Paul. He may have been afraid of confronting the two attackers. But he would’ve called the police. I just could not accept this narrative at face value. I wondered if he had to rescue her and failed. Or did he kill her and the story was a lie?

“Paul said he went home. Then this morning he went to work as usual,” Dr. Drake said. “He said he was sitting at his computer working all the sudden the hallucination appeared. He started screaming and ran from his office. He kept asking if anyone could see it. He was completely irrational by then. Someone must have called 911, because the EMTs showed up soon and brought him here. In the ED, I assessed his state and thought it best to admit him.

“After he was calmer, I brought him here so we could speak in private.”

He paused and I decided this was a good time to drop the bomb. “What would you say if I told you I can see her too?”

“I’d say you’re trying to defend your brother. You can’t accept that he could be having a mental break.”

“That’s a pretty convenient conclusion. Good for you, doc.

“But I’m telling the truth. I can see her. I can describe her to you. I know you were listening from your the door. You know Paul didn’t tell me what he was looking at, just asked if I could see it. Did he give you details?

“Yes.”

“Then let me tell you what he says he sees. A young woman with tattoos and piercings. With hair that ridiculous shade of blue the young girls like now. She had on jeans and a t-shirt under a leather jacket. She was on fire. How am I doing?”

 “What are you saying? Do you believe you’ve seen a ghost?” he asked.

“What else could she be?”

“A hallucination. You must understand, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

A voice over the PA shouted, “Code blue, Room 522!” The psychiatrist leapt up and ran down the hall, me following. We arrived at Room 522 in time to see doctors and nurses working feverishly over Paul. He appeared to be unconscious.

A nurse asked me to leave. I did as instructed, but not before gesturing to the flaming woman who stood off to one side. Her interest in Paul seemed to have waned. She saw me jerk my head in the direction of the door and followed me through it. Someone closed it and we were alone in the hallway.

“All right. You know what I am, you know I can see you, so let’s cut the crap. Why are you haunting my brother?”

She sighed and for the first time, turned off the flames. She looked young, no more than a teenager. She sat in a chair that was against the wall adjacent the door to Paul’s room. I sat next to her.

She sighed and looked at her partially melted hands, which lay in her lap. “We dated a few times. I was a professional.”

“A hooker?”

“Right. Anyway, Paul was looking for me last night. He’d been drinking, more than he admitted. He was a good client. Didn’t demand anything weird, always paid on time, you know. I met up with another john a little earlier. The guy got rough very quick. I got out of his car and ran to that alley. Another guy was there. I think they had it planned. They took turns, there in the dark behind the dumpsters.” She shook her head and her pretty blue locks fell out in ashy clumps, trailed by a wisp of smoke. 

“I knew I wasn’t getting paid for that. But there’s been a John out there killing the girls on the street. The cops are calling him a serial killer. Since he’s picking on working girls, they don’t care.”

“I’ve heard about that,” I told her.

She looked at me. “That’s who I thought these guys were. But then Paul drove by and I was so relieved. He saw me. I thought he would save me.”

“Clearly he didn’t,” I said.

“He did, sort of. He pulled over and got out of his car with a gun. They saw that he was armed and they dropped me and ran out of there, back to their car. They took off and he didn’t go after them. He picked me up and I started to get dressed. I asked him if he would take me home and he said, “Not tonight.”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Are you telling me he expected you to perform for him after what you’d just gone through?”

“I don’t think you know your brother as well as you think you do. She brushed absently at the pile of ash that had formed on her jeans. She looked up from her lap and met my eyes. “Paul is the serial killer the cops have been half-heartedly looking for.”

“I don’t believe you.” I got up and went across the hall.

“I’m dead,” she said flatly. “You know we don’t lie.” She left it at that.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I’d been aware of some of the other dead prostitutes, but Paul killed them? How could he? What could have happened to send him so utterly sideways?

But then suddenly, the pieces began to fall into place for me. I recalled the dead birds that used to appear out of nowhere when we were kids. I remembered my kitten that drowned in the pond behind the house. He blamed that one on the dog, but the dog loved that kitten. Paul’s lifelong fascination with true crime stories, especially unsolved murders came back to me then. I turned to her.

“Why did he set fire to you? I don’t think the others were burned.”

“They weren’t,” she said. “He raped me, there in that alley, just as the other men did. Then he shot me in the head, execution style, just like all the others. When I was dead, he went back to his car and got a gas can. He poured it all over me and lit my body on fire. He took the gas can, his lighter, and everything else that might tie him to the crime, got back in his car and left. I think he burned me because he just happened upon me in that situation. He wasn’t planning to kill me. At least not last night. I suppose he would’ve eventually, though.” The pile of ash was growing again.

“But he was telling the truth about one thing. I was watching him go, leaving me there to burn. Do you know how frustrating it’s been that only he could see me? I wanted so badly to make someone, anyone, see me so they would know what he did! Then you came today. I was glad because I knew finally someone would hear my story. I wasn’t content with just driving him crazy, although there’s a great deal of satisfaction in it. But really, he was mad to begin with, wasn’t he? I wanted to kill him. I tried to. But I’m not as good at affecting the physical as I’d like to be. How do you do it, anyway? How do you make them see. . ?”

But before she could finish the question, Dr. Drake opened the door and emerged from my brother’s room. He looked aggrieved. “We can’t save him,” he said.

“What?” I said. “But how? He was disturbed, not dying.” I brushed past him into the room and looked down at a very pale Paul, motionless on the bed. There were dark bruises on his throat. The doctors and nurses were working hard over his body performing CPR, but could not revive him.

“I’m calling it,” one of them said. The others ceased their frantic attempts. Paul was dead. I turned, not surprised to see him standing next to me. He looked ecstatic. Death becomes him.

“Did she do this to you?” I asked him.

He nodded and pointed to his body’s bruised throat. Sometime between Paul being led here to this private room and the doctor being called up here on a code blue, the flaming woman had extracted her vengeance after all. She must have thought they would be able to revive him and that’s why she told me her story. So I could call him on it. She wanted me to know what he was.

But now he was dead, and a serial killer no longer. Her story, while shocking, was moot. I looked over toward the window. She was there, smiling at us and once again burning away.

“You want to maybe turn the fire off now?” I asked. She winked and blew me a kiss, then flipped off Paul. Then she stepped through the fifth story window and was gone.

I looked at Paul. “How did you keep it from me all these years?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter now?” He looked around the room. “Can we get out of here, this place gives me the creeps.” He laughed and faded from my view.

Then Dr. Drake looked at me. I think he wanted to say, “I’m sorry,” but I didn’t let him get past opening his mouth.

 “Remember in your office when you told me that you don’t believe in ghosts?” I smiled at him.`

“Yes,” he said. “Don’t tell me you can see Paul now?” he asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I can. But that’s not what I want you to know. When we met an hour ago I told you that I’m Paul’s sister. What I didn’t tell you is that I’ve been dead for over three years.”

Slowly I began to fade until he saw nothing in front of him but empty space. I laughed and made damn sure he heard me, too. That shrink looked as though he’d seen a ghost.