I turn, and it follows me, like a zombie hobbling after its meal. Then I’m running up my driveway, suddenly unconvinced that it can’t actually touch me. I know what I’ve read about the creatures, and what my medium mentor, Ms. Josette, has taught me—They can’t hurt you, because they can’t touch you.

So why does the ground shake when they walk, rattling the street pebbles? Why do the asphalt cracks look strained under their footsteps? The hatchbacks and minivans parked on the street seem worried a storm will destroy them.

The creature’s horrible shadow falls over me, sinking my stomach into no-man’s-land.

I’m not the one grieving, so I’d be of no interest to the leeches of dead world. They tend to avoid happy people, instead latching on to the most sullen, tragic person in the room. I’ve only ever grieved my dog, Appa, who died of heart failure two years ago. My family’s mostly alive, except for my grandfather, who died six months before I was born. I don’t think I’ll ever see my dad again, but he’s still alive out there.

Now there’s laughter—children’s laughter—and the pop of a gun.

Something terrible happened in my neighbors’ house.

It’s getting cold too fast, like the entire winter is dropping here and now. A shadow comes down like a blanket of ice as I search my four pockets—slacks and hoodie.

Where are my keys?

There are moments when it controls me. The shadows, the darkness. Moments where I become dizzy, undefined, just a floater like the failed tests in my classrooms.

But I know my porch—a column of white balusters. I know my front door—dead bolt and handle that you push down to get inside. A freezing wind sweeps under my hoodie, pulling me backward. I tilt my way into the house and click the door shut.

The TV’s playing from the living room. Somehow. Mom’s out of town.

“Benji?” I call.

No answer.

The air is cold inside, and the light is so dim that even the earth-tone prints on the wall have lost their luster.

Around the entryway, I find the TV on Channel 2 News.

“We have to put a stop to gun violence. How many more people have to die?”

There’s a headline with a picture of my neighbor—the son of the weeping couple.

Matteo Mooney, Survivor of Heritage High Shooting, Found Dead in Home

Oh my God . . .

Matteo is . . . dead?