Author Notes:

if you think this story is going to be all about Héctor and Aida… don't worry. There's something big coming up. Something Hector isn't saying.
(I'd like to say trust me... but that's probably bad advice)

Chapter 8: Ghosts

December 1924

"Ay amigo, you off to see your whore again? Bit early for you, ain't it?"

"What?" Héctor yelped, spinning around and nearly dismembering another skeleton with the guitar in his hand as he moved towards the stairway.

Alvaro looked up at him fondly from where he slouched against a wall. "Yeah, man! Every night you run off for a few hours, always same time. What else would you be doing? She must be cute, eh? Does she have any friends?"

"What? No, no! There isn't anyone. I'm married. I'm very happily married. I'm going to work." He lifted his guitar case as proof, annoyed when the other man simply laughed.

"Heh, whatever you say!" Alvaro tilted his hat over his eyes against the late afternoon glare, but it didn't hide his broad grin.

Héctor considered arguing, saying that of course there isn't another woman, that would be ridiculous. Well, maybe not as ridiculous as he would have once thought. He knew by then that skeletons could, apparently, have sex, although he still wasn't sure about the details of it. Every time he tried to imagine it he was too distracted by the dumb sounds of clacking and the fact there was no skin or... fleshy bits. The few unlucky times he had accidentally walked in on two interlocked skeletons, he had hurried away very quickly, thinking that it was an awful lot of bones, and that skeletons were weird.

But instead of trying to persuade Alvaro that, no, of course he wasn't cheating on his wife, the thought of which made him furious and somewhat queasy, he turned and stomped down the stairs, grumbling under his breath.

"As if I'd… I told him I'm married! He knows that… and why is that the first thing he thinks of?"

On the other hand, perhaps he shouldn't be too shocked. Early on he had noticed he was one of the very few men to leave the house on a regular basis and wasn't sure if anyone else there bothered with work or going much to the Land of the Remembered. There was no real need for work or money, since there was no real need for food or medicine or even rent. Yet for all that, he noticed that food and alcohol appeared regularly enough. But he couldn't just sit around doing nothing and wait for his next chance to cross the Marigold Bridge, or he'd go crazy.

Once outside he saw that it was later than he thought, the thin winter sun casting a cool light over everything. He passed two men smoking and talking on the verandah who ignored him as he left the house. He refused to call it home; it was just the place where he slept. That was all. And he hated it.

After such a short time after his arrival in Shantytown, any lingering optimism he might have had was thoroughly shattered. No matter what anyone might say, he knew in his heart he didn't belong there with the worn, gray souls in their worn, gray world. Maybe on the next Dia de Los Muertos he would be able to cross and see his family again. Hopefully. Assuming anyone actually cared that he had died. Imelda and Coco must surely be missing him...

As he walked along the broad paths towards the worn steps of the pyramid leading out, he passed a few women grinding their maize for the evening meal, laughing and talking animatedly with each other. With a broad grin and a hopping step he called out, "Buenos tardes, Señoras!"

The women glanced up at him and the smiles vanished, all of them going silent. He kept walking, his own grin dropping as he turned back to the main road, and felt that familiar chill, the stares that seemed to pinch between his shoulder blades. He should have been used to it, but he wasn't. Alvaro said all the men of the house got that kind of reaction, and to not worry about it. He tried to ignore it. It didn't work very well.

He didn't belong there.

Therefore, while he was by custom supposed to live in that miserable underworld, most of his days were spent wandering around the bright land of the Remembered, hoping to find some work as a mariachi. That afternoon he went to his favorite spot, Plaza de Flora, and was mildly disappointed to see a full mariachi band already playing on stage, the open space filled with dancers and party-goers. If he wanted to earn any money, he would need to find somewhere else, maybe at the Marigold Station, although he didn't hold out much hope for earning much. Most days he was lucky to get a few pesos, and those seemed mainly tossed to him out of pity. He had thought that with a real guitar in his hand he could choose music again as a career. But he didn't look the part, his guitar was sad and beaten, and most people wouldn't spare him a second glance.

Either way, he had to keep trying. But, for a few minutes, he let himself relax, leaning on his guitar case and watching the dancers spinning with swirls of colors and shouts of laughter. Everyone seemed so happy, so strangely full of life. Even though they were all dead, they didn't seem to mind. It made him wonder.

"Excuse me, Señor?"

Héctor jumped, shocked to see a young-looking woman standing at his side who also lurched back.

"Ah... perdóname, I didn't mean to surprise you," she said, a little shocked herself at his sudden reaction, and speaking perhaps louder than was called for over the noise of the dancing.

"Oh, ah… that's all right. What, uh... what can I do for you?" He glanced at his guitar case propped under his elbow and wondered if maybe he'd be lucky enough to get a job inquiry.

"I was hoping to ask a favor of you. Well, for my friend." She turned her head, gesturing behind her. "She's too shy to ask you herself, but she would… she wondered if you would like to dance with her."

"Eh?" He blinked at her, almost slipping and knocking his guitar to the ground. "She what?"

"My friend. Wants. To dance. With you." Her voice grew a little louder as people broke out into applause as the song ended, before dropping her voice to a normal tone and volume. "She's just over there. See? By the orange and blue alebrije, yeah?"

Héctor looked to where she was pointing and saw a probably pretty-looking skeleton standing by the dance floor, her hands buried in the depths of her flowing skirt the color of a morning glory, purple and white. She glanced up at Héctor then quickly down, apparently quite shy.

"Uhh..." Something ached in his chest, so strong he almost felt sick. But that was impossible because he was dead and the dead don't get sick. Yet the feeling only grew stronger.

"Just one dance," the woman said when he didn't manage to think of any words in his head other than reminding himself that he was dead and everything about this was wrong.

"Why, uh… why me?"

She looked surprised but gave a little shrug. "You seemed nice. And you're about her age, possibly. And um… you seem, well… young. Like us."

Looking around, he saw what she meant. Most of the other skeletons around them had gray or white hair or stood hunched over, or just gave the impression of having lived a full life, unlike them. They were some of the only young skeletons there, and that struck him painfully. How had she died so young? Both of them?

"Look, Señor," she said, catching his attention. "We're both um… new here. To all of this. And uh… we're both still getting used to being, you know… this." She gestured to her skeletal face, to her body, to the sharp curve where her stomach used to be.

"Oh," he said, understanding sinking in.

The woman went on a quick, hushed voice, as if anxious to tell someone these things, to let a little bit of the weight off her chest. For some unknown reason, she had chosen him.

"It's just, it's odd being bones. We don't… we don't feel human, you understand? I just want her to feel normal. Just a little hint of being ourselves, and so she asked if you could, mmm, if you could just dance with her. Let her feel like a woman, just a little bit."

"Oh," he said again, feeling even more awful.

"She's very sweet," the woman said, almost beseeching him, wringing her hands and he realized they were gloved. Perhaps to hide the sight of the bones.

"I… I'm sure she is. And I mean no offense, but I… I'm sorry. I can't. I'm sure she's nice, and I wish I could help but I… I just can't."

It was true. He felt that if he were to actually step onto that dance floor with the skeleton in the purple skirt, he might break apart. Mentally or physically, he wasn't quite sure. But he knew he couldn't handle that kind of pain.

God, he missed Imelda.

"I wish you both the best of luck. Truly." He felt almost unbearably guilty, and took a small step away, dimly aware of a new song beginning to play. "I'm sure there's plenty of other handsome young men to dance with her. But I just… I can't. Not now. I'm… I'm very sorry."

A quick glance at her showed the fallen face, the muted look of pain, and he thought it was an odd reflection of his own. He took his guitar and left, wishing he hadn't gone there. Perhaps it was just bad timing, he reasoned. Or bad luck.

He thought he had been getting better. Most days he would be ok, the pain still there but bearable, like a persistent headache. But then it would suddenly flare up and he would be almost sick with missing his family and home. Little things would set him off. Dumb, little things like seeing Imelda's favorite pan dulce in a window, or a purple hair ribbon, or hearing a woman singing.

He thought he would be ok. It was just dancing, and he had been watching. Yet the pain had struck fast and hard, deep in his gut. How was he supposed to do this without Imelda? The noises from the Square faded away as he walked, replaced by the muted sounds of a city settling in for the night, or perhaps waking up, with song and laughter and calls to friends. Sounds of families. Finally, he stopped along a street he didn't recognize and leaned a hand against a wall, ignoring the skeletons moving past him, and let himself breathe. Or pretend to breathe. It was easier to pretend if he didn't look down and see his own ribcage moving.

Where could he go? He couldn't return to the house, not like that. Not when he felt so thin in spirit, like he might drift apart. Then he remembered about his one tiny refuge in that world: the abandoned place. It wasn't much but it gave him a goal, enough that he was able to focus and felt himself settle. With that aim in mind, he hoisted up his guitar and went to find a familiar street, hoping he wouldn't get lose his way again before nightfall.

Fortunately, he was less lost than he imagined and it wasn't long before he was walking down the old stone steps and going to the western edge of Shantytown. The sun was nearly touching the horizon, and it was growing steadily colder as the wind picked up off the surrounding water that he walked along, past the scattered ancient buildings, many with missing roofs or collapsed into piles of rubble. It was a quiet, lonely place that felt somehow more haunted than the rest, which was perhaps redundant. He had never seen anyone or anything out there except vague movements in the distance that stopped when he turned to look. But he breathed better out there, and felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

Eventually he came to his usual little pier. There was still rope on the end beams, moldy and black as if there had once been a boat tied up, or perhaps even a home. Whatever it was, it was long gone. He sat down, feeling the old waver a little beneath him, and pulled out a small journal from his pocket bag. Opening to a new page, he wrote,

Mi Amor,

Then he paused. What could he tell her? He wasn't sure if she would ever read any of it, but if nothing else it made her and Coco feel closer, kept them bright in his memory. He went to lick his pencil, remembered he had no tongue, and settled for tapping it against his chin before he thought of something reasonable.

Today I went to the plaza to play as usual, except there was already a band and couples were dancing the jota and even the jarabe. I wish you could have seen it. I wish you could be here, but…

I don't know if I'll ever get used to being dead. Maybe some people get over it faster than others. Maybe some never feel comfortable in these empty bodies.

The pencil stopped writing as he looked at the hand holding it, at the hard white bones. He missed the look and feel of his skin, the callouses on his fingers, the faint scar on the back of his left knuckle, the warmth. He rolled his hand into a fist, hating the sight of it. His eyes went back to the page, trying to focus on the dark tip of the pencil and the quick creation of each letter.

I hope you're all right. Maybe by the time you're here, I'll be used to everything and can help you figure it all out. Hopefully one day we can even dance again. I honestly don't know if I could bear doing it with anyone else. Guess that's kinda sad?

Do you still dance? Or sing? Do you ever miss me remember how we'd sing and dance in the kitchen with Coco? Is she getting too big for that? I wish I could hold her one more time. I wish I could go home.

A long, low sigh escaped him as he stared at those last words. He didn't know how many times he had written them, or some variation of. But he couldn't go home. And even if he were to cross the Bridge someday, it wouldn't be the same, watching his family from the wrong side of the veil.

Little Coco would be almost eight in the living world. Over four years since he'd last seen her, and she probably would have grown a lot by then. But he was sure she would still be small enough that he could scoop her up and spin her like before. What he wouldn't give for just one more day with them, all together in their little kitchen, with golden afternoon sun spilling in from the window. It was so real, he almost thought he could smell the familiar sweet-spicy waft of chiles poblanos, could hear the scuffling of feet on the wooden floorboards and Coco's giggles as he hummed a little tune, holding one tiny hand in his own. He could almost feel it, it was so close...

Then it was gone, and he was again sitting on an old wooden pier, alone at sunset. He clapped the little book shut, and put it back in his pouch.

As the memory lingered he picked up his guitar and set it on his lap, looking up at the slowly rising moon as he gave a few tentative plucks. He wondered if it really was the same bright moon as in the Land of the Living, and wondered if Coco might be looking up at it as well. Did she still sing their song every night?

"Recuérdame..." He closed his eyes, remembering sitting beside Coco as he lulled her to sleep, like when she was little. "Hoy me tengo que ir mi amor…"

Like every night, he sang for her and hoped that somehow she might hear, that she would understand how much her Papá loved her, and missed her. He reached the final words, a faint whisper, and then let it trail away into silence.

Exhaustion pulled heavy on him, his hands limp on the taut strings of the guitar. But then he shook his head, and let his body shake all the way down his spine. He couldn't think like that. At least Imelda and Coco were alive, and had each other, and Imelda had her family. At least they were fine. They had to be. And one day he would get to see them again, he just had to be patient. In the meantime, even though he didn't have his family, he still had music, and felt himself smile. Things would be fine. He'd be ok.

The new-risen half-moon crept through the thin clouds as he strummed his guitar, trying to pin down a new tune with lyrics half-formed in his head, something about worlds apart and hands reaching across shadowy veils, and time spinning slowly. He felt better, the sharp pain from the dance once again numb and hidden. Out there in the light of the moon, he almost felt content. Then he felt it, same as always.

Someone was watching him.

He noticed it on the very first night there, a prickling along his neck. Perhaps it was simply an alebrije, he thought, and so ignored it. Then, two days after that, he thought he saw someone. There had been a chill in the air and he was tired, so he didn't stay out as long as usual. But when he pulled himself up and turned around, he thought he saw a flicker of movement behind a building, but it was all clear when he went to look.

Once he had mentioned it to Alvaro, and said that the place by the water might be haunted. But Alvaro had only laughed. Of course it was haunted, he had said, smiling without warmth. They were all ghosts, and soon they would disappear. Héctor remembered the look on his face at those words, and felt a chill, just as he had then. Alvaro was familiar with ghosts. Sometimes he would hear a woman's wailing or the desperate cries of the man who hung from the same mesquite tree as him. Once Héctor awoke to him shaking his shoulder, frantic and gibbering about the soldiers over the hill. Come morning, he was bright and cheerful as ever, and neither spoke about what had happened. Nor any other morning after.

They were all ghosts. One day they would disappear.

A fresh shiver crept up his spine, and he became more acutely aware of the feeling of being stared at, of someone or something lurking in the shadows. He stopped playing with a harsh twang. Glancing around, the place seemed deserted, and he rubbed the back of his too-narrow neck to stop the uneasy feeling.

"Is anyone there?" he called out, his eyes flickering left and right. But there was no response. He decided quickly that that was quite enough playing for the night, and that he should leave. He began carefully walking back over the loose walkway, just coming to the main path when something caught his attention, a strange shape he hadn't noticed before. Did it just move? It didn't seem to fit with everything else around it, and he carefully crept closer, hand tight on the handle of his guitar case. It was almost too dark to see, hidden in the shadow of a rotten shack, but there was something odd about it. It almost looked like a hunched-over figure.

"Hello?" he said softly, his eyes not leaving the thing. "Uh, is… is someone there?"

Not a word of answer. Maybe it was just a bit of dark wood and he was becoming paranoid. Maybe he shouldn't be freaking out over every little shadow. Yet...

He edged closer and reached out a cautious hand, when suddenly the figure leapt up and he screamed, flinging himself back and stumbling to the ground. He looked around, crab walking back, but instead of being attacked, the thing was instead sprinting down the path. And whatever it was... seemed to be wearing a skirt.

Héctor sat up, chest heaving. "Wha-what the... Hey! You can't just spy on me and run off like that, it's weird!"

To his shock, she actually stopped and spun about, the skirt flaring wide.

"I'm not spying!" she shouted back, ludicrously indignant. "This is where I live! I can't help if I hear you stomping past my house every night."

"What? Wait... wait, you live here? I thought this place was deserted." He shakily stood up again, quickly looking up and down the dark shapes of houses, but didn't see a single light. He never had.

"That's none of your business," the woman said loudly.

"What… ok, then." He didn't know what was happening. "Hey, uh... are you the one who's been listening to me for the past couple weeks? Just... watching me?"

"Maybe."

There was silence. Héctor blinked and was almost surprised she didn't just vanish.

"Oh," Héctor said, feeling uncomfortable. "Ok, look, that's weird—"

"You're the one stalking around in the middle of the night!"

"I just wanted somewhere quiet to play music! I wasn't sneaking around, I just… I wanted someplace where I could be alone, is that so much to ask?" With a sigh he turned away, gazing about at the familiar open space and felt the wind blow colder. Maybe it was his fault. Even there in the emptiness, he wasn't wanted. He ran a hand over his face as he sighed.

"Ay mi... listen Señorita, I didn't mean to cause you any trouble. If you don't want me to play here, I can leave."

"N-no, it's… it's fine." She seemed like she was fiddling with the fabric of her skirt. "I didn't mean to spy on you. It's just that, I... I like that song you sing, I've never heard it before. It's really good. The one... Recuérdame?"

He stiffened. She hard heard him? No one else was supposed to hear that song, not even Imelda. It was just for him and Coco. But this woman wouldn't have known that, he reminded himself, and bit back the retort in his throat.

"It's a song I wrote. For my daughter. I... it's a promise between us. Just us." He said the last line a bit more forcefully than he intended, but that this strange woman had been listening all the while irked him. "I'd rather no one else hear it, to be honest."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, genuine and almost hurt. "I... I didn't know. I just heard your music and... I didn't know."

Silence met those words, and the twinge of anger in his heart fled. She sounded so... lonely. He gave a long look back at the dock, just visible in the thin light, and tried to imagine it. Had she heard him night after night and would come just to listen? Never saying a word? Why? Maybe she was alone in the world. Like him.

"I didn't mean to intrude," she said, making him turn. "I just... you can keep playing here, I won't bother you again." With that she turned to leave, looking smaller than before.

"Hey, wait!" he called out, making her lift her head. "You know, Señorita, you can come up here if you'd like, rather than hiding. I wouldn't mind you listening. Well, ok except for just that one song. I, uh... it's always the first one I play, so after that, I don't mind. If you'd like."

There was a pause while she seemed to be thinking. Then she walked away without another word.

"Ah, hang on! I didn't mean to…"

But she was gone, vanished into the darkness. Héctor stood there a long moment, staring at the now empty pathway and wondering if he had said the wrong thing. Or maybe just imagined it.

Later that night he made a second entry into his journal by the light of a candle, just before going to sleep amidst the sound of snoring. And shouldn't it be impossible to snore as a skeleton? Apparently not. He frowned blearily at his pencil, annoyed as tried to lick the tip until he remembered again that he couldn't. He was exhausted, but this was something he might have written to Imelda when he was on the road traveling, and he wanted to share it with her.

Real tired so I'll be quick, but funny thing happened tonight. Met this weird girl. Which doesn't sound so weird, but it was. Might have been a ghost, but I don't think so. Still not sure if ghosts exist here or not, so that makes it more complicated. I think she's been watching me? For weeks? I should probably be a little worried, but I'm too tired. It'll be fine, right? It doesn't mean anything probably.

G'night, mi amor.

The following night, he went back to the same, dark dock and played his guitar into the stillness, staring up at the familiar, white moon.

Soon after, he felt a prickling on the back of his neck.

Author Notes:

Whew, another chapter! This one turned out being sadder than I expected, but gotta show that pain before we get to the comfort part of the hurt/comfort.

This chapter took me quite a while to finish. Really, just editing took the longest! I kept getting too distracted by the other fun stuff coming up (next chapter is a fun one. Kinda). Funny thing about this... it used to be one of the most important parts of my story, very very early on in the drafts before I knew what was actually going to happen. But I still think it's good to establish Hector's early life here, to better appreciate how much changes over time.

Next chapter: Ambushed (in which Hector is bad at interviews)