Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: T

Spoilers: Through current episodes, particularly strong from Heeeeere's Lassie

Chapter Eight: Don't Stop

"Al, do you believe in…ghosts?"

"Say what now, sugar?"

"Ghosts. Poltergeists, I suppose. Haunted houses. That kind of thing."

"Carly, I grew up forty miles from the Big Easy. Not believing in ghosts was a luxury we couldn't afford. Why you asking? I thought that all turned out to be some crazy lady."

"Yeah, yeah it was. But…gosh, I don't know. Place is still a little bit…different…from what I'm used to. Maybe it's just residual…"

"Spill it."

"It's nothing, Al, it's just…"

"Come on, now, don't leave me hanging."

"Well, things…move. On their own. And O'Hara called me from there this afternoon and she said that she heard a James Taylor song playing. I would think it was an electrical malfunction of some kind, but the only sound system near the door is the hi fi in the living room, and I had a Roy Orbison album on the turntable. And I don't even have James Taylor on CD, so I guess that rules out the stereo in my bedroom, 'cause I haven't been able to pull in FM radio since I moved in. The entire condo seems to be an airwave dead zone."

"Uh huh. Well I got a perfectly reasonable explanation for you, sweetie pie."

"That's a relief, Al. What is it?"

"You got a ghost, baby."

"…Gee. Why didn't I think of that?"

"You did."

- … - … -

The first thing he did when he stepped inside unit five thirty-six was check the record player. James Taylor, with the arm stopped in the blank groove between "You've Got a Friend" and the next song, "Carolina In my Mind." A quick check of the neatly alphabetized albums stored in the hi fi's cabinet showed that Roy Orbison was in its proper cover and place, as though he'd put it there himself - which he knew he had not. You got a ghost, baby. Fortunately a considerate ghost who knew the value of keeping a vintage music library in proper order. Hopefully it also knew about gripping from the edges and not getting phantasmagoric fingerprints all over the grooves…

He did wonder, briefly, if the drugs he'd inhaled, perhaps coupled with the aftereffects of chloroform and salvia from earlier in this same bizarre year, hadn't given him some lingering brain damage.

He flopped down onto the couch. Life used to be so simple, before ghosts, crazy ladies who sneak drugs into apartment ventilation systems, blood-stealing girlfriends, lying partners, fake psychics…divorces…marriages…mothers "coming out" at graduations…crap. Okay, maybe life had never been simple. But it would be nice to have a quiet moment to pretend it was. Maybe while he was dreaming he could pretend there was a moment in his past, present, or future where he could see a little unfettered happiness.

He must have fallen asleep - not long, only a few minutes, tops - but there was the definite and disorienting sense of suddenly waking when he hadn't first realized he'd been sleeping.

"Why not think about times to come and not about all the things that you've done? If your life was bad to you, well just think of what tomorrow will do. And don't stop thinking about tomorrow. Don't stop, 'cause it'll soon be here. It'll be even better than before, 'cause yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone."

He shot to his feet and yanked the needle off the record with so much force he nearly pulled the arm off the turntable altogether. Fleetwood Mac. He checked the neat line of album covers. James Taylor was secure in its thin cardboard sleeve. This is getting ridiculous.

"Look, you got something to say? Say it," he said out loud, aware of how crazy it was to be talking to a condominium. He was also aware, somewhat belatedly, that the condo or ghost or whatever was apparently quite capable of talking and doing rather well at it, thanks to his extensive record collection. He ran his hands through his hair in distraction, making it stand out wildly, and went to the kitchen for a dose of ibuprofen.

While he was swallowing two orange pills the music came back on. Stevie Wonder this time.

"I just called to say I love you…I just called to say how much I really care…" Crap on a cracker. He hoped that wasn't an editorial comment - he had enough problems without dealing with a ghost-crush.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked aloud. He heard the wince-inducing scratch of a needle being dragged across a record in the wrong direction. Okay, he and the ghost were going to have to have a little chat about the care and handling of vinyl. The music started again. Brenda Lee, this time.

"I'm sorry…so sorry…that I was such a fool…"

Okay, that could have been an apology for being creepy although it was way too late for that, but he suddenly thought that both songs were leading him to an entirely different conclusion.

"Are you trying to tell me to call O'Hara and apologize, like Al told me to?" he said.

The music stopped. Either he did not possess a record to express an answer to that question or the ghost felt it had gotten its point across. Great, now I'm being nagged about my manners by a poltergeist.

He pulled out his cell phone. Abasing himself was preferable to more musical conversation with ethereal beings. Maybe this was all a loneliness-induced hallucination.

She answered on the third ring, which probably meant he'd caught her in the middle of something. Damn.

"Detective O'Hara."

"O'Hara, it's Lassiter…"

"Oh, hey, Carlton, I was just about to call you. I made an appointment for you with Dr. Igbald for tomorrow morning at nine thirty. He was the only dentist I found who was able to get you in so quickly."

"Er…you made the appointment for me?"

"Chief asked me to," Juliet admitted. "She said you'd procrastinate."

"…I probably would have, actually. In fact, I guess I kind of…was."

"She's got your number," Juliet sing-songed. "And oh geez, I commandeered this phone call, didn't I? What did you have on your mind?"

I just called to say I love you, Stevie Wonder piped up unbidden in his head. "I, uh, just wanted to apologize for what happened today. To actually apologize, which I realized after the fact that I didn't really do. I was an ass. Which I expect you're used to, by now, but that doesn't mitigate the offense."

"It was my fault, Carlton. I was deliberately pushing your buttons just because I felt oogy."

"Oogy?" He shook his head to clear it. "Even if you were, that doesn't mean I had to rise to the bait. I'm…very good at being really mean. Family characteristic."

"I was being mean, I - "

"Juliet, as far as I can determine you are incapable of being genuinely mean. Now will you please stop fox-trotting all over my apology and let me apologize?"

"Fox-trotting?"

"Two-stepping?"

She giggled. "I like that one. Okay, I'll stop Tennessee waltzing on your apology."

"Oh, that was a good one. Much better than what I came up with in case two-stepping didn't cut it."

"Which was?""Mambo Italiano-ing."

She laughed out loud and he smiled. "Carlton, I have something I want to tell you," she said. "It's what I really wanted to talk to you about this afternoon. I think I finally have the guts to just have out with it. But not over the phone, I'd much rather be sure it's a…private…conversation. Mind if I come over?"

He wondered how private she'd think his condo was if he told her about the conversation he'd had just before he called her. And he wondered how long it would take her to send for emergency services to take him to a mental hospital if he did. "Yeah, sure, if you want to," he said.

"Great. I'll be there in a few, 'kay? Bye."

"Bye." He rang off.

"What a dream I had, dressed in organdy, clothed in crinoline of smoky burgundy," Art Garfunkel sang from the hi fi.

"I don't know what you're implying but I don't care for the suggestion, thank you very much," he growled.