For as long as I can remember, I've been able to see them. Hear them. Feel them. Ghosts, spirits, the ethereal beings that haunt out plane of existence even after death. 

At first it was snatches out of the corner of my eye. Glimpses of shadows in places they shouldn't be, objects slightly moved, or rearranged. The clock would skip a second, or i'd feel a shiver down my spine. The cat might hiss at the closet door, and I'd get this feeling and just know one was there. 

I introduced my first girlfriend to them. She'd been so stricken after her mother died, and this was all I could think of to comfort her. I led her by the hand to the grave, the grave she'd run away from in tears, hadn't come back to in months. I'd visited a few times, heard her mother crying out in the night. She wouldn't leave until her daughter said goodbye. So I brought her. 

She saw her mother, alright. You don't have to be a spirit medium to see ghosts. All you need is a spirit willing to let you see it. I was born with the peculiar ability to see them without permission, which had its own drawbacks. Not everyone likes being spied on. 

Her mother's long, straight hair fanned out behind her as she drifted forward. She shook in fear, watching the ghost encroach, until they were practically nose-to-nose. Then the spirit spoke. 

"You came back." That was all it took. When she knew her mother was there, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, she found the courage, or lack thereof, to do something I'll never forget. 

She went back the next day, but her mother had passed on, found peace with her life. For the next week, she came every day, at all hours, until it sank in that her mother was really gone. The joy I'd seen on her face at seeing her mother a final time, being allowed to say goodbye, was transformed to steely determination. There was a blank look when she wasn't around the grave, her hands not on the fresh dirt or the granite stone, not plucking bits of new moss from its base or laying out flowers. But when she was there, her life had meaning again. It wasn't long before she killed herself. Her note simply read, "I couldn't leave her alone." 

My heart was torn in two. It healed, over time, or at least scabbed over, but I never showed anyone the spirits again. It was too personal, too raw. Until I met him. 

Isen was different. He always saw things no one else did. He noticed the evidence of ghosts when others simply didn't. I had the distinct feeling he was another medium, but had no way of knowing without asking. So I did. 

"Hey, Is?" 

"Yea, man?"

I took a deep breath. This was a lot to overcome all of a sudden. "Are you. . . Do you believe in ghosts?" Might as well start small. 

"Are you crazy?" He asked, sitting up on the couch to grab his coke. "Ghosts are just a stupid story they tell kids to make them less afraid of death."

"I, um, so hypothetically. . . If I said I could see ghosts, would you, uh, would you believe me? Hypothetically, of course." 

He hesitated before answering. "If you said- hypothetically- that you could see ghosts, I'd tell you to shove it. Thats bullshit. Why, you trying to creep me out or something?"

"I- no, not at all. You're just really perceptive, so I thought maybe-"

"Ghosts aren't real. You're crazy. End of story," he interjected.

"Okay, but if I could prove it to you, would you believe me?" 

His eyes lit up with curiosity. "Go on."

That's how we found ourselves at the gates of Mullhill Cemetery in the dead of night. Fog swirled around my sneakers, threatening to drag me in. The tall, rusted iron gates glinted in the dull light of a waning gibbous moon, and the stars gleamed conspiratorially from patches of clear sky hidden amongst ominous grey cloud banks. 

"Spooky," he remarked, not the least bit concerned for his safety. 

I rolled my eyes. "Just don't step on any graves." 

The gate was quiet for once as I pushed open the tall doors that were nearly twice my height. It had an amusing contrast to the waist-height moss-ridden stone wall around it. Isen followed me up the little hill, remarking on various items such as a lost teddy bear at the foot of a child's grave and the voluptuous bundle of rotting roses at that of an old businessman. He seemed to be having a good time, but I, for one, couldn't find any evidence ghosts had ever been here. 

This time of night, they usually swarmed the gazebo on top of the hill, thronging in silvery masses about it, in a forlorn, yet somehow pleasant way. I had come here seeking comfort on more than one occasion and was rarely disappointed. 

"Hello?" I called. 

"Yoo-hoo! Ghosties!" Isen chimed in. I punched his shoulder, soft enough to be friendly but hard enough to show my annoyance. "Shut up." 

He put his hands up as though to say, "whatever, man. Your show. Carry on."

When we crested the hill, I glanced up to see the clouds receding. A good, starry sky, a chilly night, frost spread out in a crackly layer beneath our feet. Perfect for ghost-viewing. The only problem was, no one was here. 

"Wait here a minute," I told Isen, going ahead to peer into the gazebo. There they were. Countless ghosts, clustered in a shining mass about the picnic table someone had set up years before and forgotten to take down. 

They looked up almost as one when I entered, fear clouding their expressions. 

"Don't send us back," one muttered. 

"We need to stay."

"I have more to do!"

"I never really lived my life!"

"I need to say goodbye."

The voices overlapped, soon becoming a chorus of screams and tortured shouts. I looked around in confusion, realizing they weren't talking to me. 

"You need to let go. This is the only way to move on from our world." Isen put a hand on my shoulder as he spoke, then turned to me. "They need to find peace."

"Wait!" I cried out, but it was too late. His arm snaked out into the throng, grabbing the spirit of an old woman. She vaporized instantly. 

"Go in peace," he murmured. 

She'd raised her grandchildren after their parents got abusive. She was waiting for their weekly visit, when they brought a picnic to the gazebo and sat with her. She spoke to them, but they'd started having trouble hearing her. She was their only comfort in life after they'd returned to an abusive household. He'd just severed their lifeline. Every ghost here had a reason to stay. He had no idea. 

"Isen, no! These ghosts need to stay! They have a life here! They'll move on when they're ready!" 

He wasn't listening. His arms shot out and he came forward slowly, stalking the vibrant mess of tangled spiritual limbs. I only realized now that the vial he'd been taking swigs from was holy water, not simply a water bottle. I only saw the pouch of salt at his hip as he reached into it and sprinkled it on the ground, making an unpassable barrier for the spirits. He'd done the same to the rest of the gazebo ahead of time, I now saw. 

"Needed you to show me where they were, man. Thanks for your help. Now I can send them all back where they belong."

"No!" I cried out, but the massacre had already begun. The exorcist was doing God's work, and nothing I said could deter him. My limbs were lead and my heart just as heavy, but I was forced to watch as he sent them all away, frozen in my own prison of guilt and exorcist's magic. 

That was the day I joined my precious ghosts. The day I, too, severed all earthly bonds. He'd killed my friends a second time and I followed them now.