I wake up with a mouth full of plastic. The harder I breathe, the more I suffocate in my cocoon of polyethylene.
My fingers can’t find a loose corner. The tarp is endless. I try tearing through, but my nails can’t dig in deep enough; my hands simply slip over the surface. My body feels as if it’s been shrink-wrapped. I can’t find my way out. Can’t take the plastic off. Can’t live like this.
I can’t breathe—
Just keep still, I think. Very, very still. The more I panic, the more I struggle, the more the tarp seems to tighten, cinching all around me and sealing me in. The plastic constricts against my skin like a python swallowing a mouse.
Don’t panic, Erin.
I feel the softness of soil beneath me. The rush of passing traffic sends loose dirt and gravel skittering across the tarp.
I’m in a ditch.
My lungs strain but I focus. My hands are stuck by my sides and there’s not much room to maneuver, but I have no choice but to try. I rub the nails of my index fingers against the sides of the tarp until I feel them puncture the first layer of plastic. I force two fingers into each hole, then three, slipping both hands through the polyethylene. I feel around for the next layer of plastic and begin again. My head is spinning, my vision blurring as my breath fogs up the tarp. But I don’t need to see. I just need to keep scratching.
My nails break through the next layer. I slip my fingers through again and feel another layer of plastic. Jesus, how many fucking layers are there?
I feel the chill of the cold night air as my fingers break through. Working quickly, I begin to tear at the layers, panicking again now that I’m so close, my body convulsing from lack of oxygen.
The cool rush of fresh air spills over my skin like water.
I suck in as much oxygen as my lungs will allow. I lie there gasping for a moment and then slowly tear the rest of the plastic away until I can crawl out of the tarp.
I’d heard Tobias tell Adriano to put me in a basement but Adriano clearly didn’t follow instructions. He decided to dump me on the side of I-95 like I was nothing but a piece of trash.
I wrap the tarp around me for warmth.
Baby steps, Amara’s voice echoes in my head. One foot in front of the other.
I do what she tells me to.
I can’t stop shivering. The tarp isn’t keeping me warm. The cold has already seeped into my bones. I glance at my hand and notice my skin is turning blue.
One foot in front of the other.
I spot a lost soul wandering along the center lane of the interstate. She was a child when she passed, probably no older than ten. Just a girl. Where did she die? How long has she been wandering aimlessly? Does she even know where she is anymore? She ambles across the highway with no regard for the traffic.
I’m a lost soul now, too, I think. I can join their listless pilgrimage. I simply drift along with the rest, with the soldiers and slaves, the Indigenous families and settlers. The revenants see me as one of them now, all of us hitchhiking to oblivion.
A squad car sounds its siren behind me. Gravel crumbles under its tires as the car pulls onto the shoulder, but I don’t pay it any mind.
I hear a car door open and slam shut, but I don’t turn to look. “Ma’am?” It’s a woman’s voice. It has a soft authoritative quality to it, bored and stern all at once. “How’re we doing?”
How can she see me? Doesn’t she know I’m dead? I can’t waste my time with the living anymore, I need to go—
“Home.” My throat is nothing but sandpaper. “Need to get home.”
“Are you injured? Let’s take a minute, okay? Can you stop walking for me, please?”
My feet aren’t touching the ground anymore. I’m floating. Drifting with the undertow…
“Can you tell me your name, ma’am? Do you have any ID on you?”
A hand grips my shoulder but I pull away from it. “Need to go home.”
“You’re bleeding, ma’am. Where are you hurt? Are—”
“Home!” I’m shouting it now, matching the volume of the passing traffic. I feel the officer’s hands on me, pulling me back toward the squad car, but I need to go this way. This is the way home. “Let me go let me go I need to go home I need to go home I need to—”
* * *
—
I’m barely coherent when the paramedics bring me into the ER. These sterile rooms are filled with so many spirits. I scream each time I spot one, but the nurses never follow my eyes, never look over their shoulders. I give up trying to convince anyone to see what’s standing right behind them. They strap my wrists to the rails of my bed and increase the dosage of my sedative until I slip off.
The doctors say I suffered from multiple organ failure. My kidneys and liver nearly stopped working. I’m on a ventilator for acute respiratory failure.
But the real headline is that I have a fungal infection—Psilocybe cubensis, I overhear one of the doctors say. Mushrooms are growing in my blood.
The mere thought of all that rot spreading through my veins terrifies me. I can’t compartmentalize it. They’re inside me, even now. Growing. I can’t stop repeating it: There are mushrooms growing inside my body. How does someone—how can anyone—survive that?
Along with a bevy of antibiotics and antifungal drugs, the doctors try to handle my “hallucinations” with Haloperidol. Keep me sedate with Lorazepam. Benzodiazepine.
But the ghosts never go away. Drugs won’t stop them—I know this already. The dead are always in the room.
So I look away. It’s all I can do. I try to pretend they’re not there, staring back.
Reaching out for me.
Touching me.
This forced detox feels like an exorcism. They keep me bound to my bed and all I want is to break free, but they won’t let me go until I’m clean.
Clean. Now there’s a joke for you. How will I ever feel clean again? Even now, I can feel the fungus growing just beneath the surface of my skin. It’s there, always there, just waiting to break through my flesh and sprout across my body.
The nurse on call leaves after her routine check-in, making sure my restraints are on nice and tight. I have the room all to myself.
Just me and my ghosts. Six spirits linger in the room. They sniff at the air, aware of a scent that has them all licking their lips. Their robin’s-egg paleness matches the linoleum. They must’ve been patients who passed in this very hospital. Now they blindly tiptoe toward me—tentative steps. I start moaning low as they make their way to the edge of my bed. I yank at my restraints, but my wrists are still cinched to the handrails. I can’t sit up. Can’t escape. I’m forced to lie here as the spirits surround me, picking up my scent. They must smell the Ghost still flowing through my blood. They want a taste.