I’m ensconced in my room in Vegas on the fourteenth floor. My streak of absolutely terrible views is unbroken. But I’m also feeling a bit under the weather, so I’m going to keep it short tonight so I can go to sleep. …With the lights on, after writing this…

I love Las Vegas.

You might think someone who died alone in a hotel room with no one there when he died, no one mourning him or even remembering him… You’d think I’d hate this place. But, oh, you’re so wrong. I don’t even remember the exact room I died in. It doesn’t matter, because that room more than likely doesn’t exist anymore.

This hotel I haunt, the Aurora Grand Las Vegas, is a pretty recent place – opened in 2023. Two gleaming 26-story towers and the latest in garish carpeting and amenities, built to attract a high-end clientele with an 18-hole golf course built by esteemed golf course builder blah blah blah blah blah.

But until 2019 it was the much more modest, The Solara, which itself was a rebranded version of The New Starlight, which was a renovated version of The Starlite that first lit its neon shooting star flying out of a martini glass in 1981. Oh, the disco and coke…

Did I die in one of those iterations of this hotel? Hard to say. Maybe it was the Desert Comet that replaced the unassuming Silver Palm that first stood on this spot back in 195—you know what? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because no one remembers. Or cares.

Oh, spare me the YouTube Las Vegas histories, the museums, the shut-ins who keep yellowed clippies from long-shuttered newspapers about gangster hits and who lost which license. Those are few and far between. And no one—no one – remembers a man in a hotel room that died alone. It took them days, weeks to find his – my – body.

Or maybe they found it the next day when maid service came – I don’t remember. No one does.

And I love that.

I love the anonymity of this place. I love the labyrinthine hallways and alleyways that would give Sarah Winchester an anxiety attack#. That aforementioned garish carpet that plays tricks with your eyes and makes you question whether there was a shadow in that spot just a second ago…

And you’ll never hear that room 1416 of the Aurora Grand Las Vegas is the most haunted room in this ever-changing city, and I love that. I’ve watched ghost shows where geeks with gadgets travel to The Most Haunted Room In The World and then dither about with spirit boxes and temperature measurements for ratings.

No one knows I’m here – no one expects it. This room didn’t exist, say, before the Pandemic. It can’t possibly be haunted. “Hey, why is the AC on 68 but it feels a lot colder over here?”

Why indeed.

I’m not going to prostrate myself for some purported psychic or knock three times like a trained show pony. I’m beyond unexpected – I am the least thing on anyone’s mind. Like these people who just came in the door…

“Will you look at this place!” he says.

“Oh wow, John, this is so fancy!” she responds.

“Huh, the view isn’t anything to write home about…” he sounds disappointed as he surveys the roofof the casino out the window.

“Well, we won’t be spending much time in here anyway – I have a full itinerary of shows to go to, and there’s the spa… and of course we’re going to gamble—but not too much!”

“…Jane… did you just lock the door?”

“How could I?”

“It just locked… on its own…”

“Maybe it’s an automatic lock. This place is so fancy.”

The television turns on and they jump at the high volume I left it on.

And then the lights go out.

This is another one of Akilah’s ideas, though this one I so vehemently refused to write that I didn’t even jot it down in my “Ideas” notebook. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great story idea. Well, really, that’s the problem – it’s too good. I knew that I would be a crying mess writing it and… I didn’t want to put myself through that. Until I did.
Now, this revolves around a specific song – Blind Pilot’s “3 Rounds and a Sound”. You don’t need to know the song. If you’ve never heard of it, then make it any song that synchronizes with the rhythm of your heart. If you want to hear it, here’s a link to the song on YouTube.

“You know we don’t have a song,” June said, her head in my lap on the couch as I played with her dark hair.

“Do we need one?” I asked. This was well-trodden territory. We could never agree on a song – she was pop, I was indie; she was sentimental, I was practical. We’d navigated the philosophical differences during the five years we’d been dating. The notion of “Our Song” had come up quite a few times. In fact, I think June has an iTunes playlist for “Our Songs” – not realistic ones, but all the tracks we’d bandy back and forth without really intending them to really be our song. Like June once jokingly (was she joking?) suggested Fall Out Boy’s “Sugar, We’re Goin Down” (we might have been in a rough patch), to which I responded we should use The Yeah Yeah Yeah’s “Maps.”

My question suggested I was willing to run this track again, but June turned to look directly at me – this was different. “Theo? You just proposed to me. Yes, we need our song!”

“You have a compelling point,” I acknowledged. “But we’ve tried to figure out ‘Our Song’ for as long as we’ve been dating.”

“I know. I even have the playlist…”

See? I knew it!

We were both quiet, thinking about the impossibility of choosing a song.

“Okay, I have a crazy idea…,” I said.

“Is it crazier than when you asked me out on a dare that first night?” I leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

She smiled back at me then asked, “Crazy idea…?”

“Pandora. We fire it up, put ‘our song’ in the prompt and abide by whatever it gives us,” I suggested.

“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. I love it. But log out, clear your cookies – I don’t want your indie obsession to influence the algorithm.”

“Fair,” I agreed and reached for my laptop. Logged out of Pandora, cleared my cache, dumped my cookies and brought the app back up. I gave it the prompt and hit play.

A plaintive guitar strumming started, slow and even. The singer started, “They’re playing our song… they’re playing our song…”

I stared at June who stared back at me with wide eyes. “They’re playing our song?”

The singer went on, “…can you see the light…. Can you hear the hum… of our song. I hope they get it right, I hope we dance tonight, before we get it wrong…”

By the end of that line, we were both standing in the living room of our tiny apartment, on our threadbare second-hand carpet, my arms naturally encircled June’s waist, her arms around my neck.

“…Blooming up from the ground, Three rounds and a sound, Like whispering, ‘You know me’, ‘You know me’….”

When the last note faded, the room was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the sound of our breathing. We separated enough to look into each other’s eyes, June spoke first: “I guess we found our song.”

“We sure did.” I smiled and then kissed her.

***

There are words you don’t ever want to have to hear from your partner. Right at the top of that list are “lump,” “malignant,” “inoperable.” When they do, the world shrinks, the music stops, the focus collapses into the immediate.

The fifteenth wedding anniversary is crystal or a watch. Maybe it’s a round enough anniversary to talk about vow renewal or going to France like you’ve always wanted. It shouldn’t be… it shouldn’t ever fucking be making memorial service arrangements, deciding between burial or cremation, figuring out how to say goodbye. It should never, ever, ever be that.

There’s no rhythm at the end, when breathing stops, when the last beat of the heart has sounded, when the joy drains from your soul.  

The service was a blur. I remember moments, but I couldn’t give you more than that. Liz, June’s best friend, was my grief sherpa and led me through the motions but my brain couldn’t parse the idea that June was gone.

Gone.

“Theo, there’s a casserole in the fridge,” Liz explained. “You need to eat, don’t forget.”

I didn’t respond.

“Theo!” She snapped. “You need to eat.”

“I know,” I said, but my tone belied my hopelessness.

“Theo… you have to…” she cocked her head. “What’s that… music?” Then she went pale.

The plaintive guitar notes reached my ear and I realized why she went pale.

“They’re playing our song… they’re playing our song…can you see the light…. Can you hear the hum… of our song. I hope they get it right, I hope we dance tonight, before we get it wrong…”

I stood and walked to the living room where the song – our song – played from our stereo speakers.

“…Blooming up from the ground, Three rounds and a sound, Like whispering, ‘You know me’, ‘You know me’….”

The stereo was turned off.

I let the tears flow completely unchecked. I choked back my sobs long enough to say, “I love you June.”

***

In the beginning, getting out of bed was an act of will. Eventually, it became a habit.

Breathe, coffee, days, weeks, months…

I moved… certainly not “on,” but maybe “through.”

I tried to give myself space, to try new things – and I did – but I was always acutely aware of the empty spot in my chest.

I tried dating again. Liz even set me up with a friend of hers – a woman who teaches kindergarten at the same school. Elaine. She was nice – smart, pretty, I liked her smile. But she wasn’t June, and that wasn’t fair to Elaine.

I embraced the term, “working on myself” whenever someone would try to push me to date again. Eventually, they stopped pushing.

I mean, it’s true – I was “working on myself.” I started bicycling again. I took up kayaking. I bought myself a drum kit and terrorized the neighbors.

Sooner than I had expected, my coworkers stopped walking on eggshells around me. To be fair, some changed jobs or left the department, and the new folks had no idea what had happened, and I realized that wasn’t a bad thing.

I started traveling a lot for work and that led to new friendships – I even learned Mandarin. Before I knew it, I was jokingly referring to the color of my thinning hair as “salt and pepper” and insisting I had laugh lines and not wrinkles. Of course I imagined June teasing me, but it didn’t have the gut-punch after a decade; I was used to the dull ache of well-worn grief.

What I wasn’t used to was the twinge behind my right eye, sharp and bright. I was in the break room and I had just taken a sip from my second cup of coffee for the day. Sound faded out. I realized I dropped my mug, but didn’t hear or feel it hit the ground… then realized I had hit the ground and blackness swallowed my vision.

I saw myself in the ambulance, in the trauma center. I heard “aneurysm,” “near-instantaneous,” “painless.” I saw the doctor tell Liz there were no signs. Nothing anyone could have done.

And then darkness again. Cold, empty, darkness.

Then the sound of a single guitar strumming chords…

“They’re playing our song… they’re playing our song…can you see the light…. Can you hear the hum… of our song. I hope they get it right, I hope we dance tonight, before we get it wrong…”

June stood in front of me in her favorite dress with the black cats on it.

My mouth moved but I couldn’t form words.

“Are you going to stand around and look stupid or are you going to dance with me?” She grinned.

My arms naturally encircled June’s waist, her arms around my neck.

“…Blooming up from the ground, Three rounds and a sound, Like whispering, ‘You know me’, ‘You know me’….”

“I love you, June.”

“I love you, Theo.”

Back home for today and tomorrow before I fly to Las Vegas for the next conference. Akilah pitches ideas at me throughout the month and then chides me when I don’t immediately use her incredibly pithy and fantastic ideas (they’re solid gold, babe!). She might have suggested “The Boo Club” before we actually ticked over into October. In any event, it’s overdue. So, make sure your criticism is constructive and settle in…

Headlights shone in through the windows of the closed Starbucks. From inside you could hear the driver shouting at the dark drive through menu, waiting a moment, swear loudly, and drive off too quickly. This store closed early, which was why the ghosts gathered here weekly.

A loud hiss of steam came from one of the espresso machines.

“Dale, when are you going to give it up? You can’t make espresso as a ghost and even if you could, what are you going to do then? You can’t drink it!”

“It’s the principal of the thing…” Dale said quietly, focusing his energy on closing the steam valve.

“Okay, Dale, Steve, can we please get started?” the ghost of a slight man in a plaid button down shirt and slacks said as three other ghosts sat in the seats arranged in a circle. Dale managed to silence the espresso machine and glide through the counter to join the assembled group. “I’d like to thank Laurie and Cathrine for moving the chairs into this circle for us. I know that took a fair amount of energy, but this is sure to freak them out tomorrow when they open.” A murmur of laughter arose as Laurie and Cathrine smiled. “Does anyone want to get started?”

Before anyone could say something, a new ghost drifted in through the door and looked around sheepishly.

“Hi,” the man in the button down shirt greeted. “I’m Greg. Can we help you?”

The new ghosts eyes flicked from ghost to ghost nervously.

“This is my friend, Edgar,” Cathrine said, standing and coming to Edgar’s side. “He’s a friend of my brother and he’s pretty new – I mentioned him to you at the end of last week?” She said to Greg.

“Oh, of course,” Greg gave a warm smile. “The more the merrier.” He looked to the circle and noticed Catherine and Laurie had included an extra seat in the circle. “Please join us!” When everyone was seated, Greg explained to Edgar, “So, Edgar, I don’t know what Cathrine has told you about our Boo club, but I’ll just go over how we usually run the meetings. We each take turns presenting a scare we gave during the week. Afterwards we discuss and offer pointers, making an effort to be as constructive as possible.”

“Yeah, Steve,” Dale said under his breath.

“What are you talking about? ‘You scare like a fog machine at a church Halloween fair’ is a perfectly constructive criticism.” Steve threw up his hands.

Greg smiled at Edgar, “Some of us are better at ‘constructive’ than others.”

“Oh, okay…” Edgar started. “Do you guys want to see one of my haunts this week?”

“You’re new,” Greg offered. “We’ll go through some of our scares and if you’re still willing we’ll see.”

Edgar nodded.

Laurie held up a hand tentatively. “I’ll go first, Greg,” she said meekly.

“Thank you, Laurie.” Before she started, Greg turned to Edgar, “We get to ‘watch’ the hauntings here in the middle of the circle we inscribed on the floor.”

Edgar looked into the circle and noticed coffee grounds scattered around in a ritual circle.

“Don’t worry,” Steve stage-whispered, “That’s their dark roast – this is a way better use than making coffee from it.” Dale guffawed and fist bumped Steve.

“Ready Laurie?” Greg asked.

Laurie nodded. “This one was from last Thursday, two am. The two-story townhouse I used to live in.” She closed her eyes, and a scene emerged in the middle of the circle, hovering off the ground.

A man in boxers shuffles into the kitchen, opens the fridge, and the light flickers. Laurie materializes in full Victorian mourning gown behind him, whispering from the shadows, “Leeeeave this place…”

The man squints in the direction of the voice. “Crap, should have put on my glasses… Alexa, turn on the lights.”

The lights come up. Laurie panics and steps into the kitchen island, only her head visible above the fruit bowl.

He gasps—not in terror but annoyance. “Oh my god, I really let those bananas go!” He reached through her head and picked up the overly brown bananas. He sets them back down and absently closes the fridge.

Laurie lunges out of the island for one last scare, wails… and sets off the motion-activated Roomba, which bumps into her spectral hem and starts vacuuming right through her. She shrieks as it drives through her mist and gets stuck under the table.

The replay ends.

The ghosts were silent for a long moment.

“Strong entrance,” Cathrine offered.

“Yes, the tone and pitch of the initial wail was perfect… as was the gown. Really solid,” Greg added.

“You should have faded out when he didn’t jump at the beginning,” Dale said. “Better to haunt another time than let Alexa get the drop on you like that.”

“Yeah,” Steve added. “Setting off that Roomba was hilarious!”

Laurie blushed and looked down.

“I-I really liked that you tried that last time for a scare,” Edgar said. “You didn’t give up.”

“Eh,” Steve gave a dismissive wave. “You gotta know when to abandon the scare.”

“That’s tough to figure out in the moment sometimes,” Greg tried to rein in Steve’s comment. “Does anyone else have any comments?” A long moment of silence. “Okay. Thank you for kicking us off, Laurie. Anyone want to go next?”

“I got next,” Steve said, cracking his ghost knuckles. “Alright, alright, buckle up, this one’s a classic. Family of four. Split-level ranch. Friday night movie. I go full unexplained phenomena…” he closed his eyes and the scene of a man and woman on a couch with a pre-teen girl laying on a beanbag chair, all three watching television.

With a bang, every cabinet in the kitchen flies open. Pots and pans clatter out and onto the floor noisily. Steve’s voice fills the room chanting Latin.

“You know Latin?” Dale whispered.

“No, I just made that stuff up to sound scary,” Steve whispered back, eyes still closed in concentration.

The dog starts barking. The little girl lets out a scream. The mother stands and holds her daughter against her as she stares around

Steve, clearly enjoying himself, goes too far. He tries to spin the ceiling fan the opposite way, and it pops with a shower of sparks. The whole room is plunged into darkness before the ceiling fan creaks and falls to the ground as the father announces, “Crap, we tripped the breaker. What was that crash?”

Steve, meanwhile, tiptoes sheepishly out of frame before the scene fades away.

Everyone was quiet for a long moment.

“Umm,” Cathrine started. “Great enthusiasm, Steve.”

That opened the floodgates.

“You scare like a construction accident,” Dale said, shaking his head.

“Ten out of ten for volume, zero for artistry,” Laurie laughed.

“Maybe try to minimize the property damage next time?” Greg offered. “Thank you, Steve. Did you want to share, Edgar? You don’t have to…”

“Y-yeah,” he stammered. “I mean, this isn’t really a scare… it just sort of happened…”

“Lay it on us, Edgar!” Steve roared.

Edgar closed his eyes and a small apartment appeared, sink full of dishes, a half-empty wine bottle on the counter, string lights glowing weakly. A young woman sat at her kitchen table, head in her hands, shoulders shaking.

“She’s my wife,” Edgar said softly. “Was.”

The ghosts in the circle went still.

“She fell asleep on the couch the first night after I… didn’t come home. The next morning she put out mugs for two before she remembered.”

In the vision, the woman wiped her eyes and stood, staring at the empty mug across from her. She reached for it, hesitated. And the mug slid across the table toward her, gently, as if nudged by a loving hand. Steam curled from the mug, though it had sat empty on the counter for hours.

She smiled through her tears. “Hi, Ed.”

The scene held there a moment, golden and still, before fading.

The ghosts in the circle in the Starbucks sat silent for a full minute.

Finally, Steve cleared his throat. “That…” he tried nonchalantly wipe at his eyes. “That wasn’t scary.”

“No,” Laurie said with a sniffle. “That was haunting.”