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ink-splotch:
ifeelbetterer:
The first time it happens is when Klaus is eight. The ghost in front of him is very insistent, and Klaus has to admit, it sounds important. So he sneaks out of the house and down the road to the payphone with a stolen quarter in his pocket.
“Hello, is this the police?” he asks when someone picks up. “I would like to report…”
“A murder,” the ghosts prompts kindly. “You’d like to report a murder.”
“A murder,” says Klaus carefully.
“What are you, five?” asks the tired police officer. “Kid, you could get in big trouble for crank calls to the police. Just flip through the phone book.”
And then the officer hangs up.
Klaus looks down at the phone in his hand and then up at the ghost.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. He was taught that failure is a personal fault, even when it doesn’t look or feel like it was your fault.
“It was a long shot, anyway,” says the ghost. “Thanks for trying.”
Klaus resolved to do better next time.
So when he was thirteen and another ghost asked for the same thing—the thing they always wanted, really—he tried again. This time, he didn’t stop at the payphone down the street. He made it all the way to the local precinct.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he says to the uniformed officer at the desk. “I have a murder to report, please.”
She put down her pen and looked at him over the rims of her glasses.
“A murder, huh,” she said, dripping with sarcasm.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Klaus, because he was pretty sure that he hadn’t been polite enough the first time. That’s probably where he had gone wrong.
“You want to report a murder,” she repeated.
He nodded.
“Let me guess, it was your teddy bear,” she said. “Your teddy bear in the conservatory with a lamp.”
“No, ma’am,” said Klaus solemnly. He didn’t look up at the ghost standing next to him, but he wanted to. “It was his brother. He killed him in the basement and hid his body behind the wall.”
“Jesus,” she said. “You got a vivid imagination, kid.”
“Tell her they started a missing person file on me already,” said the ghost.
“You already started a missing person file on him,” parroted Klaus. “But the body is in his basement. I can give you the address?”
Klaus had carefully transcribed the information on an index card and he handed it over. She took it, still visibly skeptical, and nodded.
A day later, the police showed up at the Umbrella Academy looking for Klaus an an explanation.
That was when Klaus learned you can’t just tell people that a ghost told you everything. You need an excuse. You need cover.
And that’s why, twenty years later, he had a sign on the door that said, “Private Investigator” and not “Psychic.”
And, hell, he saved on money by having a ghost as a partner. It’s not like Ben needed a paycheck.
YES
(Your picture was not posted)
ink-splotch:
ifeelbetterer:
The first time it happens is when Klaus is eight. The ghost in front of him is very insistent, and Klaus has to admit, it sounds important. So he sneaks out of the house and down the road to the payphone with a stolen quarter in his pocket.
“Hello, is this the police?” he asks when someone picks up. “I would like to report…”
“A murder,” the ghosts prompts kindly. “You’d like to report a murder.”
“A murder,” says Klaus carefully.
“What are you, five?” asks the tired police officer. “Kid, you could get in big trouble for crank calls to the police. Just flip through the phone book.”
And then the officer hangs up.
Klaus looks down at the phone in his hand and then up at the ghost.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. He was taught that failure is a personal fault, even when it doesn’t look or feel like it was your fault.
“It was a long shot, anyway,” says the ghost. “Thanks for trying.”
Klaus resolved to do better next time.
So when he was thirteen and another ghost asked for the same thing—the thing they always wanted, really—he tried again. This time, he didn’t stop at the payphone down the street. He made it all the way to the local precinct.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he says to the uniformed officer at the desk. “I have a murder to report, please.”
She put down her pen and looked at him over the rims of her glasses.
“A murder, huh,” she said, dripping with sarcasm.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Klaus, because he was pretty sure that he hadn’t been polite enough the first time. That’s probably where he had gone wrong.
“You want to report a murder,” she repeated.
He nodded.
“Let me guess, it was your teddy bear,” she said. “Your teddy bear in the conservatory with a lamp.”
“No, ma’am,” said Klaus solemnly. He didn’t look up at the ghost standing next to him, but he wanted to. “It was his brother. He killed him in the basement and hid his body behind the wall.”
“Jesus,” she said. “You got a vivid imagination, kid.”
“Tell her they started a missing person file on me already,” said the ghost.
“You already started a missing person file on him,” parroted Klaus. “But the body is in his basement. I can give you the address?”
Klaus had carefully transcribed the information on an index card and he handed it over. She took it, still visibly skeptical, and nodded.
A day later, the police showed up at the Umbrella Academy looking for Klaus an an explanation.
That was when Klaus learned you can’t just tell people that a ghost told you everything. You need an excuse. You need cover.
And that’s why, twenty years later, he had a sign on the door that said, “Private Investigator” and not “Psychic.”
And, hell, he saved on money by having a ghost as a partner. It’s not like Ben needed a paycheck.
YES
(Your picture was not posted)
