Free Where We Live and Die by Brian Keene

to speak out loud.
    “Hi. My name is Brian. Now you know my name. I know your name, too. I found it today. Your name is ___________. I’m really sorry for what happened to you. I’ve got this theory that maybe you’re feeling a little lost. Maybe a little lonely? Maybe you’re not sure where your friends went? Maybe you keep texting them, but nobody is calling you back.”
    I paused. The wind rustled the trees.
    “Did you ever watch The X-Files ? I don’t know, maybe that was before your time. Maybe your parents dug it, though. I was a big fan of the show. There was this one episode where Agent Mulder is hiding out on an Indian reservation, and one of the characters quotes an old Native American saying: ‘Something lives only as long as the last person who remembers it.’ I’m not sure how that applies to this situation, but I’m certain that your parents and your friends remember you.”
    I paused again, glancing around to make sure that no one was listening. I didn’t need one of my neighbors going, “Oh, look. Keene is standing at the top of the driveway talking to imaginary people.”
    When I was sure we were alone, I continued.
    “I think you were sent here to teach me something. I think maybe that’s why you can’t pass on. See, I’m an agnostic when it comes to all of this spiritual stuff. I’ve tried Christianity and Buddhism and every other kind of ‘anity’ and ‘ism’ but at the end of the day, I lack faith—and faith is what is required of any belief system. I want to believe that there’s something after this. I want very badly to believe in an afterlife, but I haven’t been able to. Until now. I don’t know what you are. You might be a ghost or a spirit. You might be conscious. You might just be an echo of time—a psychic after-effect. Or maybe you’re just in my head. I don’t know. But I know that I now believe. So I want to thank you for that. You’ve shown me that a part of us—some vital part of what makes us who we truly are—lives on after our death. I don’t have to rely on a literary legacy of books for people to remember me after I’m gone. I don’t have to bust my ass cranking out one pulp novel after another just to ensure that I live on. Something lives only as long as the last person who remembers it. If I get my shit together and change my ways, I’ll live on in the memory of my kids and my grandkids and those whose lives I’ve touched in some way.”
    I reached up and wiped a tear away. I hadn’t realized I was crying until just then.
    “I’m forty-two. I used to think, ‘Well, I’m only in my early forties. I’ve still got plenty of time.’ But I bet you thought that, too, right. And you were only nineteen. You were only nineteen and then suddenly, it was over before it had ever even really started.”
    I ran out of words. My last sentence seemed to hang there in the cold air, just like my breath was doing.
    “I’m not sure what happens next. I’m going to go back down to the house and start living. Try to save my marriage. Try to be a better father. Maybe you should look around for a light or something. They say there’s supposed to be one on that side. I don’t know. If you can’t find one, I guess you’re welcome to stay here, I guess. Anyway, thanks again.”
    My shoulders slumped. I suddenly felt very silly. I walked back down to the house, went out to my office, and turned off my computer. My Blackberry was flashing at me, informing me that I had voice mail and unanswered text messages. I turned it off without reading or listening to them. I stayed long enough to pat Max on the head and show him a little extra attention. Then I went inside the house.
    Cassi and the baby were in the living room. The dog and cat were lying on the couch. The baby was playing with his train. He looked up, saw me, and smiled.
    “Hi, Da-da!”
    “Hi, buddy. How are you? What are you doing?”
    “Choo-choo train. Da-da push!”
    So I did. I pushed him all