Part 2Dead Men Still Text Back

Seth stood frozen on the other side of the glass, head tilted at a sharp angle, studying me.

Sixth floor.

No exterior fire escape.

Just a pane of tempered glass and a tiny mechanical latch.

He didn't immediately pound on the barrier. He simply lingered there in the freezing night wind, his head lolling sideways like a curious vulture inspecting roadkill.

I dragged air into my burning lungs, desperate to steady my racing pulse.

It was impossible to stay calm. But I had to act like I wasn't falling apart.

Retreating toward the desk, I jammed the phone onto the charger. Whatever happened next, my battery couldn't die.

Then, my racing mind began piecing the timeline together.

How did Seth know Danny was dead?

When Mrs. Gable had called me, her exact words were: "I'm contacting you first because you're his direct roommate."

First.

Seth lived in 605.

How could he possibly know?

He claimed he'd called his spiritualist great-uncle. But how would he even know there was an accident to ask about? News traveled fast on campus, but barely twenty minutes had passed between the coordinator's call and Seth knocking on my wood paneling.

Twenty minutes. In that tiny window, he supposedly heard the rumor, dialed a relative out in the boonies, held an in-depth occult consultation, and sprinted over to "warn" me?

The math didn't work.

Unless he knew before the school did.

Or—

Unless it wasn't Seth speaking through those lips.

Out on the balcony, Seth raised an arm and struck the glass.

"Thwack."

Just one solid strike. Not overly hard.

Yet my heart nearly vaulted out of my ribcage.

His lips were moving rapidly, but through the double-paned storm glass, the audio was hopelessly muffled.

I crept a few inches closer, straining my ears until a raspy cadence filtered through the seal:

"Open... up... buddy..."

The voice was rough, wet, and sickeningly dual-layered. One pitch belonged to Seth.

The lower, grating rasp beneath it did not.

I backed up until my spine met the wall, my fingers instinctively unlocking the glowing screen.

Several new notifications had stacked up under Danny's thread.

"Good job locking it."

"Stay sharp."

"It’s not just in him."

Not just in him?

What did that mean?

My thumbs shook violently over the keyboard: "Are you really Danny? Danny never texted with complete punctuation in his miserable life."

A few agonizing beats passed before the little typing bubble vanished.

"Screw you. I got smashed up pretty bad, typing hurts like hell, and you’re critiquing my grammar?"

Okay.

That petty, defensive arrogance? That sounded dangerously like Danny.

"You’re really him?"

"No, I’m Santa Claus. Yes, it’s me."

"The housing office said you died."

"...Pretty much."

Pretty much?

What kind of bullshit answer was "pretty much"?

How do you "pretty much" die?