Vintage: A Ghost Story by Steve Berman

and the bed neatly made; its corners tucked in and pillows hidden beneath the comforter. Except for a couple of pictures in frames, the dresser top was clear. On a small desk lit by a tiny work lamp, he had arranged sculpting tools, lined up by length, and a rainbow array of Fimo blocks.
Second Mike had converted half of his closet into a mini gallery. Sculpture and carvings hung from tiny wires, others sat on wooden shelves or in cardboard shadow boxes: a marionette of a black swan dangled from a coat hanger, the small red bill a ruby against the dark; a miniature schooner with full sails; a cannon menaced a battalion of old wooden soldiers.
“I’m cutting the cake,” I heard Trace call out.
I did not want to leave this strange new treasure trove.
“I’ll bring us cake,” Mike said. I nodded absently, not looking away from a horned serpent that had slithered out of myth to coil on the floor at my feet.
He came back with an old tray bearing two small plates with thick slices of black forest cake and two sweating glasses of what could only be milk. He set the tray down carefully on the desk.
When had I last drank plain milk? I sucked down half of the glass. I had to drink it fast or gag on the taste.
Second Mike tasted his milk after I had nearly finished mine. As he sipped, he closed his eyes, as if concentrating on the single act. I watched him drink, amazed at how beautiful he made it look. When he finished, I continued staring at his lips, all damp and whitewashed. I found myself leaning toward him. His eyes opened and watched me.
Trace came into the room holding two mugs of steaming coffee. “Figured you’d like some java.”
I grabbed a mug from her hand, hoping that she had not glimpsed anything about to happen. If anything could have happened between Second Mike and me. Had I really considered kissing her brother? What was that all about? I gave him a half-smile and a shrug before following Trace back to her room.
She sat down on her bed. “Have you ever seen a ghost before Josh?”
Sipping coffee, I walked over to her bookshelf and tapped the bobble-headed Nerwin the Troll atop some paperbacks. “No. Why?”
“Just odd that he broke out of his routine for you,” she said.
“Routine?”
“Ghosts are trapped spirits. They’re always repeating themselves.” She slipped off her shoes and flexed her toes. “Josh always walked the highway. Another ghost might only roam up and down a flight of stairs.”
“So we set Josh free?”
She started to say something then shut her mouth.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just don’t know what we did or how.”
    Thunder sounded overhead as I walked back from Trace’s and I cursed not being smart enough to listen to the news and know about the weather. The wind picked up, too, tugging at me.
Trace’s question of whether or not I had seen other ghosts bothered me. I think she held something back from me, but I had no idea what or why. Maybe she was finally envious of me? She had been waiting to see some thing like Josh for years, especially if she really did believe her house was haunted by the ghost of her older brother.
I remember asking her about Second Mike’s odd name. Trace and I had been hanging around the elementary school playground at night. She had sat on the swing while I rested atop the slide with my feet dangling over the edge.
“So tell me about the First Mike.”
She had remained quiet for a while. Made me nervous. I didn’t know back then how much she liked to pause for dramatic effect.
“My older brother?” She swung slightly as she spoke. “I don’t remember him at all, which is sad. I was a waif when he left us.”
“What did he die from?”
The creaking of the old chains stopped. “That’s just it, he didn’t die. Or maybe he did, we don’t know. He literally left us, ran away at eleven.”
“Damn.” My insides shuddered. Was I so different from First Mike? I had run off.
I remembered the torment the night before; I should have been