Kieran left The Parting Glass with a belly full of surprisingly good stout and a head full of, well, reluctant acceptance. He was dead. He was driving ghosts. His lantern was a snarky, bound spirit. His boss was an ethereal HR rep. And his contract was spiritually binding.
"Okay, Chat," he muttered, stalking back toward the abandoned Silverwheel. "So. We've processed the big lore-drop. The channel is undergoing a significant rebrand. We're moving from 'Slice-of-Life Taxi Vlogs' to 'After-Slice-of-Life Ghost Taxi Vlogs.' It's a niche, but I think the demographic is captive."
He'd left the carriage in the middle of the street in Sunpetal. Sir Reginald's condemned manor loomed against the twin moons, and the Silverwheel itself was glowing patiently, the spectral horses grazing on patches of, well, Kieran wasn't sure what they were grazing on. It looked like fog.
Milo's flame flared to life as he approached. "Oh, good. You're back. Did you enjoy your existential meltdown in a licensed establishment? I was worried a rogue thought might find you and you'd collapse."
"Shut up, Milo. I was networking," Kieran grumbled, climbing into the driver's seat. He felt the familiar, warm-yet-oddly-cold reins in his hands. "I had a consultation. With a walk-in. A ghost-knight. His name is Sir Alistair. And his wife is marrying a guy he hates."
Milo's flame turned an amused shade of yellow. "You're moonlighting. You've been an official Veil Driver for four hours and you're already taking fares off the books. Lirien is going to love this."
"I didn't charge him. I just gave advice. You know. 'Have you tried not haunting your own attic?' Basic stuff. Anyway, what's next? I'm assuming Lirien's already pinged us."
As if summoned, a glowing rune appeared in the air. Kieran, getting used to this, didn't flinch. He just watched the golden text resolve.
FARE: Fiona M. (Designation: Banshee)
PICKUP: Weeping Crossway, Willow Nook #3
DESTINATION: The Glimmering Fens
NOTES: Passenger is volatile. High-decibel. Keep calm and maintain speed. (Standard-issue dampeners in glove compartment.)
Kieran's blood — or whatever he had now — ran cold. "It's a real banshee? As in, 'screaming harbinger of doom' banshee?"
"The very same," Milo said cheerfully. "They're a delight. Very emotional, too. Well… and prone to feedback."
"And what," Kieran asked, his voice tight, "what are standard-issue dampeners?"
He fumbled with the latch on a small wooden compartment built into the dashboard. He opened it. Inside, nestled on velvet, was a pair of enormous, fluffy, leather-and-brass earmuffs. They looked like something a gnomish aviator would wear.
Kieran pulled them out and stared at them. "Lirien knew. She knew this passenger was going to be 'high-decibel' and she just put earmuffs in the glove box. That's her solution. Not, I don't know, soundproofing the carriage? Or maybe just not hiring a ghost-screamer as a passenger?"
"The Silverwheel is soundproofed," Milo huffed. "Against mortal sounds. A banshee's wail is a spiritual-frequency event. It resonates on the astral plane. It's, oh, how would your primitive brain put it, it's like a nail bomb of pure, weaponized sadness. Now, are you going to drive, or are you going to complain? She's been waiting."
"Right. Right. Don't want a bad review." Kieran shoved the earmuffs onto the seat beside him. "Weeping Crossway. Let's go get a banshee."
The Weeping Crossway was in a part of Asterveil he hadn't seen. The cobblestones were slick with a perpetual, greasy dampness, and the floating lights were a dim, melancholy blue. The buildings leaned in, as if sharing sad secrets. And the willows, they were everywhere. Enormous, ancient trees whose branches hung down like curtains of green-gray hair.
Under Willow Nook #3, a figure was waiting.
She was exactly what you'd expect. She was pale, almost blue in the moonlight, with long, tangled black hair that was plastered to her face, as if she were perpetually caught in a downpour. Her dress was simple, gray, and also looked soaking wet, dripping onto the stones without making a sound. She was just standing there. Staring at her own translucent feet.
Kieran pulled the Silverwheel to a smooth-maglev-powered stop. The silence of the carriage's approach was almost as eerie as the passenger.
"Uh... Fiona?" Kieran called, trying to inject his 4.8-star customer service voice. "Hi! Asterveil Coaching Guild. I'm Kieran, I'll be your driver this, um, evening? Is it evening? Time is weird here."
The banshee didn't look up. She just glided. And she didn't walk; she moved like a chess piece across the board, smooth and unnatural. A wave of profound, soul-crushing cold and the smell of old-growth-forest-floor-after-a-two-week-rain washed over Kieran. She opened the carriage door — it didn't creak, but Kieran felt like it should have — and settled inside.
Kieran watched her in the small, crystal side-mirror. She just sat there, her hands clasped, dripping.
"Okay!" Kieran said, trying to break the icy tension. "To the Glimmering Fens, it is! I hear it's very moist in this time of cycle."
No response.
"Right. Quiet type. I get it." He snapped the reins. "Let's go, spectral-horse-team-whose-names-I-should-probably-learn."
The Silverwheel glided silently over the cobblestones. The ride was incredibly smooth. Kieran started to relax.
"See, Milo?" he whispered to the lantern. "This is fine. She's just sad. She's not a screamer at all. She's just a goth-moper. I can handle this. This is just like driving that one barista, Chad, to his 4 AM shift. All vibes, no words."
"We're still on the consecrated ley-lines," Milo whispered back, his flame a nervous yellow. "The silver-weave is smoothing the ride. Wait until we hit the Fens path. That road isn't on any guild-approved map. It's wild."
"Wild? What does that—"
The cobblestones ended. Abruptly. They were replaced by a muddy, deeply rutted, and very, very physical dirt track. The Silverwheel's maglev-hover sputtered, and the wheels touched the ground with a solid, jarring thud.
Kieran gripped the reins. "Whoa! Okay. So much for the premium ride. We're off-roading."
"You're going to have to actually drive, you fool," Milo hissed. "The spectral horses are still pulling, but you have to steer. Try to, you know, miss the holes."
Kieran had driven a '98 sedan with one blown-out shock absorber. He knew how to handle a bad road. "I got this, I got this..."
He saw the first pothole. He tried to steer around it, but the carriage was heavier than his old car. The left wheel dipped into the rut.
Thump.
A small jolt.
From the cabin behind him, a low, rising sound began. It was a note, like a cello being tuned badly.
"Oooooooooooooo..."
Kieran flinched. "Okay. Okay. That's... that's not so bad. Just a little ominous humming. I can—"
He hit a second, deeper rut. THWACK. The whole carriage lurched.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"
The sound was not a sound. It was a force. It didn't just hit his ears; it hit his soul. It definitely was a physical pressure of despair. The air temperature dropped thirty degrees in a second. Kieran's teeth vibrated. The spectral horses whinnied in panic.
Milo's flame sputtered, turned ice-blue, and almost went out. "MY GLASS!" the lantern shrieked, his voice cracking. "SHE'S GOING TO CRACK MY FOCAL-POINT! YOU IMBECILE! DRIVE! SMOOTHER!"
"I'M TRYING!" Kieran yelled, his hands shaking, his heart hammering with a cold, primal fear. "IT'S A DIRT ROAD, YOU OVERBLOWN NIGHTLIGHT!"
He wrestled the carriage back onto the semblance of a path, his entire body rigid with tension.
Silence. Blessed, cold, damp silence.
His ears were ringing.
"Note to self," he said, his voice trembling. "Banshees is not great road-trip partners."
He drove for another thirty seconds, navigating the ruts like he was driving through a minefield. He squinted into the darkness, his eyes straining.
He didn't see the fallen branch.
WHUMP-BUMP.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"
"GAH!" Kieran yelled, ducking as if the sound could be avoided. This one was worse. It was full of betrayal. And what, damp socks? It was a very complex, very loud, very terrible sound.
He couldn't take it. He slammed on the brakes. The carriage skidded in the mud.
"Earmuffs!" he roared, fumbling for them. He grabbed the pair of fluffy aviator caps and jammed them over his ears.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. The world went blissfully, wonderfully muffled. He could still hear a faint, high-pitched ringing, but the soul-rending power of the wail was gone.
"Ahhh. That's... that's better."
He hit the reins again, more gently this time. The carriage moved forward. He hit another small bump.
He saw Milo's flame flicker wildly and felt the vibration in the driver's seat, but the audio assault was reduced to a faint 'eeeeee'.
"Okay. We can work with this."
But he couldn't just drive in silence. That was unprofessional. He glanced in the side-mirror. He could see Fiona. She wasn't screaming in anger. Her translucent face was a mask of pure, tragic terror. Her hands were clutching the seat, her knuckles white. She looked... miserable. The bumps seemed to be physically hurting her.
A pang of, not pity, but customer-service-empathy hit him. This wasn't a monster. This was a passenger having a really bad ride.
He sighed, his breath fogging in the cold air. He pulled the earmuffs down, letting them rest around his neck. The silence was heavy.
"Hey!" he called, his voice overly loud. "Hey, back there! Fiona!"
She looked up, her eyes wide and tear-filled. The tears were literally just... dripping off her chin like a leaky faucet.
"So, look," he said, trying to sound casual as he navigated a particularly nasty stretch. "This, uh, this probably isn't much fun for you, is it? The screaming? It looks like it takes a lot out of you."
He braced for another wail. Instead, he got a small, wet whisper.
"...It... it hurts..."
"The bumps, right? Yeah, this road is, it's getting a one-star review from me, I'll tell you that. I'm going to have a word with Lirien about road maintenance."
She shook her head, her lank hair flopping. "...Everything... Everything... hurts..."
Oh. Oh, great. It was one of those fares. The 'my-life-is-over-and-I-want-to-tell-my-driver-about-it' fare. He had this ride a hundred times. Usually at 2 AM. Usually involving someone named 'Chad' or 'Brittany.'
He knew this. He could do this.
"Okay, Chat," he muttered, so low only he could hear. "We're going in. Activating 'Pop-Psychology Podcast Host' protocol. Code-name: Dr. Kieran."
He cleared his throat. "So, Fiona. I get it. Everything hurts. It's a whole mood. A whole vibe. But, and hear me out on this, have you considered taking some 'you' time?"
She looked up, her expression one of profound confusion. "...'Me'... time...?"
"Yeah! You know! Self-care. You're a banshee, right? That's, that's the job. But what do you do for you? What are your hobbies? What do you do for fun? Outside of, you know, the wailing. The professional keening."
"This is the worst idea you've ever had," Milo hissed from the dashboard. "You're going to get us both shrieked into oblivion."
"Shut up, Milo, I'm connecting with the client," Kieran whispered back. He turned his attention back to the mirror. "C'mon, Fiona. Gimme something. What did you like to do? Before all this? Before the terminal dampness? Did you, I don't know, knit? Bake? Whittle?"
Fiona was quiet for a long, long time. Kieran navigated a cluster of ruts, his movements as gentle as he could possibly make them. He braced for another scream.
It came, but it was weaker. It was half-hearted. More of a... "Eeeeeee.... oh, bother..."
"...I... I liked gardening," she whispered, after the wail faded.
Kieran seized on it. "Gardening! Yes! Great! That's perfect! We're getting somewhere. You like plants. I like plants! Well, I mean, I had a succulent once. Named him 'Spike.' I overwatered him, sadly. Killed him. But the intention was there, mind you. So, what's stopping you? Why not get a window box? A little spectral pot of ghost-herbs, maybe?"
Her face, which had shown a flicker of light, crumpled. "...What's the point...? They're... they're all gone. Eoin... the cottage... the garden... it's all gone. He... he left me. All I have is... the sadness. The wail is all I am..."
Another bump. This time, just a sharp, painful gasp. She was trying to hold it in.
Oof. Okay. This was the core of it. This was the 2 AM 'he-left-me' story. But this was his specialty.
"Right," Kieran said, his voice softening. "Eoin. He's the reason, right? The Big Sad?"
She nodded, and the tears started flowing in earnest. They were like actual, literal rain. A small puddle was forming on the floor of the carriage. "He... left. He married... Elara. In my garden. My bellflowers... they were... they were witnesses..."
Kieran winced. That was a rough one. "Okay, yeah. That's awful. That's a one-star review on life, right there. But, Fiona, look at me. Or, you know, the back of my head."
He took a breath. "This Eoin. He's gone already right? He's probably super, super dead by now, right? And Elara, too. And you're, well, you're still here. You're still in this carriage. You're letting this Eoin, this spectral scrub, live rent-free in your aura. For how long?"
"...A hundred... and... forty... years..." she whispered.
Kieran almost drove the carriage into a glowing bog. "A HUNDRED AND—! Lady! That's... that is way too long! You know what that is? That's not grief. That's a subscription. And you need to cancel it. The free trial ended 139 years ago!"
"But... the wail... the sorrow... it's who I am..."
"Is it?" Kieran challenged, spinning the wheel to avoid a large, glowing frog. "Or is it just a habit? You're a 'banshee.' Okay. Fine. But you're also 'Fiona who likes gardening.' You're letting the job title define you. You gotta rebrand."
He was in the zone now. The 'Dr. Kieran' podcast was in full swing. "Look. We're going to your cottage. You're gonna look at it. You're gonna, I don't know, see the bellflowers. And you're gonna feel the sad. Feel it. That's fine, okay? 10/10, fully endorse feeling the sad. But then? You're gonna what? You're gonna thank that grief for its service, and let it go. You know? 'Thank you, grief, you've been loud. But I'm pivoting. I'm pivoting to spectral horticulture.' Can you do that? It's a new brand identity."
They hit the biggest bump of the entire trip. A massive, carriage-swallowing pothole. The Silverwheel slammed down, the wood groaning.
Kieran winced, his hands flying to the earmuffs, ready to jam them on.
Silence.
No wail. No scream. No hum.
From the back, a small, choked sob.
It wasn't a banshee's wail. It was a cry. A normal, human-sounding (well, ghost-human-sounding) cry.
Milo's light, which had been cowering at a dim-blue, brightened to its normal, warm gold. "Huh. Well, I'll be doused."
The rest of the drive was quiet, punctuated only by Fiona's soft, almost peaceful weeping. Kieran, feeling awkward but strangely proud, just drove.
The Glimmering Fens, it turned out, were beautiful. It was a marsh, but the water glowed with a soft, blue-green phosphorescence. The willow trees dripped with moss and the same floating lights that illuminated Asterveil. It was tranquil.
In the middle of a small, soggy island, was a ruin. Just the stone foundations of a cottage collapsed in on itself.
But, the garden. It was still there. Overgrown, wild, but blooming.
All around the ruins, clumps of bellflowers and spiky, silvery moon-thistle glowed in the light of the twin moons.
Kieran pulled the carriage to a stop. The spectral horses huffed, their breath misting in the air.
Fiona glided out. She didn't drip anymore. She floated. She stared at the cottage, and then at the garden.
"It's still here," she whispered.
"Yeah," Kieran said quietly, hopping down from the driver's seat. "Plants are stubborn like that."
She drifted toward the moon-thistle. She reached out a trembling, translucent hand. As she got close, a single, glowing blue flower bent toward her, as if greeting an old friend.
She didn't scream. She didn't wail. She didn't even cry.
She smiled.
It was a small, watery, rusty smile, but it was unmistakably a smile.
"Thank you... Eoin," she whispered to the ruins. Then she looked at the garden. "And... goodbye."
She turned to Kieran, her face lighter. "Thank you... Driver. You are... very wise."
"Ah, you know," Kieran shuffled, kicking at a glowing tuffet of moss. "It's all part of the service. Five-star ride, that's the goal. I'm glad you like the garden."
She floated up to him. He instinctively flinched, but her presence wasn't cold anymore. It was just cool. Like a spring morning.
"I don't have a coin," she said, her voice soft. "I... I don't have anything... except the wail. And... I don't want it anymore."
"Hey, no. Don't... just don't worry about it," Kieran said quickly. "The ride is on the Guild. Professional courtesy. For a fellow, you know, professional."
"No," she insisted. She placed her cool, gentle hand on his chest, right over his heart. "I will recommend you. To everyone."
And then, she just faded. She didn't vanish in a pop of logic. She just dissolved into the mist of the fens, her form drifting toward the garden, becoming one with the glowing algae and the bellflowers.
Kieran stood there for a long time.
"Well," Milo said, his voice unusually soft. "That was disgustingly heartfelt. Are you done having feelings? Can we go? This place smells like mildew and emotional closure, and it's fogging up my glass."
Kieran climbed back into the driver's seat. He was quiet. And he felt weird. But also he felt good.
Suddenly, a soft, celestial ding sounded in the air.
The rune appeared. It wasn't a manifest. It was like a notification.
NEW DRIVER REVIEW (FARE #3: FIONA M.)
RATING: ★★★★★ (5/5 Stars)
COMMENT: "Driver was chatty. Vehicle was bumpy (1 star for road quality), but the driver's 'self-care' advice was revolutionary. I'm pivoting to horticulture, now. 10/10, would ride again (but I won't, as I am now gardening.)"
Kieran stared at the glowing review. His first real review. A five-star review. From a banshee.
A slow, wide grin spread across his face. He felt a ridiculous, bubbling pride.
He grabbed his invisible spoon-microphone.
"Chat," he said, his voice full of a new, strange confidence. "Vlog. Day two. We are live from the Glimttering Fens. And we have an update."
"So. I've been given some corporate clarification. Turns out, our target demographic is the 'dearly departed.' Yeah. Your boy? He's a ghost driver. The channel is pivoting to Supernatural Customer Service."
"But here's the thing," he said, beaming. "We just wrapped our first official therapy ride. The passenger was a banshee. Yeah. A-list. And the ride? Super bumpy. The suspension on this road is def zero stars. But the conversation was Solid gold."
He pointed a finger at the glowing review that only he could see. "We talked about self-care. We talked about toxic, century-old ex-boyfriends. We talked about rebranding your entire afterlife. And, Chat, we got the five-star review. We are killing it. This ghost-driving thing is, it's not so bad. I think I'm gonna be good at this."
He turned the carriage around, the spectral horses easily pulling it from the mud.
"Anyway," he said, "Thanks for tuning in. Next up, we're, I don't know, probably driving a skeleton to a gig. Don't forget to like, comment, and, uh, possess a friend to subscribe."
Milo's light glowed warmly. "You are, without a doubt, the most insufferable being I have ever been bonded to."
"Yeah, yeah," Kieran said, snapping the reins. The carriage floated up as it hit the cobblestones. "But I'm five-star insufferable, buddy. Let's go get some stew."