In Laymon's Terms

And sometimes, just for the hell of it, we might blow gently onto the back of your neck, so you get one of those goose-over-your-grave shivers.

Now you might be thinking (if you’re not one of us) what a great opportunity for mischief this is. You could pull your schoolteacher’s hair, pinch your boss’s nose, help yourself to cash from a bank vault, assassinate that irritating TV presenter who hogs the screen whatever the channel.

But no. With invisibility comes responsibility.

There’s a strict code of conduct.

We Invisibles don’t interfere with the lives of the Visibles.

That is, we didn’t until eighteen-year-old Ham Masen came along. Remember what I said? He was a late starter. So maybe he was making up for lost time.

Let me take you back to when I first met Ham.

2. ECHOES YARD. NIGHT. IT HAPPENED AT THE COUNTY MORGUE.

I saw him charging toward me. He was shouting, waving his arms, eyes staring. He didn’t look as if he’d seen a ghost. He looked like a dozen ghosts armed with machetes were hell-bent on juicing him.

He ran right across Echoes Yard, banging on windows of stores and yelling at the top of his voice. With it being close on midnight the only place open was Burger King. I watched customers looking round for the source of this hullabaloo, but when they saw nothing they shrugged and turned back to their burgers and fries.

The young guy making all the hoo-hah is Ham Masen. He realizes something has just gone totally weird in his life but he doesn’t know what.

“You’ve gotta help me! You’ve gotta help!” he screamed at a drunk staggering home from a bar.

The drunk looked round and couldn’t see a damn thing. Wobbling, he made a gesture like he was flicking away a bothersome fly, that’s all.

Ham Masen screeched, “You can’t see me, can you? I’m here! Look at me!”

The drunk peered round, seeing squat. Then Ham made his first mistake. He grabbed the drunk by the arm, still shouting that he needed help. The drunk was too pixilated to work out anything in a logical way. Instead he let fly at (to him) fresh air with his fists.

By chance one connected on Ham’s young, thin face. He jerked back to land in a bush, his legs kicking the air.

Time I intervened.

I ran across to where Ham sat in the bushes, shaking his head. If he’d been a cartoon character little blue birds would have been tweeting round his head.

He touched his jaw. “Ouch.”

At least the drunk’s punch had knocked the panic from him.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t bust your jaw?”

“Don’t think so. It’s sore though...and my neck.” He swiveled his head just to check that it didn’t drop from his shoulders. “Aches like hell.” Then he looked up at me with brown eyes that were so big and so full of sadness that my heart went out to him.

His eyes glistened. “I didn’t figure it would be so tough being a ghost...” He touched his jaw again. “I didn’t know ghosts could feel pain either.”

“You’re no ghost.”

“Of course I am. No one can see me...when I look in a mirror I can’t even see me.” He shrugged then lay back in the bushes. “I’m a ghost. I’m dead. Leave me.”

“Come on, give me your hand.”

“Leave me here to rot.” He frowned. “Maybe ghosts rot after all. I mean if I can feel pain—”

“Listen, give me your hand. I’ll help you.”

He gave me a funny look as if deciding whether or not I was teasing him. Then he held out his hand to be helped to his feet.

“I’m Kate Shayler.”

The help-up became a handshake.

“Ham Masen.”

“Ham?”

“Yeah, at school kids called me Bacon. My parents named me after my uncle so they’d inherit stuff when he died.”

“But Ham?”

“Ham Claytz...you know, Claytz Plates?”

“So they got the money.”

“And I the name.”

Now I know why he owned those big, sorrowful eyes that made him look like a saint.

He brushed leaves from his shirt and jeans. “And just when I didn’t think my life could get any worse, saddled with a name like Ham...this happens. I die and I’m left to haunt Echoes Yard. The place you only visit when it rains.”

“You’re not a ghost, Ham.”

“So what am I?”

“You’re invisible. That’s all.”

“That’s all!”

“Don’t worry. I’ll—”

“I’m invisible and you tell me not to worry!”

“Shhh.” I glanced back. Some people had come out of Burger King to see who was doing all the shouting.

The thing is: they saw nothing.

Ham and me were invisible.

“Calm down,” I told him. “There’s stuff you should know.”

Despite the shock of his sudden transition of being there to being nowhere—at least as far as everyone else was concerned—he took the news well.

We sat side by side on a bench.

He shook his head. “And you say this Inherited Visibility Syndrome was in my blood?”

“And it usually hits just after puberty.”

“But why didn’t anyone tell me about it?”

“We’re Invisibles. We don’t tell anyone until they lose their visibility.”

“No shit. I can’t wait to tell the guys.”