Jackson of the Dead, that was his name within the force.

  Of the Dead, that was what he was. Over the long history of life, numerous people had wished for numerous things.

  But one common wish that came up over and over again was of course, the wish for death.

  There were many reasons to wish for death, and though most of them were fairly invalid, they were understandable. Sadness, loneliness, pain, temporary troubles, permanent troubles, or in his case depression.

  He adjusted his tie and put his hat on properly. He would be meeting with a guest today, someone high up in the Heroes Union and he wanted to look his best. The mirror blinked the time and temperature in the corner.

  It was cloudy, as it normally was this time of year and the snow had just started to pick up. Strangely enough, he liked the snow and rain.

  Depression was different now then it had been a century or two ago. It was much more treatable, even if the condition was caused by a chemical imbalance within the brain. But treating it came with consequences.

  People could have their personalities changed. They could turn into a whole different person afterwards and while that person would be happy, they would be entirely different.

  But those problems came from permanent solutions. One time shots that would “cure” your brain, pills would still get the job done most days.

  The problem with pills was that you could stop taking them.

  He smiled, adjusted the stapler on his desk and left the room.

  Jackson was a wisher, but he was also a policeman. A lot of wishers became policemen, serving their city and state via less glamorous means. They weren’t heroes and they worked directly under the department, but their actions were still regulated by the HU.

  It was a complicated marriage of power and duty. If his wish was something physical, he could use it to apprehend criminals no problem. But his powers fell into a more investigative arena, and that made things a whole lot harder.

  “Heading out again, Jack?” The man wandering the halls asked him.

  “Sure am, have a meeting to attend to.”

  “Well good luck with that, I’ll be down here with paperwork. My wife’s gonna kill me for being here this late.”

  Jackson smiled and watched as the man walked through a closed door and into an office that wasn’t his.

  That was how his wish manifested.

  People who wished for death didn’t automatically get this specific power. It wasn’t that simple.

  You had to wish for a specific type of death. A death of reunion. A death of love.

  I wished I was with my wife.

  That had been his wish. Not so much in words, but in sentiment.

  I wish I was with my wife.

  He walked the halls of the station. Turning corners, going down elevator, meeting the occasional ghost along the way.

  He knew them all by now, by name and by face.

  He saw an old fat fellow walking around with paper work, an old chief that had died of a heart attack. He saw an officer staring down passerbys. An old lady who had passed away right outside the office. An overdose victim. A criminal who got killed in a holding cell. A dog.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He knew them all now.

  It had been hard to tell them apart from the living at first, but it got much easier after some time. They were always slightly translucent and they would ignore anyone else that wasn’t him.

  He walked out the building and popped up his collar and walked to the parking lot.

  They weren’t people, at all. They weren’t souls or spirits, or whatever part of humans it was that made them human. They were more like copies. Memories stuck in a philosophical zombie, a thing that acted like a person.

  According to the Union, the phantoms, which they called them, were created from many wishes stacked on top of each other over many years. Wishes to bring back the dead, to remember the dead, to talk to the dead, and all other types of nature defying activities.

  That was what created these shadows, these phantom ghosts that wandered the world, putting on a show that few would ever see.

  He reached his car and entered it.

  About twenty minutes later, he was in the middle of a park underneath a tree.

  He took out his phone, trying to reread the instructions once again. But before he could even unlock it, he felt a small gust of wind to his left.

  Then there was a man next to him. The large grey muzzle and the yellow marbled eyes almost made him think this was a grower of some sort. But the tarp-like cape flowing into the tree’s shadow and the sheen metallic glimmer he saw on the suit told him otherwise.

  “You- You’re the Wolf?”

  “And you’re Jackson Spencer?”

  Jackson nodded, setting aside his surprise.

  “You wanted to meet with me?”

  The Wolf nodded and started walking, in broad daylight, in the middle of one the largest parks in the city.

  “They can’t see us,” the Wolf said. “Invisibility shield.”

  “invisibility shield,” Jackson muttered.

  He had heard of invisibility suits before, and he knew those went for about a million in the underground markets. They were one of the most coveted of wishes and tech that replicated wisher abilities, was some of the most expensive stuff in the world.

  Mainly because it would be other wishers that bought it.

  But a whole shield that could make two people standing two paces apart invisible, he hadn’t heard of that before.

  They walked through the park, using the paths as they went. They never had to step aside for a person. People didn’t see them or sense them in any way, but they always seemed to move out of the way as if they were guided by something.

  But more than that, Jackson saw ghosts and for some reason or other, they did not see him. The ghosts always saw him, even if he had his back turned, even if he was hiding, they would always see him.

  It wasn’t just his own experience that informed him but the Union themselves. Even if he wore an invisibility suit, they would see him.

  But not today, and even more strongly, they avoided him, just like all the living people.

  Before he could continue that thought, they arrived. There was a ghost here, an old man sitting by a tree with a troubled look on his face.

  “That’s the man I need you to talk to,” the Wolf said.

  Jackson nodded. He wasn’t even curious as to how the Wolf could see them.

  “You can’t talk to them?”

  “No,” the Wolf answered. “Their current state is somewhat understood but is still very much a mystery.”

  “Pardon me for asking, but how can you see them? Or hide from them?”

  “We know their observations and interactions are based on brainwaves and consciousness signatures and using techniques that revolve around those, they can be manipulated.”

  “Consciousness signatures?”

  “Energies and patterns exuded by a conscious mind.”

  “But I thought they weren’t thinking?”

  “They’re not, but they pretend they are and react in the same fashion. A very real simulation of sorts.”

  “Then, how do we know that they're not alive?”

  “Wishes cannot bring back the dead, and all living people can wish. Throughout the Upheaval and after it, there has never been an instance of ghosts making a wish.”

  “Is that all? That seems like a strange definition for a person, someone who can make a wish?”

  There was an underlying subtext there, and Jackson was a little scared to have implied it. But he was asking about non-wishers, regular people, the everyday man. Were they not people?

  The Wolf was not fazed.

  “A person is one who can wish, not just those who have. A person has desire and wants, things born out of free will. If there is a soul, and wishes imply that there are, then these things do not have it, Detective.”

  “You believe in souls?” Jackson asked.

  “You don’t?” The Wolf replied.

  “I mean, I see the dead, but they’re just memories, not people. Just the traced outline of who they were, you know. I feel like I would know better than most if souls were real.”

  “Why do you think the dead can’t be brought back?” The Wolf asked. “Wishes can do anything, but they can’t bring back the dead, why?”

  “I.. I don’t know.”

  “Humans are hard to remake Detective. Even through the power of wishes, you can’t just bring back a person.”

  “It just seems so… unscientific, believing in souls I mean.”

  “We live in a world where people’s wishes can manipulate reality, Detective. Science is real, but it is surely not alone.”

  Jackson stood still in thought before nodding.

  “Yes, I’m sorry about the questions,” Jackson mumbled.

  “It’s alright. I hope you can find better answers one day.”

  That itches at the detective within his head. Better answers, that implied that there were better answers to begin with, ones more clear than what the Wolf had given him.

  “Yes, thank you sir. Now what should I ask this man?”

  “Why did he kill himself under this tree? And who made him do it?”

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