A/N: Second chapter finally up! Once again, a thank you to my lovely beta AllHandsLinked who takes my good work and forces me to make it 1000 times better.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, for if I did, I wouldn't be me. (Ignore my sad attempt at a rhyme and just go read…)

The next day I began my research into the death of one Mr. Blaine Anderson, who had already decided to make an appearance in my dream last night. I couldn't remember most of it, only that he kept flashing me those pearly whites of his and holding out his hand for me to take. I decided upon waking up that I needed him out of my room before my attraction to him became anything more, and so after a Saturday morning breakfast with my new family, I made my way to Lima Public Library – home to dusty tomes that haven't been touched by wrinkle-less hands in over thirty years, a kids section that consisted of I Can Read! books and one computer that is about the size of the table it sits on.

But I wasn't interested in any of those. No, what I was looking for was in the basement, where I usually spent most of my time when I came here. The basement is where all of the periodicals are kept in dusty files. Most of the magazines are still intact, and I've often found myself distracted by old editions of Vogue, but the things that were usually helpful – the newspapers, are either kept in really large books that are the size of my torso or on these little clear cards that you stick into a projector which then shines them, full size and readable, on a white pull-down screen.

I was hoping that Anderson's cause-of-death would hold a clue as to why he was still earth-bound and my best bet, therefore, would be to look through the new articles to see if there was anything written about his death. And once I discovered how he died, I could help him comes to terms with it and move on, leaving me alone in my bedroom.

Of course, if he had just told me how he had died, things would go a lot more quickly, and I wouldn't have to spend all this time in the dark library basement. I mean, sure I was a little harsh – okay, more like just plain rude – but I was stressed and tired from the wedding and moving. And it's not as if I haven't tried being nice to ghosts before – in fact, I'm usually not so snappy that them. It's just that one can only take the tears of the deceased for so long before you just start to get annoyed. I mean, they're dead. Why do I get stuck with the job of helping them? No one ever helps me with my problems.

Still, I probably could have worded things a bit better. It wasn't like he was clinging to me like a baby. In fact, it wasn't until I brought the subject up that he became emotional, now that I stopped to think about it.

I quickly headed over to where the books containing copies of every edition of the town newspaper since 1930 were shelved, knowing from experience that the projector was faulty and the words difficult to read with the dim bulb of said projector.

It took me a while to scan the dates of the books on the shelves, glancing over the 1970s and 1960s before finally reaching the decade I was searching for – the 1950s. With a sigh I slid the first heavy volume, 1950-1951, off the shelf, and carried it over to a table in the corner of the room. Dropping it on the wooden tabletop, a plume of dust rose up in the air. I quickly blew the rest off before settling in the chair and opening the book to the first page.

To be honest, I wasn't sure what I was looking for. While these books had copies of every edition of the local newspaper ever printed since 1930 (trust me, I know) they had no index for them and so people who were interested in what happened in the town of Lima in the past (usually only me, and only to ever find out information about my "clients") had to sit there for hours, going through article after article in an attempt to find the one name that they were looking for.

After years using this particular resource for finding out about my clients' pasts, I've discovered that more often than not, the easiest places to find them are in the obituaries. It would seem obvious, but it actually took me several months to figure that one out.

Anyway, it wasn't until I got to the volume for 1955-1956 that I finally found the name I was looking for.

Blaine Anderson, age 17. Remembered by father Herbert and mother Catherine. Funeral date set for April 16, 1956. No wake.

It was short and to the point – as most obituaries are. I glanced at the date of the paper itself – April 14th – and sighed yet again. I flipped to the edition that came from the date before and began to peruse the articles with a bit more attention than before. It took me a while, and it wasn't until I had gone back to April 12th that I finally found an article related to the death of Blaine Anderson, on the fifth page, under an ad for "Sal's Shoe-Shiner". It was a short article, barely two paragraphs long, and all it said was that the previous night Blaine Anderson had been found lying in the street a few blocks from the high school, dead from blood loss. The cause of death was never determined.

That was it. That was all that was said. There was nothing about an investigation into his death, or how his parents took the news, or even how the town – which was pretty small at that time – reacted. This was odd because one would think that an unexplained death of a healthy teenage boy would cause people to talk.

With a groan I let my head fall onto the open book and closed my eyes. This was going to be a take a lot longer than I had thought.

"Porcelain, I thought I'd find you here," a familiar voice said somewhere to my right. With a sigh I opened my eyes and turned my head, not lifting it off the book, to take in the familiar form of Coach Sue in a green tracksuit standing at the end of the table I was sitting at, hands on her hips.

"Got a new one, I suppose? And why won't this one say sayonara to this dull plane of existence and move on to the next?" she asked as she took the chair across from me, spun it around, and sat down on it backwards.

Did I mention that Sue Slyvester, coach of the McKinley High Cheerios and – according to her anyway – future Prime Minister of the State of Sylvester (I still don't know if she intends to rename the United States that or the entire North American continent), can also see ghosts?

Yep. She figured out my secret pretty fast the first day of my freshman year. It's funny because she didn't even see me talking to any ghosts – I just walked past her office and she yelled at me about "reeking of ghost-stink" and to "wash it off before you step inside this office to discuss our course of action." After that, I've been going to her for "advice" about how to deal with my more problematic ghosts (by advice, I mean that she would just tell me to grow a pair and then go and take care of the phantom-problem herself), since her methods of getting them to move on include more insolence than I normally prefer, but is sometimes necessary.

"I have absolutely no idea why he won't move on," I told her honestly, finally picking my head up off the table and resting it instead on my hand while leaning on my elbow. "He didn't say."

"He? Oh, got yourself a boy toy, eh, Porcelain? Or is he really old? Because if that's the case don't even think about it. Not only is that wrong, it's gross and disgusting and makes me think of overcooked hot dogs. Does he have a nomenclature?"

Yeah, I've learned to just ignore some of the things she says, as well as her incorrect use of words and historical figures.

"His name is Blaine Anderson. He died in 1956 due to blood loss and that is all I know. These records suck." I smiled sweetly at her, putting on my 'Oh-Coach-you-love-me-don't-you-otherwise-you-would-have-me-chewing-old-sneaker-soles-right?' face. "You don't think I could-"

"Don't even think about finishing that question, Porcelain. You know how I am with my sources," Coach Sue said as she examined her nails. They were, of course, filed down to the tip of her finger so that they didn't get in the way when she planned out her plots to bring others to their demise. "They are mine for a reason, and even though you and I share a common ability that requires their services from time to time, I prefer to keep what's mine under lock and key." She smiled at him. "It makes me feel superior. Which, of course, I am."

I sighed, having known the answer before she had started speaking. Of course Sue would never let him share in her "sources" – people and other resources from which she could gather information faster than a Google search engine on anything she wanted. Including names, dates, causes of death, next of kin, education, careers, social security numbers, bank statements, a copy of the will if there was one, and even an entire list of people whom the deceased had had intercourse with if she so desired (trust me, she has). It was rather annoying at times knowing that she had all of the information I would ever need to help someone like Blaine move on, but refused to share it with me unless she was intervening to help rid the world of a particularly nasty phantasm that I couldn't handle alone.

I could fight them physically if I wanted to learn how – since my "gift" comes with the wonderful ability of not only seeing and hearing ghosts, but also being able to touch them – I just don't like messing up my hair, and boxing is not the sport for someone who doesn't like to get sweaty. So I usually end up in Coach's office, pleading her for assistance, since she refuses to help unless I beg.

And for the record, Coach Sue doesn't fight them physically either. She digs up all the dirt on the ghost and blackmails them into moving on. And if there is no dirt? Well, then she makes some.

"Now, Porcelain," Coach Sue continued after having paused to take a long drink from her thermos. "What are you planning on doing about this Barry Andrews?"

"Blaine Anderson," I corrected.

"That's what I said."

I just shook my head and decided to ignore it as well. "Well, I could either go find the oldest living person in town who not only lived during the fifties but remembers it-"

But Sue was already shaking her head. "No good, Porcelain. The only geezers left in this sorry excuse for a town are either too old to remember how to wipe their asses after they take a crap or lost all of their brain cells during the Happy Pansy movement of the sixties. No, I would suggest a different approach."

I perked up. Was the great Sue Sylvester going to give a rare bit of advice?

"Talk to the human-shaped ectoplasm."

I deflated just as easily. "I tried that, Coach. And he popped out like a bubble on a sunny day! He got all touchy when I asked him about how he passed."

"Apologize," Sue shrugged. "That's your forte, Porcelain. You deal with the whinny-ninnies, and I handle the tough bastards. It's how we've always worked and you'll do good to remember that. We can't have you trying to take over my position as head bitch when you're better at smiling sadly and feeling 'compassionate' towards these revenant suckers. So suck up your pride, Hummel, and say you're sorry."

With that Sue rose to her feet and glanced at her watch-less wrist. "Now, look at that. I've spent all this time babbling to you about some ghostie and I'm still going to be early to my meeting with the Mayor about raising the property taxes and giving me the money so that I can spend the it on new sneakers for my Cheerios. Damnit, Porcelain, I prefer being fashionably late to these things – I get to make an entrance, give my demands, then leave right after insulting someone in the room. It relaxes me. Oh well, I suppose I'll have to make a stop at Schuester's house and come up with some profanity about his hair."

If it were anyone else, I would have raised an eyebrow. But, knowing Sue for as long as I have, I barely batted an eyelash as she stalked toward the stairs the led to the main floor. She paused with her hand on the banister before turning and shouting – even though she was only five feet away – at me.

"By the way, sweet cheeks, where's this specter of yours haunting? I don't want to accidentally come across it and have my tracksuit ruined by his goody-goody stench."

I sighed. "Don't worry, Coach. You won't run into him anywhere. Not unless you plan on visiting me in my bedroom."

Sue's eyebrows drew together in a menacing look. Unfortunately her menacing look was the same look she had on her face when she was concerned, constipated, or extremely pleased with some new scheme of hers to bring down Will Schuester.

"A grease monkey from the roarin' fifties is hanging out in your bedroom? Oh, and one more word of advice, which you should pay attention to since it's your quota for the year: Porcelain, I know you like the man-meat and all – but be careful you don't grow too attached to him. Remember, he doesn't belong here."

I watched her climb the stairs two at a time before sighing and looking back down at the open book on the table. There, next to the article I had been reading, was a familiar face smiling up at me from a photograph barely larger than the size of a postage stamp. It was handsome boy from my bedroom.

"I know, Coach. I know."