A cold wind whips through the windows, lonely and desolate. My Acura doesn't have air conditioning or heat, so I'm either burning to death in the summer or prying my frozen digits off the steering wheel in the winter.

I drive us out of town, far from the prying eyes of the general public.

"Do you think Eugene's going to be the same, McCreepy?" Iggy asks, finally peeling himself away from the window.

"What do you mean? He might smell after the first couple of days, but he'll still have his skin and hair," I reply. "After that, I'm not sure what we're going to do about potential decomposition. He might have to sleep in the walk-in freezer overnight—"

"No." Iggy cuts me off sharply. "I mean, is he going to be able to play football and crack jokes like he used to? Or is he going to be a walking vegetable? Because if that's the case, we might as well bury him right now. I don't want to see him walking around school like that. It's sick, man."

I bite down on my lip and consider the possibility of my experiment going horribly wrong.

If there was a chance of bringing Eugene Wilder back at all, what if his brain didn't come back with him? What if the essence that made Eugene who he was had died with his body?

Death was complicated. There was so much we didn't understand.

Like why some people could drown and somehow come back after an absurd amount of time. Or why someone could still feel a phantom limb long after it was gone.

"Look, Iggy. I don't have all the answers." I exhale, blowing a few strands of choppy black hair away from my eyes. "I'm going to try bringing Eugene back, but there's always a chance something could go wrong."

"This is all wrong, McCreepy," Iggy replies, turning back toward the window.

The thing is, I know he's right.

And I have my regrets.

But it's too late to take Eugene back to his funeral.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't call me that," I tell him after a long pause. Why or how they'd come up with that nickname was beyond me. It had started sometime in elementary school, when a boy named Ben Tibbles began teasing me in the schoolyard, making fun of my aversion to brightly colored clothes. So, McCreepy had stuck. A dreadful nickname, if you asked me. And not even creative in the least bit. 

"What? McCreepy?" Iggy smiles and chuckles to himself.

"It's Darcy Brown."

Iggy furrows his eyebrows.

"Why is your name Darcy Brown if you're Asian?"

I slowly turn my head toward him. "Wow. Really? Is that the only asinine assumption you could come up with in your pea-sized brain? Do you want me to wave a pair of chopsticks around, too?"

He looks mortified.

"I was adopted," I continue, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. "I was born in Kyoto, Japan."

That seems to startle him for a moment. He nods slowly, then shuts up.

I listen to Good Charlotte and other emotionally disturbing bands for the next hour while Iggy falls asleep, giving me a chance to sneak a few glances at him.

He's pretty in that mama's-boy, butter-pecan kind of way.

The type of guy who might take me home to his ranch and feed me chili while we sit on hay bales under the stars.

But he's not my type.

And I'm allergic to hay.

Besides, Eugene Wilder already had a place near my gothic heart. And, unlike Iggy, Eugene had the distinct advantage of being dead.

Which made him considerably less complicated.

At least for now.

When we get to where we're going, I park the car outside the building and lean over to shake Iggy's shoulder. "Wake up, Iggy. We're here."

Iggy brushes my hand away and sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Where is here, exactly?" he asks, looking around as I open my door and climb out.

"My uncle was a plastic surgeon," I explain, surveying the deserted property. "They threw him in jail for using a chemical peel to peel off someone's face. This used to be his house."

"You're fucking kidding me." Iggy gets out and stares up at the mansion.

My uncle had been an eccentric man, and filthy rich. All of his money had gone into his behemoth of a house, which loomed over us like a castle. Beautiful gray brick made up the walls, while ivy clung to the front, crawling up the towers and curling around the windows.

"Do you know how many sick parties you could have in here?!" Iggy shrills.

"Probably too many."

"Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"Because I hate people? Maybe?" I reply, scoffing at the thought of hosting anything remotely interesting for the general school population.

"Anyway, come help me pull Eugene out of the trunk. He weighs like two hundred pounds."

Iggy reluctantly follows me back to the car, and I open the trunk.

For a moment, my heart gives a nervous flutter at the sight of Eugene's corpse.

He looks so different now.

So still.

"This is so creepy," Iggy groans. "Do I have to touch him? It's gross as hell."

"Just lift him by one arm, and we'll pull him out together."

I reach down and take Eugene's dead hand.

It's ice-cold. His fingers are stiff, his skin feeling like an unyielding canvas, drained of all the color that once made him look alive.

"This is so damn gross. . ." Iggy mumbles. "He feels like a frozen pork chop." He dry-heaves a couple of times as we pull Eugene from the trunk, arms and legs flopping all over. 

"No, wait! Don't lift him like that!"

"How the hell do you want me to pick him up? Bridal style?"

"Well, if you're offering . . ."

"Shut up, Brown."

Eugene's head flops backward as we hobble towards the house and Iggy screams shrilly. "His head moved!" He shouts. "Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!"

"Yes," I reply, "That's generally what happens with dead bodies and gravity. Be careful with him."

"I am being careful! Not my fault that he's shaped like a fucking sack of elbows!" He hisses, teeth clenched as he glares daggers right across at me. 

We haul Eugene across the yard, his shiny black shoes scraping against the gravel. He really is dead weight now. At some point, his foot catches on a decorative rock, and his corpse lurches, but refuses to budge, forcing us to yank on him at the same time.

This turns out to be a terrible idea, because his body suddenly slips from our grip.

Iggy says, "Oh, shit."

And then Eugene Wilder goes down like a felled tree, and Iggy vanishes beneath him.

"Get him off me!" He screams. "Get him the fuck off me!"

I stare down at them, one sculpted eyebrow cocking in question. Eugene is sprawled across Iggy's chest, one arm hanging limply over his shoulder. His plush lips press to Iggy's open mouth in a succulent, cold, corpse-like kiss. 

"Oh, dear," I say, although the sight of them locked in a passionate embrace makes my decrepit little heart beat fast. "Are you okay, Igor?"

"Do I look okay!?" He screams, "His fucking lips are touching my tongue! I'm being French-kissed by a corpse!" Iggy tries to shove Eugene off, but Eugene's arm flops across his face. "Oh, God! His hand is in my mouth!"

"Don't be dramatic," I tell him, and I reach down to grab Eugene under the shoulders, struggling to pull him away.

Eugene slides down and ends up with his head buried in Iggy's crotch, bobbing up and down as Iggy kicks frantically, one hand buried in Eugene's curls. 

"OH. FUCK!" Iggy screams, sitting up and trying to shove Eugene's body off of him in a desperate struggle. 

The whole time, I watch Iggy scramble out from under Eugene, and then, promptly, he sprints over to the grass to throw up into some shrubs, shoulders shaking.

I glance up at the towering mansion, then down at Eugene, who smiles peacefully up at the darkening sky.

Tonight is the night we bring Eugene Wilder back from the dead.

My beloved. My absolute obsession.