Ghost Writer

The end circles to the beginning, the stars winking in the blue velvet night, the cool grass tickling, the voices whispering, when you stop to listen.

I rub the sleep from eyes, annoyed that I must have nodded off again while trying to finish the last chapter of Rosamund’s autobiography. I stare at the words on the screen until the letters float like disembodied apparitions. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve backspaced that sentence into oblivion, and yet here it is again, haunting me. And even worse, I can't figure out why it's infiltrated my brain. Rosamund never said those words to me, I know because I've recorded every interview and phone call and listened to them so many times that I've memorised whole monologues.

Somehow, someway, I need to exorcise that sentence from my memory. I rip a yellow post-it note off a pad, and scribble the words onto it, before scrunching it into a ball and jump-shotting toward the waste bin. The ball skitters on the rim before dropping to the floor.

“Aaaghh!”

Max springs to his feet, retrieves the ball and drops it at my feet, tail wagging, doleful beagle eyes looking into mine.

“You’re right, Max. Time for a walk.”

I pluck the offending paper ball off the floor, stuffing it into my pocket, and clip the leash onto Max’s collar. We stroll along the tow path, accompanied by the smoky scent of burning leaves and children blowing bubbles. Sparks of sunlight ride the ripples on the river. I roll up my sleeves to absorb the fading autumn sunshine, the last chance for photosynthetic happiness.

My reverie is interrupted by the distinct ringtone I’ve assigned to my editor. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but I know he won’t stop calling until I answer.

“Hi Karim,” I say, as Max pulls me toward a grassy patch.

“Samantha, darling. How are you?”

“I—”

“You’ll never guess what happened last night. It was pure debauchery, darling!” Karim continues as Max sniffs at tree trunk before lifting a leg. “I was on the tube home, after some positively debilitating cocktails at Chez Lindsay. And there was the most gorgeous builder, standing near the doors. He was wearing jeans splattered with white paint, and you’ll never guess what he was carrying.”

“Uh, a toolbox?”

“Ha, yes, darling, as it turns out, he had rather impressive toolbox,” he laughs as Max squats on patch of grass and I forage in my pocket for a plastic baggie. “But he also had a six-foot spirit level.”

I brandish the plastic bag like a matador’s red cape, exaggerating my readiness to scoop the poop before anyone can cast a dirty look.

“Darling, that spirit level looked amazing resting against my headboard.”

Max’s poop is warm and squishy in my plastic-wrapped hand. We head to the waste bin.

“Anyway, Samantha, the reason I’m calling,” Karim says, “is to see if you’re finished with Rosamund’s autobiography. You know I hate to bring it up, but you’ve missed the deadline twice already, and there's talk of getting a replacement, to write the last chapter...”

“Ghost-writing an autobiography is difficult enough when the person is alive,” I say as Max licks the face of a toddler who’s lurched toward him. “It’s like watching an orchestra play without the sound, you’re interpreting the story from the movement but you’re not feeling the vibrations in your own body.”

“Mmm,” Karim responds. He’s heard this before.

“But when the subject dies before you’ve finished…”

“Darling, perhaps you can channel her spirit? She’s probably trying to communicate with you right now. Just imagine, the renowned spiritualist, Rosamund Engel, speaking to you beyond the grave, helping her ghost-writer complete the last chapter of her illustrious life!”

“Yeah, that would actually be disconcerting—Max, no!” I say as he strains at the leash, making a dash for the ducks sunning on the shore.

“It’s sweet of old Rosamund, leaving Max to you, don’t you think?”

“I guess. He reminds me of her. Bounding through life, uninhibited. Watching me with those soulful brown eyes.” Max sits at my feet, tilts his head, ears flapping in the breeze, and stares up at me.

“Darling, I’ve sent you a little something, for inspiration. Do at least give it a go.”

“Okay, Karim,” I sigh. At this point I’ll try anything.

**

When I get back home, a box pasted with fragile stickers sits in the shade of my front step. I set it on the kitchen counter and slice through the brown tape with a knife, opening the flaps and digging through a nest of bubble wrap to retrieve a green bottle. The label says La Fée Verte, the green fairy, and below that, absinthe.

I notice a small envelope and tear it open, unartfully.

Darling Samantha,

An ordinary spirit to help you channel an extraordinary one

x K

I rinse out a crystal goblet and pour in the absinthe, mixing with water, to form a cloudy green liquid.

“Here’s to ordinary spirits,” I say toasting in Max’s direction, before taking a tentative sip. The taste of bitter liquorice coats my tongue, and I drink the rest, in larger and larger sips.

Arrr, arrr arrooo, Max bays once, as I finish the last drop.

“Yes, time for your evening walk, Max.”

**

The streetlights flicker on when we glide past, Max leading the way. I’m content to be pulled along by his ambition. A dull but not unpleasant fog rolls through my mind and the rhythm of my footsteps enhances the entrancement.

Ahead is the cemetery, weakly lit by a waning gibbous moon. We wander through the grounds, the shadows of the trees dancing on the smooth tombstones and the crickets serenading from the shelter of the crypts.

Max pulls me up a small rise and stops at a grave.

Rosamund Clara Engel

February 19, 1939- July, 13 2020

Soulmother, Seer, Spirit Seeker and Believer

We are all made of stars

I remember one of the last conversations I had with Rosamund a few weeks before she passed. We were sitting in her garden, drinking whiskey, watching the moon rise.

"Sam," Rosamund said, her paper-thin hands lightly gripping mine. "We are all made of stardust. Nothing really dies, it just changes shape. That's how I communicate with those who have passed. I can feel their essential energy, no matter what shape it takes. And they are talking to us all the time," she laughed, before leaning closer, "if we only care to listen."

I brush a few leaves from the top of the headstone and sit on the grass, leaning against it. Max burrows his nose in my pocket. He drops the yellow post-it ball in my lap.

“Okay, Rosamund. I’m listening,” I say as I unfold it carefully, straightening it as best I can.

The end circles to the beginning, the stars winking in the blue velvet night, the cool grass tickling, the voices whispering, when you stop to listen.

.