horror

1. Ghost - noun. “The apparition of a dead person which is believed to appear to the living, typically as a nebulous image.”

Rory usually texts early in the morning, but yesterday he didn’t. I got worried at noon and called him up just to make sure he wasn’t dead. Call me a worrywart if you will, or paranoid, or uptight. I don’t care. 

“Hey, babe. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Why?”

“I’m just making sure.”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“Hey.”

“See you tonight.”

I sighed and hung up. I tugged on my gloves; it was chilly enough to have an excuse. Usually on hot days I just don’t go out. After a few centuries of living, I figured out that silk is the perfect material to hide the fact that your skin just isn’t quite there. On overcast days, no one notices, and I’ll go shopping or on a walk. But when it’s sunny and warm, I’ve no excuses. You could see my shoe through my forearm and I just can’t risk it. 

Hi. I’d like to introduce myself. Rory calls me Kat but that’s just a dumb nickname. I was born Temperance Abigail Voisey, and if you want to get technical I’m two hundred forty-two. But I’m sprightlier than your forty-year-old mother. Why? 

I think you know why. 

I went outside and shielded my eyes. It was sunny, but cold. I had on long sleeves, pants, boots, gloves, a scarf, glasses, everything you can dress yourself in. The thing about cold weather, though, is your breath is supposed to show, drifting on the frosty wind, and I don’t breathe. So there’s that. 

I dashed out to my car and headed downtown. There was a certain coffee shop called Pea Picker Coffee and if you hit it at the right time in the morning you could get the little corner table. The owner, Bill, wouldn’t bother you if you sat there all day. I always bought a coffee as a matter of principle (I was raised in the late 1700s-- principle is one of mandatory subjects they teach. I exaggerate, but there you go) even though I never drank it. 

You’ll ask, does Rory know you’re dead?

No. No, he doesn’t. 

Of course, my relationships are never serious ones. I could never get married-- what could I do on my wedding night? 

You’ll laugh, of course, but even living during the 1960s didn’t erode my old-fashioned bumpkin values. 

So no, Rory doesn’t know. I explained to him I’m on a very strict diet and I get embarrassed when I eat with others. He bought it, but he was staring at my lips moving when I explained, and didn’t hear. It’s probably for the best. He’s an idiot anyway, all turtleneck sweaters, yellow teeth, and squinty eyes. He works at an engineering company, but he’s just a gopher for coffee. I date him because his smile reminds me of someone.

Actually, I plan to break up with Rory this week. 

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2. Ghost - verb. “To cut off all contact with a significant other, to subject someone to ghosting.”

Rory beat me to it, though.

Rory. Where are you?

RORY! What’s going on?

Hey. I’m about to call the police.

The next morning I was at my limit. We’d established too strict of a texting/calling routine for me to be understanding of a missed text. The thing about dying in 1803 is that you can’t throw things against the walls or at your partner. You can wear silk clothing (light enough for ghost bones) and hold hands, sometimes, and generally do enough to scrape together appearances for the 2020 humans. But you can’t throw a pie at your boyfriend, punch him in the nose, or toss him out of your apartment. I was stuck with balling my fists and fuming out my ears. 

I imagine you’re still wondering about that “Temperance Abigail Voisey” part and maybe the cause of my death. My answers? One, go look in a history book, moron. Temperance is a solid name. I’ve got good bones and good ancestors in the Voisey name and I won’t have you disrespecting them. I can haunt, you know. Two, that’s none of your business. I’ll say only that it involved a pretend witch-trial at a lake one summer afternoon, and that I can’t swim. There you go. Also, that’s why I live so close to that lake. 

Every winter, and sometimes at night when I’m bored (I don’t sleep, obviously) I’ll go around and haunt the descendants of the morons who convinced me to get in that lake in the first place. I’ll slam doors, scratch on the walls, pull the sheets off if they’re light enough, flick lamps on, and generally wreak mental havoc on those kids. 

You think I’m heartless, don’t you?

Well, let me tell you this. 

In 1912 or thereabouts, I fell in love. He wasn’t especially smart, good-looking, or successful, but he was honest, kind, practical, and courageous. He was young, and I looked young. I told him I was dead. He was the only one I’ve ever told. 

I told him on a wind-soaked autumn afternoon, steeped in gold and red. He kissed me on the cheek and looked in my eyes. He had deep brown eyes, the color of coffee. Then he turned away and walked out of my life.

I didn’t have the heart to haunt him. I still loved him. I pop in on his granddaughter from time to time. She’s about sixty and lives in New York. She looks too much like the Roaring Twenties debutante who married my coffee-eyed love, so I haunt her more than all the others. 

That reminds me. Rory. He hasn’t talked to me in about a week. I think it’s over. I only wish I’d ghosted him first, so I could taunt him at night with whispers: Ghosted by a ghost…

But it’s too late now.

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3. Ghost - noun. “A false image created by reflection.”

You’re wondering if I get lonely or tired. I don’t. I’m not human anymore. Well, sometimes I get lonely. But this is no Addie LaRue scenario. I’ve got my friends, I just don’t keep them for that long.

So what am I, anyway? I’m a ghost. That has many meanings, you know. I’ve just talked about two. I think it’s time I talked about the third.

Since I died, I’ve been afraid of dying. I know that doesn’t make sense to you; you’re human. It’s not your fault. It is your fault how you be human, though. Sorry, I can’t help sermonizing. 

Anyway, I’m scared of disappearing. Of being forgotten, I guess. I’ve seen people-- literally millions-- be born and live and then die. I know what it is to be forgotten. I died in 1803, was buried, mourned over, and then… people moved on. 

I don’t want to disappear. 

Maybe that’s why I involve myself in so many people’s lives. I guess I’m hoping some genius will pick up the trail, maybe read my coffee-eyed love’s journal and piece together the puzzle, find me, and confront me. 

I’m not human, but I have a soul, as much soul and heart as you!

I’m not material, not a human, just a reflection of a long-dead girl, but I love. I hurt. I hate. I hold grudges. I don’t like to be forgotten either.

Here. Take this. You’ve read this story, you know who I am. Don’t let me fade away, please. Only you and my love know my story, and he’s dead. It’s all you. Don’t forget me. Bury this and take it out in a decade. By then I’ll be somewhere else on earth, but find a good detective and let him at it. 

Remember what I’ve taught you. 

1. Ghosts are real. 

2. Ghosting hurts. 

3. I have a soul too.

Maybe I’ll see you again. 

Until then, goodbye.