A Kind of Misunderstanding

People usually don’t see the other side. I didn’t think it existed either, until I had an out-of-body experience. Here I am. Translucent to myself, transparent to others, non-living in a world of opaque, tangible objects. Except for windows—they could be any of those three states in their lifetime. Not implying windows are alive, but after last October, I’d believe anything.

This Halloween, I don’t need a costume. I am the costume.

Speaking of the holiday, it’s a favorite of mine. As a kid I loved haunted houses; the rows of homes lit up with carved pumpkins; smoke machines billowing over the neighbors’ porches; and lawn ornaments blown up with air, in the shapes of ghosts, even bigger jack-o'-lanterns, or cartoonish monsters. Now, I know that’s a vague term. What do you think of when you hear monster? Is it Frankenstein’s patchwork man? The two-faced Jekyll and Hyde? Clowns? Maybe you prefer the vampires—and not the pretty ones, I’m talking bloodthirsty, real vampires, with fangs sharper than knives. The good kind.

Ever knew Count Dracula could turn into a wolf? Little known fact about his ‘species’: they do that. Movies always mess up the books somehow; one bat does not a vampire make. In hindsight, I wish I had learned sooner. Apparently, rumors say King Drac fathered quite a few kids, all of them following in his footsteps. I’m kidding. No rumors said anything, I experienced it. Never meet your monster heroes.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

***

Picture this—full moon, a rainy evening, not a soul around. My friends had dropped me and the drunken mess I was at the sidewalk, right in front of my home. Honestly, I was more afraid of Mom’s curfew than creatures lurking in the dark. Liquid courage motivated the wandering and roving through the neighborhood; the puking by some old guy’s mailbox; the laying in the grass. The caring next to nothing even as the rain soaked my favorite jacket…

“Go home, stray,” a vicious snarl woke me from the stupor.

Sounded like Mom. But it clearly wasn’t. I didn’t have an ounce of wolf blood in my veins, and neither did she.

Fur as wild and disheveled more than an overused toothbrush, it gathered in a hazy, doglike mass. The figure towered above me as I lay still, my back against someone’s lawn. I was brave enough to confront large canines, but this beast was so bulky I had mistaken it for a grizzly bear. In the middle of suburbia, a bear could scare the pants off of anyone. Especially this drunk college guy.

I leapt back, swearing at it like an exorcist chanting at a demon.

“This side isn’t yours,” the womanly voice mumbled, then yelled, echoing the phrase, “This side isn’t yours! Go home!”

Everything wobbled until the scenery duplicated itself, tripling once I tilted my head. The grass, sidewalk, and shadowy silhouette didn’t settle, even as I tried to sit up straight. I clutched my forehead. It didn’t stop the spinning.

In front of my blurry eyes, the figure started to make sense, or I made sense of it. Made sense of her, to be polite. I’d die before missing the sight of a beautiful redhead. No longer a wolf, a curve led across her waistline, down those fitted jeans, and then I noticed she had worn flip-flops. On a rainy night. It was cold enough to freeze hell, too, and if I wasn’t in layers, I would have shivered the whole way home.

Her flowery footwear was the third trait that stuck out the most, aside from her hair and, as formally as possible, her chest, which I definitely wasn’t staring at. She was scowling back—I tried to smile, but at the time I had started drooling again. The beer was gurgling from my throat, threatening to take my stomach out with it. Splotches scattered in the sky. They painted everything until it turned to black.

***

If you were expecting a horror story where a vampire-werewolf lady tears out my guts (and not euphemistically), you’d better stop reading; I don’t know what happened. Last I heard, a dog was barking, the sirens wailing back for a dreamlike progression of hours. Flashing lights gave the void bursts of red and blue. I couldn’t lift my eyelids. I couldn’t feel.

Once it fell silent, I stirred.

Humans can’t fly, can’t float, and certainly don’t have glowing skin. My body shined brighter than a streetlight on a 2 A.M. drive. I had looked down from my midair spot, regretting it in the following moments. Pressure built in the air, pushing from all directions, constricting my chest and lungs. Screaming was pointless, but I sure tried.

Seeing your own corpse really pokes that amygdala. 

Nevertheless, the anniversary of my tragic death has already passed on. Pun fully intended. I’ve come to terms with being dead; my parents moved on and away mere weeks after I was gone. Ever since, I gave up worrying about the living. Haunting this house wasn’t a choice. Perhaps being raised here trapped me in its walls, but I can never fly further than the mailbox. It’s still my home.

Watching the months go by, I’ve also grown accustomed to the small pleasures of nonlife. Sights remain the most vivid, above sounds and physical sensation; the last had numbed to nothing within weeks. Before I could mark the calendar, nearly every season had flown overhead. Spring pollen wouldn’t bother me. Summer scorched the pavement, but no matter where I stood, I felt a chill. During the autumn months the neighbor’s trees shed their leaves, covering the ground in crispy layers. If a kid was lucky, he could jump into the foliage piles before they were swept into the street. Winter? Obviously, I couldn’t tell the difference between my body and the snow.

Regardless of the date, I had always reflected on my meager existence.

Most days I lean on the windowsill, like I am tonight. Guess it’s true you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s faded away. Now I’m alone, left with nothing but an inner voice to console me. And you, peering into my head. Possibly, if you look further, you’ll see the candy mongers awaiting the meandering, costumed crowds, just beyond the clouded glass. Even if they can’t see me, I wave at the four little specks below.

Naturally, this house of mine had found new tenants. Real estate agents didn’t know the place was haunted. Ghost hunters aren’t real either, which works out for me. While the new owners are going trick-or-treating with their kids, I get to be their housekeeper. A nice family—I think their son can see me, if his scribbles of my stubbled face were any indication. He calls me his imaginary friend: ‘Bob.’

You know, why is ‘Bob’ always the first name people think of? ‘John’ is another. Tom, Dick, and Harry, as the saying goes. They’re old guy names, but I guess they’re better than Calvin. Sure, being compared to underwear isn’t the worst that could happen, though if I could go back in time, I’d convince Mom and Dad to name me ‘Clark’ or something. No one names anyone ‘Clark’ these days, but it’s timeless!

Yet, I digress. Back to work.

Skimming the road, I play a game, counting similar accessories. Strings of plastic lights cluster together like stars, adorning the necks and wrists of gleeful passerby. Masquerading pipsqueaks toddle over to our driveway. That’s my cue. I fall through the floor and swim across the air, poking my head into the front door. The visitors inch along towards our porch, gathering in an uneven crescent around their target. Each one begins sizing up the overflowing bowl of sweet treasures.

I point to the sign.

Please take one!

Leave some for everyone, thank you.

Happy Halloween!

-The Wilson Family

Likely without my influence, I watch as the young eyes review the note themselves. A boy dressed in his best fuzzy alien suit glances over his shoulder. Those silhouettes must be his parents. They signal forward, an encouraging pair of smiles accompanying the gesture. Alien kid jingles as he turns to the table once more. The googly eyes on his costume briefly jostle about, along with several spiral appendages carrying more eyeballs, all sticking out from the faux fur. If this creature was real, it’d make itself dizzy just standing in place.

“But I wanna get one for Mommy too…” says the extraterrestrial imitator, his whining emphasized by his sinking posture.

Beside him, the girl around his age is wearing suspenders, rolled-up flannel sleeves, and has a felt bird perched on her shirt. To top it off, she also sports an oversized straw hat. Appears to me that her nose is painted red, and cheeks too—perfect for a scarecrow.

She jostles her half-filled bucket. “Look, look. I got more, so I can give to Mommy and Daddy! Okay?”

“Which one do you want?” an older boy asks, noisily rummaging through the pot. He lists off the brand names one-by-one, showing them to the younger pair.

His garment leaves much to be desired. Those other kids have a sense of style, but this tween, he’s a disgrace. Jeans and sneakers don’t count, and neither does a baseball cap with a horror movie logo. Threads are missing on the design, as if it’s been washed too many times. And come on, man, couldn’t you have worn something better than a graphic t-shirt?

Both children begin complaining more than me, for another reason, but the other boy isn’t having it. He chooses the three candies himself. There goes democracy.

“I get to pick if you're fighting over them,” his confident assertion is followed by a swift heel-turn to the steps. He points to the growing line of grumpy kids. “Let’s go, they’re waiting.” 

For a second, I swear he makes eye contact. There, again, before he leaves. He’s looking directly at me!

In disbelief, I step onto the porch, shifting my attention from the kid to the front door. I line up my finger with the supposed angle of his prior gaze. It matches with the height of the spooky skull ornament. Was he staring through me?

I sure hope this isn’t a trend; I don’t need some annoying child spreading rumors, or bringing his friends to try out a dollar-store Ouija in the driveway. First it was the Wilson boy, then this poorly dressed spectacle. Carefully, I hover above the front yard to the other fence, bracing myself as the tween advances with his gremlin minions.

Ghosts can scare people. Fire is hot, candy rots your teeth. I ain’t the type to be afraid of no ghosts, but considering I am one, maybe I should try my luck on this carrot-topped runt.

Tween interloper passes the duo their share of the sugary loot. His alien and scarecrow cohorts split off, waving goodbye as they scuttle to their parents. Dang it, those two were the easiest targets! Baseball cap t-shirt boy moves in. He’s strolling proudly now, pumpkin-shaped bucket dangling from his loose fist as he maintains momentum. The kid’s reaching—no, he’s passing the second sidewalk line! Three more and he’ll be in range, I need to move fast.

Quick, what can apparitions do?

I snap my head around and break an arm—feels similar to cracking your knuckles, surprisingly. Don’t try this at home.

Letting the uneven arms drop to my sides, I limp across the pavement, catching a glimpse of the reflection in a puddle. Cleverly, I improvise the most spine-tingling expression I can manage: hollowed out eyes. Add in a dripping shadowy substance and some blood, then play the fanfare. Hopefully the staccato string section is implied.

My legs shuffle forward, dragging a hunched torso with a mangled face on its head. I curve my head upward. Forgoing any spectral shrieking, I settle for a subtle, noiseless approach. There’s no guarantee the kid would hear me, anyway.

He halts mid-step.

I hold still.

Clouds clear from the sky. His pupils widen, the whites of his eyes hit by the moonlight. The stare darts up. It shifts downward, onto a crack in the sidewalk, yet taking hesitant glances back at me.

The auburn-haired tween sprints through my body. I feel a gust scatter my spirit, and it reforms swiftly, as if the motion had reversed itself.

I whip around to the other side.

A car I hadn’t noticed is parked in the neighbors’ driveway. Boring Costume the Kid skips into a walk, crouching low, focusing on the four-door sedan. The passenger side opens.

He springs into the visitor’s unprepared arms.

“Oh, no! You got me,” she says with a laugh. As revenge, she squeezes the kid tight, scrambling his already messy curls.

Strange, I recognize her. She speaks the way I remember, and looks amazing as always—it’s only been a year, after all. When she steps out, her expression changes. It turns anxious, like the boy, when she catches my gaze. I scramble to fix the hollow, gaping face.

Gray eyes, red hair. It has to be her.

Pretending we didn’t see each other, the woman shuts the car door, and marches toward the man leaving the driver’s seat. The young boy leaps over to the guy, given another dose of unpleasant embraces, locks ruffled again. Redhead makes her way to the house just as someone opens the door from inside—a chorus of woofing and yapping greets her.

The lady at the entrance chuckles. A giant snout shoves under her arm; bearish paws escape the older woman’s barricade, then the furry legs, and finally the entire heap of a dog barrels into Redhead. She’s probably as tall as me, but that beastly mutt nearly knocks her down. 

“There’s my big boy! How are you?” she kisses between the canine’s eyes, and he snorts. Her baby-talking gets worse. “Beary-bear! How’re yoooou? Such a fuzzy baby…”

…Maybe she isn’t who I’m thinking of.

Hold on.

I know this giant dog. He’s the dog. This woman isn’t a werewolf or Dracula’s great-great-granddaughter: she’s human. There can’t be too many redheaded neighbors. If it isn’t her, then she’s got a terribly convincing doppelganger.

“Christina, haul that mutt inside before he breaks somethin’ of yours,” the middle-aged lady motions to Redhead.

“Sure thing, Auntie!”

Phew, I was worried I’d have to call her ‘Redhead’ for the rest of my afterlife.

Christina wrestles with the monster a little more, pulling his jowls up while massaging his cheeks in circles. Her smile creases those scattered freckles. “All right, Bear, let’s go inside. C’mon!”

Huge as he is, the dog’s bark is amusingly high-pitched, yet its volume makes me jump. I touch the ground under my heel. Behind me, and over my shoulder, I notice the house across the lawn. If I blink, it takes me home, but I’ve closed and opened my eyes more than enough times. I rush through the wall into the neighbors’ living room. I’m sure of it; I’m free.

“Auntie, I’m going upstairs,” Christina shouts from the fourth step. She ascends while humming a tune, in no rush at all.

The tween nearly steps indoors, until Christina’s chauffeur grabs the rascal’s arm. 

“Hey, shoes,” mutters the bearded man.

Leading by example, he kneels down, loosening the ties on his sneakers. He has Christina’s eyes, and her intonation in his voice, but darker, brownish locks falling to his shoulders. Her brother?

Never mind, it doesn’t matter.

I launch through the ceiling, peering through every wall. Not the hallway, not this room—the door at the end is ajar. Is a cold sweat possible for a ghostly body? Peering through the opening, I find the young woman at an organized desk, sitting on a chair with uneven legs. She teeters it back and forth.

When I hover forward, the drumming rhythm pauses.

Christina lifts her head. She doesn’t turn around, but wobbles her seat exactly once.

I sneak behind her shoulder, ogling the desk; she’s writing in a notebook. Crumpled balls of paper are piled beside the lined journal.

On the page is a word:

Hello.

I turn to Christina. She isn’t writing.

That’s it?

Her hand is shivering. Pen bearing down on the page, she writes:

Are you reading this?

Is she…?

“Yes,” I hear my futile reply.

Christina inscribes more:

I can’t hear you. Can you write?

“I’ve tried, but no,” I run my hand into the pen to demonstrate, though she retracts it.

She turns to me, unaware I’ve leaned closer, and tilts away from my face.

“But you can hear us,” her solemn whisper matches her expression.

I nod.

She taps the chair against the floor.

Returning to writing, her hand wildly scribbles more phrases, then scratches them out one by one as her thoughts culminate on the page. Christina tears it up before I can read. Her second attempt is slower; she hunches forward, covering the paper, concealing her words.

Christina sniffs.

Her arm lifts from the desk, gently pushing her note towards me.

I’m sorry. I didn’t help at all.

In vain, I try to grab her shoulder. My body tumbles, somersaulting in midair; I spin the opposite way to balance. Torso halved by the desk, I crouch eye-to-eye with Christina.

Her cheeks are drenched with tears.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say, mouthing the phrase over and over. Slow enough, hoping she’ll see it.

“I’m sorry, Calvin,” she murmurs.

I overlap her hand with mine, holding myself steady so it doesn’t fade.

I wish I could hug her instead.

“…I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

On the desk, in the corner of my vision, I spot a floral pattern. The card is store-bought, but the message inside isn’t.

She left her heart open.

I’ll miss you, but it’s okay.

I’ll eat an extra chocolate bar for us.

Happy Halloween.

-Love, Christina