Red Flag

            Emma had made the dish before, but that was years ago, long before she moved into her current home, where the oven’s maximum temperature was three hundred degrees. She wrinkled her nose as she read the thermometer. It’s a shame rare chicken had such a bad rap.

            “I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit longer,” she called to her date for the night, the first man she’d ever invited into her home for dinner, and perhaps a little bit more? The anticipation had her heart fluttering all day. Intimacy was on the menu! She was craving that more than what was on the actual menu.

            Ken nodded, stuttering an inaudible response. Emma smiled back; his pallor had her worried. She took him by the arm and led him over to her sofa. The tension running through his body made him non-pliable. Poor guy. She should have given him a warning, but what kind of warning would that have been? And, would the warning alone have scared him away? And, what if she warned him, and then nothing happened? What would he think of her then? The answers made her anxious so she chose the wait-and-see method. But Emma realized she may have made the wrong choice when Ken witnessed a kitchen cabinet door opening on its own. The look on his face—wide eyes and open mouth, frozen in terror—gave her the regret she was hoping to avoid.

A door slammed shut somewhere upstairs (probably her bedroom door), and Ken reacted to the sound as if he’d just been shot. He breathed heavily and sank into the sofa. “I can’t believe this doesn’t frighten you.” His voice tremored as much as his hand that he rubbed his forehead with. Emma scooted closer to him; he stiffened, but relaxed some after she placed her hand on his leg. They had been dating for over a month, seeing each other every week, and they were a good match: she loved his inquisitive nature and his dimples, and he seemed to like her back, in what way and what capacity, she wasn’t sure, but what she wasn’t expecting was her home to be an obstacle. Another door slammed, echoing throughout the house (probably the upstairs bathroom). Ken flinched. “How can you live here?”

            Emma took a deep breath, knowing she had some explaining to do, but where to begin? The beginning was hard to revisit, moving into this 200-year-old house, freshly divorced; newly depressed. She looked away from Ken and reflected on the memory. “There wasn’t any activity when I first moved in. I was so depressed the silence almost did me in.” She glanced over at him. She had mentioned her depression before and he seemed accepting of it. That released something within her; the worry she held was unnecessary. Depression was no longer a red flag. “After a few months, I started to hear and see things, like the cabinets opening, doors slamming, footsteps,  you know, the usual haunted stuff.” She turned her focus to her hand, the one on his leg. When telling someone something that may come across as unbelievable, eye contact should always follow the story, not during or before. It sounds like advice her grandmother would tell her, but no, she learned this on her own. “But at the same time, I slowly started to feel better, and, well, I know this might sound ridiculous but,” she paused and pursed her lips, before breaking into a casual smile, “I think, whatever it is, I think it took my depression away.”

            “What?”

            “Well, you know how they say spirits feed off energy. I mean, there’s no proof, but it’s a theory.” Ken shrugged like he could care less either way. “I just think, whatever it is, sucked all of my depression out of me. It lives off that energy.” Ken raised his eyebrows. An admission like this could send any potential love interest running and Emma knew that it was a delicate matter, opening herself up to ridicule and scorn. But the payoff was magical: to have someone believe you. 

            “Yeah, but how can you know for sure?” Ken’s eyes moved around the room as he spoke.

“I’ve never felt better.” She grinned; she couldn’t help it because it was the truth and something she was immensely grateful for. “Honestly, I wake up with a smile on my face every day. I haven’t cried in ages. So, if happiness means sharing my house with a spirit, I’ll take it.” She glanced up at him, carefully, as if his reaction might blind her, but he was looking up at the ceiling, and she wondered if he’d heard a word she’d said, which led to her wonder if she had said too much. Above them, something scraped against the wood floors (probably her desk chair).

“Yeah, but how can you know for sure?”

“You already asked me that.” Emma gave him a friendly shove and laughed but Ken didn’t respond to it. His demeanor surprised her and the first threads of doubt entered her mind. Heavy footsteps reverberated over them.

“Your depression must’ve been pretty severe to raise the dead.” He whispered, the awe in his voice was palpable. It felt like a compliment to Emma, but it was nothing to be proud of.

“I suppose I should stay away from cemeteries.” Her joke fell as flat as Ken’s desire for her. He greeted her that night with so much promise, beginning with a long kiss the moment he walked through her front door. That passion was no longer evident. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder and rubbed her hand along his chest. He didn’t respond to her touch; it was like trying to cuddle with a corpse.

“Try to think of it as a cat.” He whipped his head in her direction, incredulous. “A really big cat.” He shook his head. “You’ll get used to it.” 

“I don’t know if I could—“

     The footsteps above them quickened as if the spirit was running the length of the floor, and came to a sudden stop at the top of the stairs that were hidden in the darkness. A shadow began a slow descent down the stairs, one step at a time. Ken shuddered with each footfall, his breathing became ragged and Emma’s face undulated against his chest.

“It’s ok, Ken, it’s not going to hurt you—”

“How do you know that?” The words poured out of his mouth.

“I just know.” The fact was she didn’t know, but she did feel it. She was never harmed, so why would he be harmed? Besides, how much damage can an invisible force really do—

Ken shot up from the sofa, causing Emma to collapse onto his now unoccupied spot, her cheek resting against the warm cushion. “I’m sorry, Emma, I really like you. A lot. But I can’t do this.” He backed away from her as he made his way to the front door. Emma sat up, straight and rigid. He opened the door and turned one final time to her. “You-should-really-put-this-on-your-dating-profile—” The shadow raced toward the door and Ken slammed it shut just in time.

       Emma sighed, long and deep, as she watched the shadow dissipate, its tendrils reaching her before drifting up and away, into nothing. This was going to be harder than she expected. It’s not like she could set ground rules for a spirit. They do what they want when they want. They show up unannounced when you least expect it, create chaos, disrupt lives, and scare away people you care about. Emma laughed. It was exactly like her depression. And even if it did complicate her dating life, she would rather have her depression living beside her than inside her.