In Bittersweet Spirits

At John Wiliker's Orchard, the apples are bitter and sour as the wind. At John Wiliker's Orchard, the hayrides are short and the workers are dreary as the drooping leaves on the trees. At John Wiliker's Orchard, there are two apple cider stands, and neither of them are particularly enjoyable. There are only two reasons why the establishment receives visitors year after year, one, their apple fritters, which seem to completely contradict the taste of the apples themselves, and two, the ghosts in the red delicious orchard.

James has never liked sweets, apples, or horror, but he comes to the orchard because he believes in ghosts. He won't say it out loud, and if he would, he'd certainly never tell me, but there is no other reason he would come. I find it strangely compelling that someone so secure in other aspects of life always seems to be hesitant about things like ghosts, but I suppose ghosts themselves are uncertain.

In the red delicious orchard, not a single apple looked acceptable to eat. The wind blew fiercely and stung my cheeks, and for moments, I felt there was ice water coursing through my veins instead of blood, but I have become increasingly accustomed to that feeling for the past six months. James trailed behind and mumbled to himself.

"I hate the smell of rotting leaves."

"What a contrarian, you are."

"Fall reeks of death," he half whispered.

"What a gothic little mindset you have."

"I'd appreciate if you'd refrain from teasing me, I happen to tag along as a witness in case you are devoured by a ghost."

I chuckled. "Don't be silly, ghosts don't devour people."

"How can you be sure? Are you as educated about the supernatural world as you are about the fantasy world?"

"I suppose they might as well be the same thing to you," I said.

He didn't say anything for a while, and when he responded, it was so out of character, I shivered as he spoke.

"I know of four types of ghosts and they can all be proven false."

"Can they?"

"Beyond a doubt." He linked his arm with mine.

"The first, Morrigan, is one that is but a cloud, a gust of wind, swirling mist, often seen outside near graveyards and battlefields, and the simple fact of the matter is that they are exactly what they are, gusts of wind and mist, as are regularly outdoors. That is all they are, that is all they will ever be."

I took note of the leaves gathering on the ground, a rusty brown color that refused to entertain notions of what autumn was supposed to look like.

"The second, orbs. Floating souls in the shape of spheres, wandering about the world. These appearances are as simple as smoke machines and glass light bulbs, as simple as inebriation and medicinally influenced visions, as simple as sleep deprivation and lucid dreaming."

I noticed James's hands. They were rubbing together quickly, but I could see the chapped skin, the near bleeding knuckles. I wondered if we should have left already. James ought to take better care of himself, I thought, yes, he ought to take very good care of himself.

Something changed in his tone.

"The third is a funnel ghost. Minuscule tornadoes characterized as loved ones returning for a visit and described as the cold spot that you walk through, isn't that strange? A cold spot? Do I feel cold to you, dear?" There was a hint of panic in his voice that I tried to ignore, and I felt as if we were walking faster. I studied the sky, which was turning to a soft orange. How quaint, I thought. How quaint.

"No, James, perhaps it's time to--

"No, no, you've pleaded for me to meet you at the orchard to look for ghosts and here I am," he laughed, "looking for ghosts."

His lips were turning purple, I was sure he was cold and I tugged him toward the exit. You will never know how desperately I tried to keep from welling up, how desperately I tried to pull him with me. I wanted to go home.

"The fourth is barely a spirit, but an energy. A poltergeist. A supernatural force built up of angst, anxiety, fear and hatred compressed into a vessel of mortal proportions, manifesting until the pots and pans bang together and plates and dishes rattle all hours of the night. Were this ghost to play a lovely sonata or perhaps juggle cans of tomato juice, then perhaps I would believe it is anything more than a gust of wind and a few odd occurrences."

"James, wouldn't you like to go home? Aren't you homesick already?"

"We've only been here for a few minutes, moments, seconds, years...weeks...maybe months..." He stopped and let the wind toss his hair around. He sniffled. James is much too cold, I thought, much too cold.

"It's time to go--"

"Let me finish! The fifth--"

"You said there were four and you have proven them all wrong!" I shouted.

"I said I knew of four, but there is a fifth. Prepare yourself, Morrigan, the fifth is an interactive ghost. These are often loved ones returning to send a message, they can be heard, they can be seen, sometimes they can be smelled. If you do happen to encounter them, it is likely because you feel you need to see them, but this I have no explanation for, none at all."

He turned to me. "These ghosts, Morrigan," he stroked my cheek with his knuckle, "they almost convince me they are alive...they are so real, but you can tell they are not..." he clasped my hands, "because they smell like they did six months ago, of roses and mints..."

Chilly tears began to slip down my cheeks.

"And their ears and their noses do not get red in the cold, but their skin still feels like ice...

"And their lips do not go blue, but they are freezing to the touch," his hand trailed my bottom lip.

"And you only ever see them in one place, where nobody is around..."

"Your imagination is far superior to mine..."

"So I think now you can infer how much I do not want to believe in ghosts..." he said.

"Perhaps I can."

James doesn't come to the orchard anymore. What's more, the ghost of John Wiliker's Orchard seems to have taken a sabbatical, and John Jr. is worried that apple fritters won't be enough to keep the patrons happy. It seems to me now that more and more people search for answers than for comfort.

In the time that I spend beneath red delicious apple trees, I wonder what it is that makes people want to prove that ghosts are real. Anyone could have any number of motives from wanting to be scared to wanting an experience, to simply wanting the chance to see the person you love again, although if it were my choice, I would much rather my loved one be in heaven than stuck between two worlds that balance out to be yours. I wonder about how uncertain people are of things that can have definite answers, math problems, equations, whether or not someone alive loves you, and whether or not you love them back. These answers are simpler than you think, but I digress. I wonder why people choose to come and see if ghosts are real when there is enough uncertainty in the world to last us each a thousand lifetimes, and even if the ghost were to prove it was real, there would still be doubt because it's always easier to blame it on the wind or your imagination, two very real things that have equal roles in helping us fall asleep when something taps at our window or when explaining the unexplained. John Wiliker's Orchard is the place where people come to realize that ghosts are not scary because they are dead, but because the notion itself that there are people who fit neither in heaven nor hell, that there are souls so misguided they do not know where to wander or what to wonder that's worth wondering about, and the answer is never simple or satisfying. I think that is why James does not come back, because neither ignorance nor knowledge is bliss, but they are both most definitely and undeniable bittersweet.