Three

Arthur’s back popped as he bent to pull a carrot from the rich soil of his vast garden. He stood stiffly and looked toward the sun, which was sinking below the horizon. Time to head in.

As he trudged slowly toward his hut, the brick walls glowing red from the sunset, he made a mental inventory of work to do tomorrow: hill potatoes, weed onions, and inspect his ten-foot-high barbed wire fence for weak spots to reinforce. Wearily, he punched the 12-digit PIN into the keypad on his door and scanned his eyeball.

He sunk into his sole kitchen chair, rubbing the back of his sunburned neck, feeling the sense of accomplishment he always felt after a long day. It wasn’t happiness, exactly, as much as it was a nebulous sense of moral superiority. The harder he worked, the more assured he was that he was doing the right thing. After all, he had witnessed the lethal consequences of slacking.

It was not unusual for Arthur to work from sun up to sun down without stopping for food or water, so when he lifted his head and saw the specter of his younger brother, leaning against the counter, he assumed it must be the result of dehydration. He walked to the sink and filled a chipped mug with cool water.

“Hell-oooo?” Charlie called to him. “Don’t you have so much as a howdy-do for your long-dead little brother?”

Arthur surveyed the apparition. It was indeed Charlie, tinged with blue, standing arms akimbo like the Peter Pan he was. The very thought of his stupid, lazy, kid brother irritated him. Irresponsible, irrepressible Charlie, who thought that nothing was more important in life than pleasure, always shirking his obligations. His murder had been more embarrassing than tragic, a giant “I told you so” from the universe. Arthur tried never to think about Charlie.

“I know you can see me, dude. No? No acknowledgment at all? Okay then,” Charlie hoisted himself up onto the counter, his ghostly figure shining through the pile of vegetables Arthur had harvested for supper. He clacked his dangling feet against the cabinet. “Have it your way. I’m just here to give you a suggestion: relax.”

Arthur had resolved not to interact with this figment of his imagination, but he couldn’t suppress a derisive grunt.

“I know,” Charlie sighed, “It’s ironic. You could definitely make the case that I relaxed a little too much. But I did have some good times! You’ve had a long life, but it might be nice to have a little fun, too. Don’t you think? Arthur?”

Resolved to ignore Charlie more completely, Arthur fastidiously brushed at a patch of dust clinging to his arm.

“No response?” Charlie looked down, an expression of guilt flitting across his face. “I probably should have taken a page from your book in life, but I hoped—I hoped maybe I could help you from the other side, you know. I mean, you actually don’t know. You have no idea. It is so good to be back.” Charlie shuddered, then looked around the hut. “I never got to see the finished product—this is a nice place.”

Suddenly, the old Charlie was back, and he slid quickly to the floor. “I only have one night, so I’ve gotta run. I’ve always thought it would be fun to go haunting.”  

Arthur gulped down the last of his water and when he lowered the mug, Charlie had disappeared. He filled and drank another mug, to be on the safe side. Then he began making preparations for the night’s work: making a fire, cooking his dinner, loading his gun, and triple-checking his security system.

The summer months dragged on, and Arthur’s life looked much the same day-to-day. He harvested honey from his apiary, plucked apples from his trees and processed applesauce, dug deep gouges in the earth and strategically covered them with leaves and twigs, in case an intruder managed to get past his first line of defense.

Each night he slept the deep, dreamless sleep of a bone-tired body. He never stirred until the sun shone through the bars on his window.

Which is why, one night in autumn, he was shocked to find himself suddenly awake in the middle of the night, certain he’d heard his name. The darkness was incomplete, a pulsing light coming from the foot of his bed.

He sat up and came face to face with Walter.

“Arthur,” Walter repeated, “Hey, you’re awake!”

Am I? Arthur buried his face in his scratchy blanket, rooting to try to scrub the delusion from his mind. It didn’t work

“Walter?” Arthur’s voice was husky from disuse. He was more confused than afraid, and tears of emotion welled in his eyes as he questioned his brother, his best friend. “Is it really you?”

“Hard to believe,” Walter admitted, gesturing to his ghostly figure, “But yeah, it’s really me. Only for a night, unfortunately for me.”

Arthur made a quick decision that whether Walter was real or not, he was going to seize the opportunity to make things right.

“Walter…Walter, I’m so, so sorry. I should have looked out for you; I should have told you…”

Walter shrugged, “You did tell me.”

“I should have forced you! I never should have let you take a break.”

“Listen,” Walter was suddenly stern. “That’s exactly what I’ve come to warn you about. I’ve watched your life, you know. The highlights at least, if you could call them that. Arthur, what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” Arthur was defensive. “I’m working. Living,” he added pointedly.

“Yeah, I’m dead, but I lived. You…you’re like an empty husk. You don’t have much time left to enjoy yourself. When was the last time you even spoke to someone? I mean, someone alive?”

Arthur ticked back through the calendar. Since he’d installed a lockbox for his mail, he hadn’t needed to interact with anyone. Besides, any neighbors within shouting distance had gradually moved away after they’d witnessed him drag a charred wolf carcass from his house.

“It’s just, safer this way.” Arthur sighed.

“You’re safe, but you’re miserable,” Walter countered. “I look back on my life and have such great memories! Little stuff…like the veggie burger and secret sauce at Chunk-O-Rama, waterskiing with my friends, snuggling with Liesel—”

“How dare you?” Arthur roared, jumping from the bed, suddenly enraged. “How dare you mention Leisel! Oh, you had fun with her, did you? Enjoyed a bit of snuggling when you should have been building her a sturdy home? Well, it wasn’t all fun and games when she was wearing black, sobbing at your funeral! You left her! You left me! Don’t you even feel remorse?”

Walter looked down, considering, but not cowed. “I…don’t feel remorse. I regret that I had to leave you, and Leisel too, but…I wouldn’t have done anything differently. You know the saying: ‘It’s better to have loved and lost…’ Have you…” Walter was cautious as he approached the delicate subject, “have you, ever even had a sow?”

“That’s none of your business,” Arthur replied coolly, though his blush betrayed him. The thought of what his brother had been doing with Leisel during the months Arthur built his house both sickened and titillated him.

“Never mind,” Walter said quickly. “I’m not here to shame you. I’m your brother, and I love you, and I want what’s best for you. I just came to advise you to relax—just, just a little bit. Take a day off now and then and go to a museum, make a friend,” Arthur raised an eyebrow, “Or, an acquaintance. Read a book. Go for a walk and enjoy the scenery. Something. While…there’s still time left.”

The pigs sat in silence a moment until Walter noticed the first rays of sunrise and his shoulders slumped. “I have to go back now,” he said, voice saturated with dread. “I knew it would be hard to get through to you—you’re so stuck in your ways—”

“My ways are good,” Arthur mumbled, eyes downcast.

“Think about it!” whispered Walter, his voice desperate. “Please, think about it!”

“Okay, I will,” Arthur agreed, but when he looked up, his brother was gone.

Over the next few weeks, Walter’s visit was never far from Arthur’s mind. He gave his brother’s advice a few halfhearted attempts. He thought some cinnamon might liven up his applesauce, and decided to go to the market for some. He made it to the gate of his compound and opened it just as a rabbit scurried past, frightening him so badly that he slammed the gate and ran squealing back to his hut. Too rattled to leave the safety of the indoors, he channeled his adrenaline by thoroughly cleaning his home.

He tried taking a walk, but everywhere he strolled he found more work to do…and frankly, weaving through his booby traps was challenging. He even fell into one on accident and had to spend the whole day getting his bulk out of it. He tried to read a book but was so unused to sitting still that he decided to retrofit his front wall for a telescope instead, in order to scan the sky nightly for upwardly mobile ne’er-do-wells.

Gradually, the sharp details of Walter’s ghostly visage blurred, and by New Year’s Day Arthur had convinced himself the whole thing must have been a bizarre dream.

Arthur cooked his first dinner of the New Year by poking potatoes around in his fireplace. The fire was blazing much higher than necessary—it always was, just in case.

Sweat beaded at Arthur’s temples, and he wondered if it stemmed from something other than the heat of the fire. He felt nervous, convinced that a scratching noise was coming from inside the chimney. That was impossible, he knew, so he tried to shrug off the feeling of unease. He was safe inside. He’d always been safe inside.

Abruptly, with a whoosh of soot, something came down the chimney.

Coughing, Arthur rubbed his eyes and strained to see the shaggy form standing, unharmed, in the fireplace. In the center of the red flames stood the blue body of the wolf.

Arthur yelped and ran to his kitchen counter, grabbing a knife and brandishing it.

“You!” he spluttered.

The wolf stepped into the room, eyes glinting, a malicious laugh bubbling in his throat.

“Put down the knife, pig. I’m already dead. You killed me, remember? And although I dearly wish I could return the favor,” the wolf paused, licking his lips dramatically, his teeth slick with saliva, “It’s not possible. So, relax.”

“That’s what everyone’s been telling me lately.” Arthur stumbled on the words, trying to sound nonchalant though he was still abjectly terrified. “Relax.”

“Yes, well,” the wolf said silkily, perching on Arthur’s abandoned chair. “Things always come in threes…three bears, three Billy goats, three ghosts. I’m the third ghost. I’m here to tell you to go out, enjoy yourself, and so forth. Your life really is dreadful.”

“Why would I listen to you?”

“Honestly, I don’t think you will. But you should. You and I, pig, we aren’t so different. You’ve worked all your life to create this little sanctuary. As if working could cheat death. I spent my life trying to eat pigs. It’s all I did, all I ever cared about: blowing down houses, day in and day out. My siblings, my parents, everyone told me, ‘There’s more to life, you need to diversify your interests,’ but I wouldn’t listen. I wish I had. But it’s not too late for you to change where you’re headed.”

“And where, exactly, am I, um, headed”

“You’re headed for death, fat ass.”

Arthur took a deep steadying breath, feigning bravery. “No one lives forever,” he said, “And thanks to my hard work, I’ve lasted a lot longer than my brothers did.”       

“It’s not death you should be worried about, pig. It’s the afterlife. I’d burn up in your fireplace a thousand times if I could just cease to exist.” Arthur involuntarily smirked at the memory of his ultimate triumph over the wolf.

The sight of Arthur’s lips twitching sent the wolf over the edge. “YOU’RE GOING TO HELL!” he suddenly screamed, “You’re going to be force-fed until you swell like a balloon, and then demon humans will hang you from your hocks and slit your throat! You’ll bleed out, and then they’ll peel the skin from your carcass and you’ll feel everything because you can’t die, you’re already dead! They’ll roast you on a spit, and they will eat you, all of you, even your eyes, even your tongue, even your brain, and you will feel all of it. And just when you think there’s nothing left of you, that it’s finally, mercifully, over—it starts again. A[MF2] nd that’s what happens. Forever.”

The wolf sat back, panting, the visions of torture giving his eyes a patina of madness.

“It’s a place I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy,” the wolf said, sounding defeated, “which, by the way, is you. So go enjoy your mortality, while you still can.”

Though horrified, a tiny, resilient part of Arthur’s mind clung to hope. “That’s where you are. And, probably, where my brothers are. But I’ve made good choices. I’ve made the right choices. So…I’ll go…somewhere else.”

With a flash, the fire was abruptly extinguished and Arthur found himself in total darkness.

“There is nowhere else.” The wolf’s voice reverberated around the room, but his form was gone.

The next morning, Arthur woke and stretched. His back was unusually sore and the horror of the night before was fresh in his mind. But he had a new project planned for the day: narrowing the chimney so that nothing could enter through it ever again.

On the roof, as Arthur knelt over his tools, the pain from his back radiated down his arm, up his neck, and into his jaw. A wave of nausea overtook him and he tried to stand, but he lost his balance, tripped, and tumbled into a row of carrots. There he lay, unable to get up on his broken legs, gasping for breath until the blood clot in his heart finally stopped the organ’s beleaguered pulsing.

There was no burial, for no one left on Earth knew or cared about Arthur. His body lay on the ground for decades, decomposing gradually, dust to dust. The house and fence stood much longer, seemingly indestructible, serving to all passersby as a monument and a warning—but of what, they couldn’t quite articulate.

As for Arthur’s soul? It sank quickly down, through the dirt, past the vegetables that would never be harvested, through the earth’s mantle, down to its hot, fiery core, and as he remembered the vicious face of the Big Bad Wolf, Arthur finally realized the truth: I was wrong.