Are Ghosts Real?

Outrunning the past is a lot harder than Fletcher had ever dared to hope.

Every time he closes his eyes, her face is there once again, smiling at him, sharper than reality.

#

He’d only known her for three minutes, but it was enough.

He never knew her first name, only knew her as Miss Noor for those three horrible minutes. She’d smiled at him, and the dimple in her pointed chin had stood out more than ever.

#

Fletcher wipes spill from the counter, brow knitted in concentration. The rag squeaks as it passes over nonexistent dirt. Back and forth. He wishes he could scrub himself clean the same way.

A bare elbow lands where his rag had just been. “Hello,” chirps a female voice.

Fletcher turns away, wringing the rag in his hands, inspecting the quicks of his fingernails for blood. It’s everywhere, he knows it, but not visible at least.

Chest deflating in enormous relief, he glances at the newcomer and fights back the gasp in his throat. Instead, he falls against the counter, grips it like a lifeline. The woman looks to be about thirty, and she’s smiling at him, a dimple looking like a crater underneath that smile. The dimple. The smile that haunts his dreams every night.

He just barely catches the shadow beginning to pass over that face. “I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” She shows no recognition, as a real ghost would, versus just a figment of his imagination after years of torment. Or would it be the other way around?

Fletcher swallows hard and his saliva goes down like acid. “No, no, not at all.” His face hurts underneath the mask. Plastic. Dirty. All of him.

“I’m here about the job,” she goes on.

Fletcher stutters out a question.

“Yes, the job? Aren’t you the manager here?”

“Right, my apologies, Miss…”

“Noor. Dahlia Noor.”

#

He’d jabbed his largest shovel into the wet ground, unearthing a mound of writhing earthworms. The rich, sweet smell of soil hung thickly in the air.

He’d deposited the dirt into his wheelbarrow.

“Hello,” the voice had startled him, because he’d been counting on being alone.

She’d been at the bottom of the hill, beaming up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Are—are you Jeremy Noor’s daughter?”

“How do you know my father?” she’d asked curiously.

He’d only shrugged.

She would not leave, and when she had asked for his name, he had firmly believed it was because she’d wanted to tell.

And then he’d dropped his shovel.

#

Against his better judgment, Fletcher has hired Miss Dahlia Noor as his bartender.

His mind is elsewhere as he collects his daughter, Scout, from the second grade. He only barely notices her flushed countenance as she clambers into the truck, and her excited chatter about a new teacher at school, for that matter.

He notices just enough to hear the teacher’s name, and just when they’d been picking up speed, he mercilessly hits the brake. They go into a fishtail, tire treads fighting for traction, rubber burning. Someone from behind honks their horn rudely. Scout shrieks.

“What did you just say?” Fletcher somehow keeps his cool. Briefly losing control of his wheels has never happened.

His daughter is only too happy to answer, probably aware that he’s actually listening for a change. “I have a new rithatic teacher and her name is Miss Noor, and she helps me do my ‘plying, and America doesn’t like her but I do, and also America tried to tell me to throw away all my veggies—"

“What’s she look like?” he cuts in.

“Daddy!”

Fletcher regards her. “No, really. Does your new teacher have a dent in her chin?”

Scout sits taller, tugging the seatbelt, wrinkling up her little nose as she thinks. “Yeah! And very tall, and gots long, dark hair…”

Fletcher bites back a curse.

#

The shovel had plowed through the dirt like a train running through a tunnel. Deeper and deeper he’d dug, all of it feeling like some kind of fever dream. The wood of the handle had splintered in his palms, stabbing through his blisters. The pain had been the demon he needed to finish his task. The dirt gathering underneath his fingernails had only grown with every foot he’d dug.

He had felt numb, emotionless, as he’d rolled the body into the fresh grave. The grave nobody could ever find, the grave dug in trespassed property.

She’d still been smiling after she’d died.

#

Fletcher keeps his hands under the faucet, the water gushing, flying off his fingers into the sink, missing the cup entirely. Scout sits at the counter isle behind him. Pencil scratches at paper, presumably homework.

“Daddy, what color are my eyes?” she asks suddenly, and he places the cup into the dishwasher.

“Blue.”

“They are?”

Fletcher mentally slaps his forehead. What is wrong with him? He peers into his daughter’s face, soaking in her russet-colored hair and eyes and the soft, rounded cheekbones. “No, of course not. They’re brown.”

He turns back to the dishes.

Scout says with an air of importance, “that’s what I thought,” and her pencil goes back to scratching.

Fletcher picks up a plate, but it’s just too heavy, and he sighs and simply allows the water to run over his hands into the sink. What’s the point? It will just get soiled again. Soil. A shovel digging into wet earth…

He slams the dirty plate into the dishwasher, casting a bleary look out the kitchen window. The sun is low and orange, throwing its dying rays onto a hunched human form, the next garden over. Digging into fresh earth, creating life instead of destroying it…

Fletcher squints. Someone must have moved in without his notice. A new neighbor? The thought stirs uneasiness in his stomach, but he feels bad about it. What’s wrong with a new neighbor--

The person stands and turns just enough so that he can see the face. They seem to stare in at him through the window. Fletcher moves an involuntary step back. He closes his eyes, his heartbeat thuds in his chest. No, no, no…

He abandons the dishes, fleeing the room. But even in the solitude of his bedroom, flopped down on his bed covers, he can’t escape the woman because she’s trapped inside his head. The lips pulled back into a smile. The blue eyes glittering with life, even after death.

Fletcher is vaguely aware of the minutes increasing, of incredible clatters and crashes coming from the kitchen, but has no more energy, no more motivation. Why go on pretending he has the right to exist? His sins are finally catching up to him, the ghosts uncaged. They’ve come to take him and secure the balance.

Scout’s breathing and pattering footfalls alerts him to her presence. She lingers in the doorway, raps her knuckles softly on the open door, walks in to climb the foot of the bed when she doesn’t get a response.

“Daddy, why are you always sad?”

“I’m not sad.”

“Then why are you going to bed before your bedtime?”

“I just have a headache. It’ll go away.” Fletcher winces and silently adds, I’m sorry, Scout. I’m sorry I’m such a dirty sinner and for giving you miserable life.

Scout shifts to sit on her behind and kicks the bed with her heels. Her feet dangle way off the floor. “I did the dishes for you.”

“Nice.”

“Is it my bedtime now?” She turns her face toward him, as if silently hoping he’ll say no.

“Sure.”

And he doesn’t have the heart to tell her she’s going into foster care, because he does love her, because he isn’t a father and never has been.

She needs to be protected from him.

#

           He hadn’t meant to kill her. He had only meant to evade her question, to try to get out of trouble.

           But she’d died instantly, and in his young mind’s panic he had thought covering it up was the most reasonable thing to do.

           No one ever need know how Miss Noor disappeared.

           After his mistake, he’d moved to California, started a business, got married, had a daughter. His wife had died only three years after their marriage. She had been found dead on a street, her head bashed in.

           #

           Fletcher stands behind the counter, pouring whiskey and longing to pour out his past mistakes along with it. Maybe then the customer will drink up his existence, and he won’t have to worry about anything anymore.

           He fixes his gaze on a top corner of the rustic front door without really seeing it. Should he just confess after all this time? What will happen to Scout when he’s in jail?

           Though it’s not like she would be any worse off than she is now.

           The air shifts as the door opens. “This humidity kills,” says Dahlia Noor.

           Fletcher sets his jaw, stares at the far wall, boasting a painting of cowboy boots against the brown hue.

           “You look tired,” she says with new concern. “Do you need me to take over? I don’t mind holding this place up alone.”

           A corner table is getting rowdy, the noise causing Fletcher’s head to swim. A crowd of overexcited females parades through the door.

           “No,” he says. He picks up a bottle of whiskey. “Yes.”

           #

           There are three ghosts for each of the three minutes he’d known her. And they’ve come to take him down, unless he does something first.

           Let the alcohol decide.

           He will find her at the house with the garden, while serving drinks, while teaching his daughter’s math class. He will pull his daughter out of school to tell her goodbye. And then he will drive himself straight to the police station because he can no longer stand the guilt. But he will not ever make it there. Because he will see another ghost in the street, and he will be going too fast to stop, and he will swerve to hit a tree, for never ever will he kill someone again.

           Kill her again, that is.

           When he wakes up in the hospital, there he will find her smiling and clothed in nurse’s garb, and he will summon his last few breaths to tell her, “I’m sorry I killed you.”

           And then he will know no more.

           The alcohol will decide.

           #

           Fletcher stares down at his drink as he rehearses the events in his mind. He slides the glass around in circles, watching the ripples. And he somehow feels worse than before. What would all that accomplish? Justice? Him coming to terms, owning up, but only on the brink of death? Would it really fix things?

           He can never fix his past, because bringing back the dead is impossible, unless the dead brings back itself. But he’s starting to see the problem here.

           He’s been running too much. Hiding. He should plow down that ghost instead of avoiding it. But can’t he do that right now, not wait until they’re in the middle of his road? Plow down those ghosts, such as the one who is currently in the other room, serving his customers?

           He can corner her, say he’s no longer afraid, he’s ready to face her. He’ll come clean, and he doesn’t need the ghosts aiding him in his demise.

           Hypothetically he could and should do this, but will he? He’s not that strong. And Scout… she will be placed into custody, and she’ll be so scared and unhappy… His heart squeezes a little.

           This is all a bad idea, he will go on as before, for the sake of his daughter…

           But no. He will just continue to be unbearable to live with, because he will still be unable to bear his past.

           Fletcher contemplates his drink again, but then pushes it away. He doesn’t need its help either.

           Before he loses his nerve, Fletcher charges into the main room to stand right behind Dahlia Noor, so close he can smell the citrus scent of shampoo in her hair. She hands a tray of beer and fries to a man with a big belly, and as he saunters toward a table, she turns around.

           Fletcher doesn’t flinch, but stares right into her startled blue eyes, calm now with determination instead of carefreeness.

           “Who are you?”

           Dahlia sighs. “I thought we already established this. Dahlia Noor. I came to you yesterday.”

           “Why?” Fletcher demands.

           “I just moved here with my sisters and we need an income.”

           “Wait, your sisters?”

           She sidles away from him, one eyebrow raised. “Yes, my sisters. Why is that so surprising? Most people have sisters.”

“What happened on the evening of September the thirtieth, exactly nine years ago?”

“Um…” She slides even farther out of his reach. “Are you sure you’re… good? You didn’t, um…” She nods to the back room.

“No, I’m perfectly sober. Answer my question, please.”

“I swear I don’t even remember, why are you—”

“Do you know a Jeremy Noor?”

Dahlia’s mouth goes slack. “How do you know my father?”

Fletcher jumps back. “Father!”

A few heads turn, but neither of them care. Dahlia must see something in his face because she asks, “wait, is this about Delilah?”

“Delilah?”

“She was my sister who disappeared… oh, nine years ago now. Actually now that I think about it, she was last seen or heard of on that exact date you mentioned.”

The room starts to spin a little. Her sister. They look so alike…

“How many of you are there?” Fletcher barely whispers the words, part of him afraid of the answer.

“I have two sisters. Used to be three, we were quadruplets. Daphnee is a landscaper and Desiree just started teaching math.”

Nausea rolls in his stomach. He killed this woman’s sister. More than ever he feels like a monster, how can anyone even stand to look at him anymore? If only he can make it right. But no amount of good will be enough, will bring Delilah back.

I’m sorry. In his head he’s shouting it, but his lips barely form the words. Dahlia appears mostly confused by his apology, but if she only knew.

#

The sun is high overhead, and very few clouds are present to help block the heat.  The atmosphere smells of flowers and freshly mown grass where Fletcher and Scout sit on a bench near the road, side-by-side.

“What is it, Daddy?” Scout asks, concern filling her little girl voice, her wide brown eyes widening further. “Are you sick? America had to leave school once because her mommy was sick.”

“No, I’m not sick.” Not physically. “I just need to talk to you about something. It’s important.”

“What?” Scout breathes.

Fletcher gazes down at her, gathering his words together, feeling tears begin to sting his eyelids.

“Well, the thing is, Daddy did something very, very bad before you were born, and he has to be punished for it. Like when you have to be punished when you do bad things?”

Scout nods seriously.

“And I just want you to know that, no matter what happens, you’ll always be my little girl. I know that I haven’t really told—I—I don’t remember every really telling you, but I love you very much. Always have, and I want what’s best for you. Always have.”

Scout stands and wraps her arms around his neck. “I know that, Daddy. I’ve known that all along.”

#

Fletcher sits in his truck in front of the police station, breathing out through his mouth. How will people react when they find out he’s a murderer? Would he be seen differently? Will he rot in jail for the rest of his life, while people talk?

But he knows it doesn’t really matter, because already he feels so much lighter, like he can sprout wings and start floating.

He’ll actually feel able to live again without the guilt tugging at his heart.

To think something so stupid as selling illegal fishing bait could have led to this, but the past is in the past. It doesn’t have the ability to ruin his future.

As one last thing he needs to do before assigning himself to his fate, he rings up Dahlia Noor. “It’s time for you to know how your sister died.”