Before I tell my story, I had best explain who I am.
I was a cheerful living person. I used to cook for people all day long at a fantastic restaurant near the center of town where the tourists and locals alike would come to eat.
Oh, how I used to love the food. The culinary arts were my life, really, and so was the eating. The only thing better than watching someone truly enjoy a meal I prepared was eating a good meal myself. And eat I did. I was huge, and I enjoyed being huge. People were impressed with my size. I was never a pretty girl and early on, I decided I would never be. So, I got the attentions I would never get by being pretty by being obese - that and by cooking.
Now that I think about it, it was lucky that I could cook and that my family had a restaurant for me to cook in. It was the only thing a woman could do and get paid anything reasonable at the time. No man would have had me as a wife, so I had to support myself.
Even so, I do miss all that being alive grants a person. Of course, now I can be almost whatever I want to be, because it’s all what I choose to see myself as. Now I’m very beautiful and perfectly chubby. I get to wear leggings and clingy shirts, and a beautiful flowing, hooded cape. All of it white, like a ghost should wear.
I guess being dead has a few advantages for the ego.
It’s been so long since I made my fatal mistake that my life is a dimming memory. The only long time friend I’ve had since my death simply calls me "Ghost" and almost everyone else I talk to never calls me anything in particular since they’re not around that long, so I’m sorry to say that I’ve forgotten my name. I most likely didn’t relish it anyway.
Well, my life was boring in any case and you certainly wouldn’t want to hear about it. My story really only gets interesting after I choked on my own cooking.
I’ve watched people die since, it’s something of a hobby. I’m curious about how I became earthbound and I hope to one day see someone escape their body at death and linger longer than a few minutes. So far, all of the souls I have watched fade away after they fully understand that they have died.
I like to talk to them while I have the chance. They are genuinely surprised to have the company, and it’s so much easier that showing myself to a living person. Many wonder if I’m an angel or a demon or something else from their religions, but I’ve never so much as seen anything along those lines. I’m still just a person like they are. The only difference is I’m still here, and they move on.
There was a time I was certain I was being punished or denied entry to heaven or something comparable. I’d ask the recently dead if they saw anything coming, or if they felt a tug, or an urge to leave. None of them ever claimed to. Many disappear in the middle of a sentence – as if they didn’t notice they were going anywhere.
For all I know, they’re merely fading into nonexistence. I hope not, since I expect one day I’ll join them.
My immortal friend thinks I’m being silly when I say that. He’s certain that once you’re an immortal, you stay that way until the world comes to an end. I know it’s only conjecture, I’ve seen more than he has, since not only am I almost a hundred years older, I can go out in the daylight. I’ve seen nothing to suggest that immortals are that immortal.
Then again, I’ve seen nothing to suggest we immortals exist.
I should explain who my friend is. His name is Vladimir. I don’t know if his parents gave him that name or if he chose it for himself after he became immortal, he refuses to talk about it and he can be infuriatingly stubborn. I suspect he chose it, since it fits his condition so well. He’s a vampire, you see.
I didn’t think vampires existed before I met Vladimir. But then, I didn’t think there was such a thing as ghosts until I died.
We met when I was following this young lady around, watching her do those things the living consider so important. I like to watch people, you see. Especially people like this woman because she did things I’d never considered when I was alive. In this case, she was a prostitute.
Anyway, I had followed her into an alley. I think she was going to pee. Vladimir came out of some shadows, frightening both the woman and me. Without even a how-do-you-do, he grabbed her and drank every last drop of blood her little body could possibly hold.
I was excited, because I had wanted to talk to the woman and now that she was dead, it would be easy. Unfortunately for me, she didn’t stay for more than a couple of seconds. I think Vladimir scared her that badly.
Not all was lost, since Vladimir could sense my presence. He tried talking to me, and was pleased when I replied. He was so polite, too. He can be very charming when he isn’t hunting.
He concentrated for a minute and said he could see me, and I wasn’t even trying to be seen. Oh, that was wonderful! Being seen takes so much effort. Nowadays we meet halfway in the effort division when we are talking. I try a little to be seen so he doesn’t have to work as much at seeing me.
We talked for the rest of the night, and I followed him back to his "Lair", as he likes to call it.
He asked me about what it was to be a ghost. I told him the basics, like I can push or pull on things, they have to be relatively small, say under ten pounds or so. Anything heavier and my hand will just pass through. If I pick something up it becomes as intangible as I am, allowing me to carry things. Once I release the object, it becomes solid again. I’ve even kept a few things, like a pair of pistols that I wear all the time. Vladimir loves that, me being an armed ghost. He especially loves that they actually work. I showed him that night, putting a hole into a garbage can in the alley. Once the bullet leaves the barrel, it becomes real again.
Vladimir asked me why I wear the guns. I had a hard time answering. I think it’s because all the men I knew during my life carried guns, and a woman just wasn’t allowed to. Maybe I just feel safer with weapons. Sometimes I get intensely frightened concerning being so insubstantial, and the pistols make me feel more real. One day I’ll work that out.
Vladimir is so Gothic. That’s good for me, since he supposes being friends with a ghost is good for his Image. He meets other vampires now and again, and when he does they always get into silly little contests about who’s the "creepiest". When he introduces me to them, most just concede his superior scariness.
I guess they like to be creepy. Silly bunch, that lot.
I’ve asked Vladimir about other ghosts and he answers that he has never met any others. Some of the other vampires tell me they have heard stories, but I’m always their first ghost they’ve met. I guess earthbound spirits are rarer than nosferatu.
I’ve also asked Vladimir about what it is to be a vampire, and he replies thus:
"Repetition: Rise, feed, play, sleep."
Taking his lead, I would sum up being a ghost thusly: "Play"
I’m certain that being a ghost is more fun than being a vampire. However, it was lonely before I met Vladimir. Centuries are better spent with a friend. Vladimir agrees with me, as do most of the other vampires I’ve met. It’s too bad that Vampires have to be so concerned with territory. If two were to hunt the same area at once, it would call too much attention to their presence. It makes for a lonely existence.
Vampires need ghosts. Ghosts need Vampires. I hope there are more ghosts out there, being companions to vampires.
I really should get around to telling the story that made me want to learn how to use one of these funny little computer things in the first place, rather than babbling on about immortals.
The story is about this couple I knew. They had something that I’ve heard about but had stopped believing in having never seen nor experienced it myself. And that something was very powerful
I was playing in an apartment, looking at all the fun things this married couple had. They were an intriguing pair. They were very much in love. He worked a difficult job that he didn’t seem to like so that his wife could stay home and paint. They would talk about how one day she would be selling her paintings for millions, and they could spend all day together.
She was a good painter, too. I loved watching her paint. Her intensity was intoxicating. The scenes she painted were usually landscapes, but they had this way of evoking all sorts of interesting emotions. If she did scenes with people, it was guaranteed to summon sorrow. The ugliness that is the world had quite an effect on her and it showed when she depicted people.
He was wonderful to her. His love for her was boundless and selfless. I admired him so much. He carried the full burden of life’s chores so she could concentrate on her art. Never once did I see him complain or ask for her help. Often he would lie to her about their finances so she wouldn’t worry.
They had children, both adults now. I liked one; he was as nice to his mother as his father was. The other was the diametric. I hated it when he visited. He made everyone so sad with his bitter and cynical ways.
I thought at the time that he believed that his mother preferred her art to her child. He may charge her for some feelings of abandonment.
And then there was their cat. Usually cats want to play with me anyway – felines love it when I pass a hand through them, I think it’s an ethereal version of petting. This one was unusually friendly. She did a good job of representing the household at large – friendly and happy and loving as could be.
I had been out with Vladimir that night, I was watching him hunt. He has the habit of stalking criminals when he can find them. The one he was after that night was immorality personified – a pedophile.
After Vladimir dispatched the destroyer of children, I went to go play with the couple’s TV set. They had cable, and I am just in love with moving pictures. The husband had the habit of leaving the remote control box facing the television on the arm of the couch, so it was easy for me to use it.
When I came in to the house, I saw the husband on the floor, crawling toward the table where they keep their telephone. He was pale and perspiring, and looked very frightened. I knew the look - he was dying.
I didn’t want him to die. He would be the first person I was interested in saving from death. Since it was obvious he wanted the telephone – I assume one can call for help on those things – I pushed it off the table so that it would be easier for him to reach.
He picked up the phone and pressed three buttons, and waited. I was frightened for him; he didn’t have long to wait before his heart gave out completely.
Soon someone answered his call. He had a very difficult time speaking, and it took an agonizing length of time for them to understand what he wanted.
I leaned in to listen to the call. I heard the operator tell him to try and be calm, just as though it would make a difference.
I saw the cat, and enticed her over to the man. He shouldn’t be alone when he’s dying. I was alone when I died, and it was a terrible, empty feeling. Remarkably, the cat seemed to understand, and stayed with the man, purring and cuddling.
It then occurred to me that I could probably manage to wake his wife. If I couldn’t save the man, maybe I could give her his last moments. I rushed upstairs, going through the ceiling and floor rather than waste time with the stairs. She was sound asleep, and no amount of poking at her seemed to have the desired effect.
I concentrated with my entire faculties, and called to her.
"Your husband is dying! Get up and go to him – quickly!"
My yell stirred her from her slumber. She hesitated for a moment, then headed down the stairs.
I met her there, using my more direct route.
He reached for her, and they held each other. He cried and apologized to her, as if he were failing her somehow by dying.
All she could do was tell him over and over how much she loved him, and how much she appreciated all the wonderful things he had done for her.
He shuddered, and died in her arms. She began to wail, howling for him to return to life. I could feel the pain of her loss across the barrier between life and death.
He stood beside his body, as the recently dead always do, and appeared dismal.
"I’m sorry I couldn’t bee more help." I said to him.
He looked at me, surprised to see me there.
"You were the one who dropped the phone onto the floor?" He asked me.
"Yes."
He looked back to his wife.
"I love her so." He said, and tried to touch her.
"Please, can you help her?" He asked me.
"I don’t know. I don’t deal with the living directly anymore." I answered, sorry that I couldn’t be a comfort to him.
"My insurance isn’t going to last long. She’s not equipped to support herself. If you can help her, even just encourage her to find a way to pay the bills…" He said, his thought trailing off.
I thought about that quickly, knowing he’d be gone soon. She deserved some sort of help, and the world didn’t take to artists anymore. There was a time an artist could find a way to make a living, but nowadays things were just too expensive.
I was desperate to comfort him. I decided I would do something to help, no matter how small a gesture or how grand a scheme.
"I can help her with some things." I finally answered. "I will at least try."
"Thank you. Oh, thank you." He said, sobbing that empty and tearless sob that ghosts do when distressed.
"Try to stay. Hang on to this plane." I pleaded. He wasn’t listening to me.
He reached for his grieved wife again, and faded away as he told her he loved her.
As I watched him evaporate, someone knocked loudly on the door. The wife was too absorbed in her agony to notice and consequently the caller just opened it himself. In came a pair of men, carrying cases with medical looking equipment in them. They separated her from her beloved’s body and they began to do things to it that I didn’t understand. I imagined they were trying to bring him back.
Maybe they would have been able to if they had arrived only a minute before.
One of the men left, and returned soon after with a gurney. They put the man’s body on it, and told the woman she could come along.
I watched them leave, knowing that no matter where they went, the man was dead and there was nothing anyone could do to change that.
I had to think. I had as much as promised that I’d take care of that woman, but I really didn’t know how I might go about it.
Money was the essence of the issue. If she could be supplied with enough money to keep the apartment, buy food and buy her painting supplies, she would probably be satisfied. She never used to ask for anything from him, he would just get her things – little gifts.
The unfairness of it began to irritate me. Only the very old were ready for death, and anyone who had someone to love was the least prepared.
Even so, the living were the ones who suffered. And this one, this artist, would suffer the most of all I had ever seen before.
I couldn’t deal with the thought of it right then, so I turned on the television and searched for a movie I hadn’t seen before.
I watched them put his body into the ground. The priest spoke the usual words priests say during funerals. Several people tried to deliver eulogies, but no one made it through their prepared speeches. He was loved by more people than just his wife. I read the marker – Alfred. Goodbye, Alfred, I know you will be missed.
I had finally learned the name of that wonderful artist who was Alfred’s wife: Linda. It was a fitting name; she was beautiful in all the most important ways.
The wake was almost silent. Most were too mournful to chitchat. Those who could speak were busy comforting. I’ve invisibly attended a thousand wakes. None were as melancholy as this.
The sons were at the wake. The good son – Michael – was being an absolute angel (If you will pardon my accidental pun). He anchored the whole effort of feeding and entertaining the attendants, keeping any and all work away from his bereaved mother.
The hurtful son – Lawrence – was only interested in what his father’s death would reap. He was greedy, that one, and it was becoming evident that he hated his mother. Much of what he said suggested he blamed his mother for his father’s death.
I watched as Lawrence approached his mother for the first time since the funeral. I was wary of his intentions, and I hovered close to hear what he had to say. Without preamble, he asked for part of his father’s insurance payment.
I was outraged. Linda was in no condition to deal with this fool. Michael would have dealt with his idiot brother, but he was no where near. I had to think of something that would remove this aggravation from Linda’s presence. I reached over and gave his glass a jostle, knocking bargain punch onto his costly shirt. It had the desired effect – he left to contend with the new stain. His poor mother given another chance to grieve without imprudent interference.
It was time for me to decide what I was going to do to help Linda.
I hung in the air behind Linda, watching her paint. She had completed five paintings in as many weeks since the funeral. All of them were distilled grief.
I was worried about her. She only ate when Michael came over and compelled her to. He was a busy man with a family of his own to care for, and so was not able to be there daily. I could see the concern on his face, the fear that his mother’s broken heart was destroying her.
He wasn’t handling his father’s death very well, either. I followed him to his work a few days after the funeral, curious about him. His façade was perfect – his coworkers were unaware of the depths of his suffering. I could observe him more closely, however. When he sat in his partitioned space and was alone he shook with grief. He spent time in the office bathroom, crying.
Oh, to have had the love Alfred had, and the wisdom to appreciate it!
It did make it more difficult for me to carry out my promise. Michael had been the person I wanted as my vehicle. His emotional state prevented me from carrying out that plan.
Linda put a few more strokes onto the canvas. It was a grassy knoll with a tree upon it – the tree was old, gnarled and ready to die.
The sun had set hours ago. She was getting tired, and so she started to clean her brushes and palette.
I sensed Vladimir outside.
I scooted through the wall closest to him.
"Hello Vladimir. What brings you to this place?" I asked, since he doesn’t usually hunt in this, the nicer end of town.
"I was looking for you. I haven’t seen you in weeks, I was worried." He said in that raspy voice of his. "I see you’ve found another nice house to play in." He said, gesturing to the apartment.
"Yes, however I’ve been away because I have something of a problem." I explained. "I made a promise to a dead man, and now I don’t know how I’m going to carry it out. The woman who lives here was the man’s wife. She’s an artist – you would love the work she does, Vladimir.
"I promised to help her find a way to pay the bills after her insurance money runs out. I can’t think of anything."
"Come walk with me, Ghost. This place is patrolled and I don’t want to be caught talking to the air." He started toward the street, rubbing his chin like he does when he’s thinking.
"Does she make any money now?" He asked me.
"Well, she sells her paintings. I don’t think they sell for a great deal, however. Art simply is not a reliable source of income."
Vladimir hummed some quiet baroque tune, still thinking. It was a beautiful night, and the trees were well into their fall colors. I found myself reminded of Linda’s paintings.
"Ghost, I can think of two things offhand. Neither strikes me as a permanent solution. One, next time I feed on a drug trafficker, I might come across some money. I’ll be happy to get it to the artist."
"And the second?" I asked, knowing how slim a chance it was he would find significant money. This was simply not a major drug city.
"You could take it from a bank vault." He smiled up at me.
"Pardon me?" I was shocked at the suggestion.
"Remember when I had locked my boots in an apartment a few years back? I didn’t want to break the door in because it would leave too much evidence of my existence."
"Yes, I do." He had been lounging in a victim’s apartment and was startled by an unexpected visitor. I had gone in and transported the boots out through the ethereal plane. "But this is different. I don’t have the right to…"
"Hold, hold! This is only money we’re talking about. What should we worry about the mortal’s silly attachment to it? Besides, I’m not talking about emptying the vault. Just take enough to set her up for a month or two. I only suggest it to give you more time to consider your plan." He waved his hand at me in a vague gesture.
I knew he was right. "Yes, and thank you Vladimir. You are always so much a gentleman."
He smiled, his fangs glistened in the moonlight. "You are quite welcome, my incorporeal lady."
"Have you fed tonight?" I asked.
"No. I was preoccupied in finding you."
"Then let us find you some dinner." I suggested, spying a man skulking in some nearby foliage.
I sat across the table from Linda and watched her eat. Finally, she had begun to ascend out of her despondency. She still had great distance to go, but eating regularly was an excellent start.
I was still thinking about whether I should take money from a bank for her. I considered other ways of encouraging her to earn money, but every plan required her to recover from her husband’s death first – and that was going to require a great deal of time.
She was staring at my side of the table. I looked down to see what it was that had her attention, then I scolded myself. I had started playing with a cat’s toy that had been left on the table.
I was supposed to be helping her, not haunting her.
"Al… Alfred?" She called at the toy.
This was not a good turn of events. If I moved the toy again, she’d think I was her husband. If I didn’t, she might think she was hallucinating. I decided to risk letting her think she was dreaming.
She picked up the toy and called for the cat, which came running. She tossed it for the cat to chase, and she played with the toy in the living room. Linda watched as she ate.
My mistake uncovered another good sign. She hadn’t cried when reminded of Alfred. Her pain was subsiding.
A knock came at the door. I rushed outside to see if it was Laurence, who had several times come calling. Each time he had undone some of her progress.
To my relief, it was a stranger.
Linda opened the door.
"Yes? May I help you?" She asked.
"Hello, Ma’am. I’m from Kinston Cable. I’m here to collect your decoder." The man said, matter-of-fact.
"Why?" Linda asked, obviously befuddled.
The man looked cheerless. "Uh - says here: nonpayment of bill."
"Oh. Yes, I suppose that’s correct." Linda said, looking dejected.
Linda opened the door for the man and motioned for him to enter. He went in, and stood politely.
"Where would it be, Ma’am?"
Linda pointed to the television.
The man went to the television and located the device in question. He quickly unhooked it.
"Ma’am? If you have an antenna for your set, I’d be happy to hook it up for you."
"No, that’s quite alright. I don’t use the thing." Linda explained.
The man looked confused. "Then, why own it?"
"My husband likes the news." She said.
"Oh. Then maybe you want I should hook up the antenna for him?" He offered again. "Plenty of news on broadcast TV."
Linda shuddered. I think she was hiding a cry.
Linda reopened the door. "If that is all…" She said, her voice shaking.
The man entered new states of bewilderment. "I’m sorry if I said anything… wrong."
Linda pointed out the door.
The mad started to leave. "Jeez, lady. Just trying to help."
Linda closed the door behind him, then sat on the sofa and began to weep lightly.
I pushed bills around the table. Linda hadn’t opened any of them since her husband passed away. Many of them were marked with rude phrases such as "Final notice of nonpayment" or "Collections notice."
I hated that these creditors would announce people’s financial straits to the world. There was a time no one would have ever considered airing such private matters on the front of envelopes.
I uncovered one letter she had opened. The insurance company was withholding payment for her husband’s death due to a lien.
Well, that was the motivation I required. Even if she had the insurance money, I suspect it wouldn’t cover all the invoices I saw on the table.
I picked up her checkbook and let it slide into the ethereal plane. She had been paying the lease, but the balance showed that she would not be able to cover January’s rent.
I dropped the checkbook back onto the table. I had no choice now – she needed the money.
I left the apartment. I flew over the buildings, straightaway to a nearby bank.
Linda rose, showered and dressed for the day. I was amazed at how long she sat at the table, eating her creamed wheat, without noticing the strap of hundred dollar bills I had left for her.
I nudged it toward her.
She jumped out of her seat.
I concentrated, and said "Merry Christmas." – Just loud enough for her to hear it.
She looked uncertain.
Eventually she gathered up enough courage to pick up the money. She ruffled it in her hands, still uncertain.
I nudged the checkbook. "Deposit it." I said.
"Who… who are you?" She stammered.
"A friend. Your husband asked me to help you." Why was I telling her this?
"I don’t understand." She said, fear creeping up on her.
I decided to show myself. I was in this deep, why not complete the journey?
I willed myself into visibility. In the light of the day, I would be difficult to see, but she knew where to look.
Her eyes widened. "Good lord, what is happening to me?"
"Please don’t be afraid. I’m a friend."
I gestured to her seat. "Please sit." I said.
She returned to her seat, and I ‘sat’ across from her.
"I can’t stay visible for long, so please don’t interrupt." I explained. "I was there when your husband died. He asked me to help you. I agreed. That money in your hands is part of my promise to him. Please deposit it. Pay your lease. Disburse these invoices. You need to bring your creditors up to date."
"Alfred always did the bills. I don’t know how." She said, her trembling voice betraying her confidence in this area as non-existent.
"I will help." I assured her. "I am tired. I will return tomorrow." I said.
I returned to my invisible state and rested.
Linda looked at the money again, counting it. The paper strap on the bills claimed it was ten thousand dollars. I hoped it would be enough.
I hovered above Linda as she waited in line for a teller. I had helped her prepare a deposit slip for most of the money. I had her keep two hundred dollars for shopping. I suggested she no longer rely on Michael to stock her pantry.
She was adapting to my disembodied voice quickly. In fact, I suspected she was enjoying talking to the air. It may bring her some comfort, having some evidence of an afterlife. I should have shown myself sooner.
She had to take a bus. She didn’t know how to drive, and walking was out of the question in this snowy December. It took a great deal of convincing to get her to try. Her cloistered life left her with no confidence. Every new adventure was frightening to her.
She told me that my presence was helpful. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that there wasn’t much I could do if things went awry.
Linda stepped up to a teller. I watched as the teller confirmed the transaction and give Linda a receipt. Linda looked perplexed for a moment, then gathered herself up and headed outside.
"Did I do that right? What’s this paper?" She asked, assuming I was still with her.
"It’s a receipt. It proves you deposited the money. Keep it in case the bank makes a mistake." I answered.
She boarded a bus after a brief wait.
The ride was quiet, Linda was smart enough not to talk with me in the presence of other mortals.
She disembarked at a supermarket and I followed. She chose a minimal assortment of basic foodstuffs after an initial gasp at the vast selection. After paying for it with one of her hundreds, she returned to the bus stop.
It had begun to snow again.
"I’m glad these are covered." Linda remarked, referring to the light weather walls around the bench.
"This wasn’t as difficult as you expected, was it?" I asked her.
She bowed her head with regret. "No, this day was easy. Actually, I found it fun. I should have done this sooner. I should have done this with Alfred."
Despite wanting to, I could not argue the point. "Perhaps. The past is immutable, regret a waste of effort."
The appropriate bus arrived, and we returned to the apartment.
Waiting there to spoil the day was Lawrence.
"Hello mother." He greeted her. "Where have you been?" It was less a question than an inquisition.
"I’ve been doing my marketing." She replied as she pushed past him.
She unlocked the door and entered, with Laurence on her heels.
"I’ve come to ask again for my share of the insurance money."
Linda motioned for him to close the door, which he did.
"Dear, I told you that the payment is delayed."
"Liar!" He screamed. "You’re just hiding it! I need that money, damn you!"
Linda was frightened by his outburst.
She picked up the letter about the lien from the table and handed it to him.
He read it. "What lien?" He asked.
"I don’t know. Maybe it was something your father was doing."
He crumpled up the paper and threw it at her.
"You’re useless." He grumbled, and stormed from the apartment.
I followed him, determined to discover why he was so interested in the money.
He spent a great deal of time drinking in taverns. It was a full two days before he went to his office. I had already searched his home and found nothing of interest.
In his office, however, the story unfolded. He was in debt to several people, none of which did business as a bank. I believe the modern term for these sorts of people is "Loan shark". He had recently paid off several others.
Emptying his safe, I discovered several very disturbing facts. One, he had significant life insurance policies on both is mother and his father. Second and most disturbing, he had opened them one month before his father had died. Third, he had placed the lien on his mother’s policy, and it appeared forged.
The next discovery was even more worrying. He had researched the causation of heart attacks, carbon monoxide poisoning, and salmonella. He had papers from companies that supplied the drugs described in that research.
I replaced all the documents, save for the two insurance policies and the record of lien. I planned on showing them to Linda.
I emerged from his office, and he was leaning against his car, drinking from a bottle. In his drunken stupor, he mumbled vulgar wishes of death on his mother, and on his brother.
I was infuriated. If he had killed his father for money, if he intended to kill Linda for money, he didn’t deserve to take up space, much less live. I drew one of my pistols and placed the barrel inside his head. My preternatural finger began to pull on the trigger.
I hesitated. He deserved death. He deserved worse. Was I the one to dispense this justice? Could I take a life?
Vladimir kills every day, I reasoned.
I couldn’t pull the trigger.
No, I’m not a killer – not like this. Vladimir kills to survive. This wasn’t survival. This was just vengeance. I could not even describe it as justice.
I wasn’t impotent. I drew back and aimed for a tire. The report of the gun and sudden change in his car caused him to leap away, dropping his precious bottle of liquor. He whimpered hysterically and hid behind another car.
I looked at the papers I had taken from Lawrence’s office. I had wanted to show them to Linda, but on rethinking the idea, it became obvious that it would have a detrimental effect on her.
How could she possibly survive knowing her own son may have murdered her truly beloved husband?
I wandered the snowy city for a while, wishing I could talk to Vladimir. He always supported my thought process.
I happened across Michael, who was walking with a lovely woman in the snow. They held hands and talked.
"I don’t know what I’m going to do about Mother." He said to the woman. "She’s probably almost out of money by now. I can’t convince her to move in with us…" He let his thought trail off.
The woman stopped him and took him into her arms. "Don’t worry so much, Honey. We’ll think of something. We always do."
They continued up the street.
The course I needed to take instantly became obvious. I rushed back to Lawrence’s office and grabbed all the relevant documents I could carry. Careful not to drop anything, I went to Vladimir’s lair and waited for nightfall.
After Vladimir awoke, I rushed him out to feed. I needed him to help me sort the documents out and write the note to Michael that would explain what they were and what I thought they meant.
Vladimir returned after only an hour.
"You were in luck, I stumbled across a pusher." He explained. "Now, what is it that has you so perturbed?"
I showed him the documents and research papers. "I think that mortal I told you about was murdered for money – by his own son!"
Vladimir scowled at the papers. "Motive, opportunity – Ghost, I think you’re correct."
He set the papers down on his sarcophagus. "What do you want me to do?"
I pointed to his writing materials. "Write it down in a letter to Michael – the man’s son – and sign it ‘from a friend’."
Vladimir set to work, inscribing the letter in his fine hand.
I set the documents and the letter on Michael’s kitchen table. The sun was just rising, and I could hear an alarm clock buzzing sternly from a room down the hall.
I waited to see his reaction, hoping he would know how to deal with the dreadful news. I held my hopes high knowing he loved his mother, and had her best interests in his heart.
The woman he had been walking with – who must be his wife – wandered into the kitchen and began pulling down bowels and boxes of dry cereal. She was apparently too sleepy to notice the papers on the table.
Michael and two children came from the back rooms soon after. The children, a boy and a girl, sat at the table, still not fully awake.
Michael picked up the papers and read Vladimir’s note.
"Dear god!" He said, standing from his seat. The children became instantly concerned.
"Elise, where did you get this?" He asked, a tremor of emotion in his voice.
Elise took the papers from his hand and read.
"This is the first I’ve seen of this. Where did you get it?"
"They were here on the table. I thought…" He looked very confused.
Elise looked the documents over carefully. Michael prepared the children’s breakfast.
Elise whispered into Michael’s ear. "Dear, I think we need to get the kids to school and call in sick – the police need to see these."
Michael looked stricken.
When Elise and Michael showed the papers to the detective, he became very agitated. He called over another detective to begin questioning Michel and Elise, then took the documents to his superior.
By that afternoon, Michael and Elise had Linda moved into their spare bedroom – mercifully under the pretense of needing her to care for the children after school. The police had promised the arrest of Lawrence. There was no doubt that Linda’s son and daughter-in-law fully appreciated the gravity of the situation.
The children were delighted to see their grandmother there when they returned from school. The evening was spent joyfully, almost as if the world had somehow returned to normal.
Two days had passed without notable events. The police had not been able to locate Lawrence. Vladimir hypothesized that he had gone into hiding when he found the records missing.
I spent my time watching over the family as well as I could. Linda had tried calling for me, but I wanted her to end her reliance on my instruction and so I did not answer. She had her life to lead, and the dead need not interfere.
That evening I waited on the roof of the house and watched the setting sun, hoping that this would soon be over. Vladimir had promised to visit tonight and I wanted to greet him before the family noticed him.
I began to speculate on Lawrence’s next action. It did not seem as if he had many options left. If I were he, I would disappear and try to build myself a new life elsewhere.
The hedge that bordered the property rustled and snow dropped to the ground. I thought it was Vladimir, but a slight man wearing black clothes emerged from the bush. He surveyed the property, then began to skulk toward the home.
I hovered near to watch. I hoped this was a policeman.
He tried the door, finding it open. He shook his head and began to enter.
I still wanted this to be a policeman.
He drew a weapon and chambered a round.
This was no peace officer.
I flew to Linda’s temporary room, and found her reading.
"Linda! Danger! Get the family, hide! Call the police!" I called, startling her.
"What?" She exclaimed. "What’s the matter?"
"There is a man with a gun! He’s in the kitchen. Please hurry!"
She rose and scurried to her son’s bedroom.
I hovered at the mouth of the hallway. I drew my weapons and chambered rounds. This time I needed to use them. This time it would be survival.
Behind me I heard the children complain about being moved. Silently I wished them to be noiseless.
The slight man came around the corner, looked through me and raised his gun.
I fired several shots, missing the man. He pulled the trigger of his weapon once as he dove behind the sofa. The children and Elise screamed, and I heard Michael trying to get them into a bedroom.
The man in black poked his head from around the sofa and fired another round - at me! I must have been visible. Using both weapons, I returned fire, tearing up the sofa and floor around him. I heard him grunt with pain. I must have hit my target.
I dropped my empty clips and began to reload.
Behind me, I heard Linda begging Michael not to come out to where the slight man and I were trading bullets. I hoped he was smart enough to take the advice.
Someone began to pound on the door.
I didn’t want to leave the hallway. Even as insubstantial as I am, I was the only barrier between the family and the assassin.
The door flew open. Lawrence came in, wielding a shotgun. He stared at me for a quick moment, then brought the firearm to bear.
He fired, and I fired. His head whipped back and he fell to the floor. Behind me, I heard a woman cry out.
The assassin stood again from his hiding place. He fired his gun at me several times, emptying his magazine. In a panic, he began to reload. I went up to him, put the barrel of my gun inside his chest, and pulled the trigger. The body armor that protected him from my first hit served now only to contain the mess.
Both Lawrence and the assassin stood beside their corpses. I put my pistols back into their holsters. The would-be killers looked shocked. I glared at them, hating what they had forced the situation to become.
"I hope, for your sakes, there is no Hell." I said.
They began to fade.
I turned to see the family. My heart fell.
On the floor, with Michael at her side, Linda lay bleeding.
Michael looked up at me, tears streaming down his face.
"She pushed me out of the way." He said, sobbing.
I heard sirens.
She put a bloodied hand on his face. "I love you, Michael."
She stood beside her body, as all the recently dead do.
"Thank you." She said to me. "My family is safe. Perhaps now I can be with Alfred."
She closed her eyes, and smiled a weary, hopeful smile. She began to disperse.
Being visible was becoming taxing. I relaxed, and Michael turned his head back to the body of his mother.
I retrieved my empty magazines, and passed through the nearest wall. Police were arriving. An ambulance was parked, lights flashing, down the street.
I turned away and started to wander.
I happened across Vladimir, who was headed to visit me.
"It’s over." I said.
Vladimir heard the sorrow in my voice. "She died, didn’t she?" He asked.
"Yes."
The funeral for Linda was even more melancholy than Alfred’s was. Michael was burying two more beloved family members. It would have been more than he could bear alone, but Elise had strength, and lent it all to him.
I sat upon a wall near the graves and contemplated their fate. Never before had I hopped so strongly that the dead faded into another world, perhaps one where Alfred and Linda could once again hold hands, embrace, kiss…
The casket began its journey into the earth.
"Ghost."
I turned. Two ghosts were standing near the wall on which I sat.
"Thank you for keeping your promise." Alfred said.
"Thank you for saving our son." Linda said.
I sobbed that tearless sob ghosts do when their greatest hopes are confirmed.