My Ghost by David Henson

I never believed in ghosts till one moved in with me. Steve Rest and I worked together at Cascallion Company. I’d heard he died and was shocked when I went into the kitchen one morning for coffee and found him sitting at the table. Our initial conversation went something like this:

“What are you doing here, Steve?”

“I don’t know, Phil.”

“How’d you get in my house?”

“I don’t know, Phil.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I didn’t know that, Phil?”

I guess I shouldn’t have expected a dead person to be well-informed.

I looked up Steve’s obituary online and showed it to him. “Guess you’re right,” he said.

I poured us each a cup of coffee.

A blizzard was pounding the day, and I couldn’t get out. So Steven and I reminisced about old times and watched golf from warmer climes on TV. I turned in early and left him sitting on the sofa. As weird as it sounds, it was nice to have company, and I hoped my ghost would still be there the next day.

He was. On the sofa where I’d left him.

“Phil is that you? he said. What am I doing here?”

“Don’t you remember? You died awhile back, and now you’re in my place for some reason. You’re a ghost.”

“Are you sure?”

I showed Steve his obituary again.

“So I had a heart attack?”

“Apparently you did, Steve.” I was going to ask him what it was like being dead, but didn’t get around to it.

I pulled the drapes and peeked out the window. The snow had pretty much buried the landscape.

Steve and I trudged the same ground talking about old times and watched more golf. The next morning, he was still there, still didn’t realize he was dead till I brought him up to speed. This went on for maybe a month. Maybe more or less. I’d lost track of time.

“Why don’t you ever leave the house, Phil?” Steve asked me one day.

“Have you seen it out?”

Steve went to the window. “Nothing to see,” he said. “Want to watch some golf?”

“You bet.”

“Remember how we used to play golf, and I always won?” Steve said after a few holes.

“No big deal. Not like we bet or anything.”

“I cheated,” he said. “Kicked balls from behind trees. Fudged my score. Thought you should know.”

“I never would’ve expected that of you, Steve.”

“Sorry, Phil.”

The next day things went further ’round the bend. Steve knew he was dead without my telling him. And he had another confession.

“Remember that big project you and I worked on at Cascallion?”

“Sure, it was a huge success. One of the best ideas I ever had.”

“I told Ms. Michaels it was my idea, Phil. I got a promotion,” he said.

“I know you did. But I didn’t know you took credit for my idea. When the recession hit, you were retained, and I got laid off.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Phil.”

“I started drinking too much.”

“I didn’t know that, Phil. I’m sorry.”

“It got so bad, Doris left me. You drained five years of my life, you son of a bitch.”

“I’m sorry, Phil. I think that’s why I’m here. To confess.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“I think if you forgive me, things’ll be like they’re supposed to be.”

“OK, I forgive you,” I snapped. “Now go to hell, Steve.”

“I think you have to mean it, Phil.”

“Oh, I mean it. Now burn.”

Steve vanished right before my eyes.

#

I never believed in ghosts till one moved in with me. Rhonda Carter was my fiancé a long time ago. Every day I have to explain to her that she’s dead. This has been going on for … not sure. A big blizzard’s blurred time. Rhonda just confessed that while we were engaged she was sleeping with my best friend, Roland Spinkowski. She wants me to forgive her. A snowball’s chance in hell.

#

I saw my first ghost today. Billy Cordell. Back in middle school the son of a bitch made me wear my shoes on the wrong feet, and I got cut from the soccer team. I’ll never forgive him. I’ve explained to him that he’s dead.

A ghost who doesn’t realize he’s a ghost. How pathetic is that? To make matters worse, it’s starting to snow.

—

David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Peoria, Illinois. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in numerous print and online journals including Theme if Absence, Pithead Chapel, Moonpark Review, Gravel, Bull and Cross, Lost Balloon, The Fiction Pool, Fictive Dream, and Literally Stories. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.