Friday, November 07, 2014
Ghost of a Chance
Ghost of a Chance
by
Phoenix Hocking
I never
expected to see my husband again, certainly not six years after he'd
been murdered. But there he was, standing at the end of my bed,
grinning that stupid smile he used to wear when he'd been out
drinking too late.
"Hey
there, Sweet Cheeks," he said, using his pet name for me.
"Holy
crap!" I started up in bed, and pulled the covers up to my chin.
"What the hell? You're dead!"
"Well,
of course I'm dead," he said, floating toward the side of the
bed. He sat down next to me, though the mattress didn't seem to know
that. "You killed me, remember?"
"I
did not!" I protested. "You and I both know that I did no
such thing."
"Oh, settle down, Sweet Cheeks," he soothed. "You know and I know, but everybody else seems to think you're guilty."
"Hmmmph,"
I grunted. "That's true. But there was never enough evidence
to convict me, though I have to admit, I haven't missed you much.
What are you doing here anyway?"
He
looked upwards. "I've come to save your soul," he intoned
righteously.
I
couldn't help it. I burst out laughing. "Save my soul?
Now, that's rich. Your soul is the one that needs saving, you
low-life scum."
"That
would be 'no-life scum' to you," he chortled, then fell silent.
He was
quiet for a minute, which gave me a bit of a chance to study him. He
looked surprisingly good for a man who'd been dead for six years. If
anything, he looked better than he had the last time I saw him, which
isn't surprising, since the last time I saw him he was covered in
blood. His hair seemed to have grown back to its lush and luxurious
state, and his wrinkles were noticeably diminished. His chin still
had that little cleft in it that drove me wild, and his eyes were
still a deep-sea blue a girl could drown in. All in all, he looked
damn good, for a dead guy.
"Really,
Pete, why are you here?" I asked.
He got
up, and the mattress didn't even sigh. He floated toward the window
this time, and made as if he was looking out. Since it was
pitch-black outside, the effect was kind of ruined. Or maybe he
could see in the dark, like a bat. I shivered.. I could see right
through him, and that was more than a little disconcerting.
"To
tell you the truth, I don't know," he answered. "Maybe I'm
here to save my own soul. I'm not quite sure what the assignment
is."
I got up
and threw a robe on. "If this is going to be heavy, I'd better
get a drink."
"Ah
ha!" he exclaimed. "That's part of it. Your drinking."
"Oh
Jeez," I said. "We're not having that old argument again,
are we?"
"Look,
if you hadn't been drinking, you wouldn't have been suspected of my
unfortunate demise, now would you?"
"Hmmmpf,"
I snorted. "Your 'unfortunate demise,' as you call it, was all
your own stupid fault."
"I
know that," he started, "and you know that . . ."
"Yeah,
yeah, yeah. So, how do we go about clearing my name?"
"I'm
not sure. I'm not even sure that's what this is all about."
"So,
you don't know who killed you?"
"Nope.
I just know you didn't."
"And
how do you know that?" I asked.
"Because
you were passed out cold. You couldn't have killed a fly if it had
landed on your nose."
We had
made our way into the kitchen. I reached into the cupboard to
retrieve a bottle of Jim Beam.
"Well,
that's helpful. I guess I'm out of luck trying to clear my name
then."
"I
guess so. Like I said, I don't think that's what this is about
anyway."
I
attempted to unscrew the cap on the Jim Beam, but to no avail. It
was like the lid was screwed on so tightly, it would take a
jackhammer to get it off. I looked up to see Pete holding one finger
on the cap.
"Are you doing that?"
"Yeah.
Pretty cool, huh?"
"Not
from where I'm standing." I slammed the Jim Beam back on the
counter. The bottle shattered and I cursed. I grabbed a towel and
swept the shards of glass into the trash, then wrung out a sponge to
clean the mess off the sink. When that was done, I spun around to
see him watching me, a satisfied expression on his face.
"Fine,"
I said. "Let's talk."
"Okay."
He drifted to the kitchen table, sat down, and crossed his legs.
"So,
why are you here? And what's
it like, being dead?"
He
pondered that for a minute. "Well, as to the second question,
it's boring as hell. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't actually DO
anything, except your basic poltergeist stuff, and that gets old
after a while."
"What
about the white light and all that crap?"
He
shook his head and placed his hands on the table. "Nope, not
for me. No light at all, white or any other color. No 'dear
departed' family members standing on the other side, ready to greet
me. No devil either. So, I'm not in heaven, but I'm not in hell
either, so I guess that's good."
I
stretched my fingers out and looked at them. Yep, just as solid as
they ever were. His, on the other hand, were clear as glass, and I
could see the coffee stain on my kitchen table through them. It was
creepy.
"So,
the Sisters were right about Purgatory?" I asked. Now, that
was a frightening thought. In Catholic school we were taught that
every soul needed to do time in Purgatory before they were allowed
into Heaven, but we could buy something called indulgences
to help them get there faster. I didn't think God worked like that,
but now I wasn't so sure.
"Nah,"
Pete said. "It's not like that."
"Crap!
Can you read my thoughts, too?"
"Sometimes,"
he admitted. "Not all the time."
"I'm
liking this less and less." I thought for a minute. "Back
to question number one. Why are
you here? And what do you care anyway? You never gave a damn about me
when you were alive. Why give a rat's behind about me now?"
Pete
got up. Well, Pete's ghost
got up, and began to float around the room, swirling dust as he went.
He seemed agitated. Then he settled down, and sighed back into the
chair.
"I'm
sorry, Sweet Cheeks," he said. "I really am. I treated
you like crap when I was living, and now . . . well, now I know
better."
"What
brought you to this realization, o wise one?" I asked, smirking.
He
was quiet again, but then said, "I've had a lot of time to
think, over here. A lot of time to look back over my life. It's like
. . ." he paused. "It's like being in a huge room, and it's
just me in there. No God or angel looking over my shoulder. It's
just me, looking at my whole life. The good, the bad, and the ugly.
I have to tell you, Sweetie, the bad and the ugly far outweighed the
good. I felt, you should pardon the expression, like shit. Forgive
me?"
Something
in me melted, something cold and hard, a frozen resentment I hadn't
known I'd been carrying around for six years. I felt tears well up in
my eyes.
"Yeah,
you big lug. I forgive you." I wiped the tears away. "I'd
hug you if I could."
The
atmosphere in the room changed. The apparition that resembled my
husband's body began to shift and swirl and dance around the room.
Suddenly
there was a bright light, and a Presence entered my kitchen. It stood
next to Pete, who was staring open-mouthed at it.
"Are
you God?" Pete whispered.
"No,
I'm Michael, and I've come for you."
"Michael?
As in SAINT Michael?" I asked.
The
Presence smiled at me, and I hit my knees, right down on my kitchen
floor. I bowed my head, but no words came.
"Are
you ready?" St. Michael asked Pete.
"Yes,
Sir," he said. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be."
When
I looked up, they were gone.
The
next morning, when I woke up, the first thing I thought was, Man,
that was a helluva dream I had last night.
I
went into the kitchen to make coffee. The whole room stank of Jim
Beam, and the remains of the bottle were in the trash.
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