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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