Ghosted

Shaking his head, Spunk shouldered the shovel. He walked up the creaking stair case to the shut wooden door. He reached for the handle with his free hand and pulled. It didn't budge. He tried to turn the handle. It wouldn't move.

"Mother of a cuckold." He swore, trying with all of his might to get the door to move. It wouldn't even shake on its hinges. The fluorescent light flickered above him.

His heart was racing. Would Harold figure out he was trapped down here? He shook the door again.

"God damn it all to hell. Lizard man, did you do this? Open the fucking door." He growled under his breath. A ghost -- or whatever the fuck he was -- could hear whispers, right?

"I. Don't. Have Time. For. Your. Bullshit!" He kicked at the door with his final word. It did nothing but hurt his toe. "God damn it all to hell!" He shouted at full volume. He hefted the shovel angrily at the door, as if threatening it would make it fly open.

"Amalyn!" He shouted, but he knew instinctively that the effort was equally useless. The closest audio receiver was on the other end of the hallway, and she didn't have lock/unlock access to this door. This wasn't part of the shop. It was just a little extra storage.

He let the shovel drop from his hands. He knew there was an ax somewhere in this basement, and he could find it and claw his way out if he had to. If Harold didn't find him first.

He set the shovel against the door frame and turned to sit on the top step as the lights flickered again. He felt his skin crawl, and knew the blue ghost was back. He sighed. It was going to be a long day. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Alright, lizard ghost man. What's your name?" He said softly. "Clearly you can talk. Clearly you didn't want me to leave. So what's your goddamn name, and what do you need?"

A moment passed in awkward, ghostly silence. Spunk opened his eyes, just to make sure he wasn't going insane. Sure enough, there was a blue haze oozing around the corner of the stairwell.

"Well?" He prompted, struggling to focus his eyes on the ghost. It was like staring at your reflection in a rippling pool. "What's your name?"

"Saffold." The soft voice came from the silence. "And I'd appreciate if you didn't call me... lizard man." The voice sounded disgusted. "That's an insult to my people."

"Sure thing, Saffold." Spunk agreed. "And how may I help you today?"

"I..." The ghost appeared to falter for words. He had materialized more fully, and Spunk could see that the jerky movements seemed to be a natural part of his character or species, not some weird one-off occurrence. He was very unsettling to look at. "I..."

The ghost's face screwed up in an imitation of crying. Spunk watched fascinated as the room grew icy cold, the ghost struggling with some unnamed tragedy. Spunk could see his breath as the lights dimmed and then brightened once more. He felt the goosebumps come back. Little ice-crusted snowflakes -- tears, Spunk supposed -- fell from the trembling apparition at the edge of the stairs. They fluttered to the ground where they wet the concrete floor like speckles on a frog before fading into nothingness.

"Hey man, take your time." Spunk offered consolingly. He wasn't sure how he had gotten into this situation, but a crying ghost was nothing to snicker at. The ghost's inability to describe how he was feeling on the inside -- did ghosts have insides -- harkened back to a time in Spunk's past when he, too, struggled with his feelings. "It's okay to let it all out." Spunk said. "Just tell me what's wrong. Whenever you're ready. So I can try to help you."

A lifetime of anguish seemed to flash back in Spunk's mind as he watched the crying ghost like it was a show and he couldn't change the channel. The smell of savory coffee assaulted his senses as he was thrown supernaturally into a lived memory.

"Momma, why do we have to go?" Peter asked as he tugged on his mother's woven shirt. She was busy, laying wrapped dishes gently into a box marked Kitchen.

"It's not safe here anymore, Peter." She said, annoyance crossing her face as she stared her deep blue eyes into his very soul. "We've been through this."

"But I don't want to go." He complained. "This is home." His eyes burned. His chest hurt. If there was a God, surely he wouldn't make Peter leave the only home he's ever known.

"Home is where the heart is." She responded absentmindedly. She shut the box and taped it shut. She squatted down next to him. "Come now. Big boys don't cry. Our new home will be just as good."

She wrapped Peter in his arms and gave a quick squeeze. "No sniffling in my house. Go get me a new box." She said brusquely. He burst into tears.

"Come on, Peter." She said, squeezing him a little harder. "It will be alright. I promise. Let's be a big strong boy and help momma with packing."

Spunk could feel his eyes misting even now as he recalled the event. Be a big strong boy. Her voice echoed in his head, and he could feel it heavy in his chest. He hadn't accessed those emotions in years. Decades, even. Why were they coming up now?

He looked up. The ghost was gone, leaving no trace that it had ever even been there. Not knowing what else to do, he rose stiffly to his feet. He felt his forty years, alongside years of mechanical work in the military, in every inch of his body. Even his ribs ached.

He touched the doorknob. It was cool in his hand. Refreshing. Like it would wipe the sense of unease away from him. It felt normal again. He turned the knob and it opened easily. He shouldered the shovel and headed upstairs.

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