by Dan Dillard
Chapter 6
Ethan turned on his blinker.
“I’m betting Aaron is still on the phone,” he muttered, checking the oncoming traffic before turning onto his road.
He'd met a woman.
Emily Benson, he repeated in his head.
And she was beautiful.
Ethan wandered through the door a little higher off the ground than when he left.
Now he was distracted by the girl and not the ghost, a much healthier alternative. He sat at the laptop and opened it up to release his thoughts. The cursor blinked at him, hungry for information.
“Do I believe?” he typed.
There's nothing else out there, sounded over and again in his head, and he typed it.
Then he deleted both phrases and shook off the feeling of ice forming on his spine. He sat motionless and staring, allowing his eyes to blur.
“Do I believe?” he said out loud.
Slobber looked at the same place on the wall that held Ethan's focus.
“Thanks, Dad, for the neuroses,” he said. “I'm being haunted by the memory of a man who didn't believe in ghosts, Slobs.”
He supposed he'd always believed in something. The possibility of a spirit world intrigued him, and even if it went against the principles that had been chiseled into his thick skull, he always hoped that there was more to this world. Church talk was nonexistent in his house after that day. His mother and father had divorced, and she died soon after from cancer. His father lived another twenty-two years.
His mother's faith in God and his father's distinct lack of faith in anything drove a wedge between them that neither could see around. The rift between Ethan and his father never healed.
Ethan felt he understood the man now that he was an adult ... beaten down by life, verbally and likely physically abused by his own mother—she was no picnic—but he could never forgive.
He looked at Slobber and scratched him on the head.
“Would you haunt me?” he asked. “You probably would, little fucker.”
Scratching his dog on the head reminded him of Emily petting Squirt. Then he recalled something he'd read. Somewhere in that stack of books, it said you could look between a dog’s ears and see spirits. An ancient wives’ tale,it sounded like a load of crap, especially with this dog. Unless that spirit was draped with prime rib, Slobber wouldn’t care.
He checked anyway, holding Slobber’s ears like the handlebars of a small, furry motorcycle. Slobs stopped panting and searched around. He twisted his head left and then right, doing his best to lick his master’s hands, thrilled with the attention. Ethan shushed him and leaned back down to look again.
“Helloooo?”
No banging pipes. No floating sheets. The coast was disappointingly clear. Back to the computer.
According to experts, the spirits of children seem to be the most active. They are prone to jealous attachments and may throw tantrums.
Given that, maybe the spirits of those who died as elderly people are more peaceful, more in control—similar to the character they achieved in life. They might simply fade out over time.
Maybe it’s a mirror image. At first, closely resembling the human it once was and degrading over time. Those said to have ‘old souls’ may actually have a fresh soul, before it rotted or ran out of gas.
Violent or demonic spirits could also be those of animals, territorial in life. Perhaps that territory could be a person. In life, dogs are loyal to the point of violence.
Once attached to a person, rejection of the ‘demonic’ presence could bring unpleasant results. Any outside source of stress (a new boyfriend or even an unfamiliar priest) could represent a threat to the perceived relationship and cause the situation to deteriorate quickly.
-Ethan Jacobs, Electronic Journal Entry #22
..ooOOoo..
“This might be over my head, buddy. At least for tonight.”
Ethan turned on the TV to find nothing on, as usual. He flipped channels, stopping on one that was snowy to listen for the captured voices of little girls. The warmth of the dog at his side was relaxing, and he thought of Emily. Then he started a new entry.
I met a woman this evening. Her name is Emily. She is fantastic and sexy and for some reason I hate her dog. He'll grow on me. They always do.
-Ethan Jacobs, Electronic Journal Entry #23
Then he closed the notebook computer and dozed off.