Wraith

by Lawson, Angel

  “This is so screwed up,” he moaned.

  Silently, he contemplated what all of this really meant. The Bible talked about ghosts – he was sure of it. At that point he wondered if The Bible had it right. Had his mother heard him admit that, she would have screeched at him for being a heathen, but so far death had brought him nothing discussed in church or his youth group classes. There had been no choir of angels waiting to greet him with loving arms at the gates of Heaven, no white lights, no Jesus Christ or lambs or whatever. Not even his cranky Great-Aunt Pearl, who had died several years ago. It was just him and the house and his crying parents.

  THE HOURS PASSED BY at the same pace as when he was alive, much to his chagrin. He was bored, counting the chunks of the popcorn ceiling of his bedroom. With each passing hour, he grew more agitated, wishing someone - God, Jesus, the Easter Bunny… anyone - would tell him what to do or tell him the rules. It was obvious no one could hear him or see him, and it was clear he could walk through things and people. What about psychics? He’d never believed in that kind of thing, although Ginny’s mother swore by some palm reader in town. He’d give anything to find someone who could at least sense that he existed.

  It was by accident Patrick discovered he could sleep. After hours of wondering about what could possibly be coming next and where God was, his eyelids grew droopy. His limbs developed a heaviness, a lethargy that made it hard to move. Despite the fact that Patrick was very, very freaked out and his mind seemed to be on overdrive, calmness clung to him, and he woke with a start, bedside clock showing it was the middle of the night.

  “Well, Goddamn,” he muttered, sliding legs over the edge of the bed. The silence of the house hummed overwhelmingly loud, almost a perfectly quiet static hanging in the air as if something were about to happen to shatter it into millions of sharp pieces. Patrick glanced around, walking carefully across the floor to avoid stepping on the wooden plank that creaked. Halfway across the room, he stopped and shouted out a short laugh. Why did it matter? He could shout at top volume, but no one would hear it. He could probably hop up and down on his parents’ bed, and it wouldn’t matter.

  “This is just great,” he shouted. “For all I know I’m stuck here for eternity with nothing to do.”

  Patrick froze, listening for any indication he’d been heard, but only the clanking ping of the oil heater coming to life answered. He threw his hands out in exasperation, fingers sweeping across the flat of his desk. A dull thud on the floor and a solid surface against his skin stunned him, and he stared at the book that had fallen over. Had he done that? Was it just his imagination? Coincidence?

  He extended his arm slowly, nails barely brushing the spine of his copy of The Turn of the Screw. It did move. Just a centimeter. Just a little bit. Enough to make him swear and poke the book again. It butted up against his knuckles, and the cover slid across his desk, hanging precariously over the side. He watched as it tilted, tipping toward the floor. It appeared to fall in slow motion, and without even thinking, Patrick reached out to catch the book… and it landed in his palm, the smooth heft of it the best thing he’d felt… ever.

  “What the Hell?”

  He set the book on top of the other that had tipped over – a tattered copy of Slaughterhouse-Five – and fingered another book, this time his Algebra II text. It skidded easily across the wood. He laughed, surprised and excited.

  Over the next few hours, he tried moving everything in his room. Books, pens, tablets, clothes… he even managed to open the drawers of his dresser, carefully moving as quiet as possible, so he didn’t wake his parents. There were things that eluded his touch, though. The sheets on his bed wouldn’t move, but his comforter and pillow would. He couldn’t figure out why. There was so much he didn’t know, and it annoyed the crap out of him not to have all the answers… almost as much as it scared him that he still walked around this house instead of hanging out in Heaven.

  The dim light at his bedroom window crept over the sill, the rising sun casting a glow through his room. He tried to open the window but couldn’t undo the lock. Another mystery - why he could physically move some things and not others? Patrick stood in front of the pane and watched the neighborhood come to life. Jerry, the kid from two streets over, peddled down the sidewalk, tossing newspapers into yards. A red Chevy Malibu drove up the street and turned right onto Elm Lane.

  Nice car.

  Oh, shit. Patrick’s hands pressed against the glass of the window, craning to see into the driveway that ran from the street to a side door. His car still rested exactly where he left it, the rays bouncing off her turquoise blue hood. He’d saved up every penny he’d ever earned to buy the ‘68 Chevelle SS just three months ago. What would happen to his car? Now that he was dead, his parents would have no reason to keep it, but he hoped they wouldn’t sell his baby.

  If they got rid of the car, maybe they’d get rid of the rest of his shit too. He was dead, so he probably didn’t need anything - it had been nearly twenty-four hours since the paramedics had wheeled his body out of the house, and he hadn’t been hungry or thirsty. He hadn’t needed to piss or take a shit. Hell, he hadn’t even so much as burped. Even though Patrick had felt the moment his heart stopped when he’d died on the stairs, the body he was in now… whatever it was… it still felt human. He felt like himself but without–

  The turning of Patrick’s doorknob interrupted his thoughts. His first inclination was to hide in the closet, but that would have been idiotic; no one could see him, so why bother. His next thought was to grab a book and float it through the air – another idiotic idea unless he wanted to spook the Hell out of someone. For a second it sounded like a good idea. He could prove his existence, but something in him stilled his hand, halfway to his desk.

  His mother stepped into the room and made his bed, pulling up the sheets and smoothing them over the mattress. Her sigh turned into a ragged sob.

  “Aw, Mom,” Patrick muttered.

  Her tears dripped onto the comforter as she ran her hand across it, placing his pillows in a stack in front of the headboard. The bed sagged under her weight as she sat, staring at the wall as her jagged breath filled the space.

  He hovered over her, hands almost but not quite touching her shoulder. He wished she knew he was there, and at the same time he knew it would freak her out, make things worse for her.

  “Arlene?”

  She wiped her face against the sleeve of her sweater. “Yeah?”

  Patrick’s father poked his head through the crack in the door. “We have to go.”

  “God, Jack,” she wailed, throwing up her hands and letting them fall back to the comforter like fall leaves falling from a tree. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  Do what? Patrick moved closer to his father. Instead of wearing the usual jeans and a flannel shirt, his dad was in dark dress pants and a short-sleeved, button down shirt with a wide, striped tie. Dressed up for him.

  “Pal’s waiting for us. We have to.”

  Pal? Pal Banks? Dad’s fishing buddy? It hit Patrick seconds later – they were going to the funeral home. No wonder his mother was so upset.

  His grandparents had died a decade ago, and he’d had to tag along with his mother to the Banks Funeral Parlor. Mr. Banks had met his mother in the receiving area, and Patrick had waited there for what seemed like forever. The funeral home office was just off the reception nook, though, and Patrick could hear every word. The chair scratched his skin; the fabric was stiff and smelled weird, like cleaning chemicals, but not the lemon kind his mom used. He overheard whether he wanted to or not – it was all about picking out coffins and talking about the service.

  He wanted to go. He wanted to go with his parents to the funeral home. It wasn’t like he could do anything if they opted to plant him in a pink coffin with gold trim, but he was curious. He also felt as though he should be there with his parents as they planned what would happen to his body.

  Patrick’s mother heaved herself to her feet and smoothed t
he comforter again, holding her hand out to his father. Pulling his dad through the door, they clung to each other for a moment before his father turned and led her out into the hallway. Patrick followed, relieved neither had closed the door. Even the thought of the heavy, gelatinous sensation he associated now with moving through it gave him the shivers.

  His jacket was still draped over the table in the hallway, and his fingers twitched toward it, only stopping their trajectory when the fabric of his coat sleeve shifted under his hand. He couldn’t put his jacket on. Well, he could… it moved when he touched it. But he didn’t think his parents would react very well to seeing his windbreaker come to life and float through the hallway. There might be screaming and running, and there would almost certainly be tears. He couldn’t do that to them.

  Patrick was too late to make it out the front door before it closed. He stopped and clenched his fists, preparing for the feeling of passing through its solid mass. Leaning forward, he took a running start at the door, hoping to get it over as quick as possible, wondering if he’d be able to ride in the backseat of his parents’ Buick or if he’d sink through the seat and what it would feel like to move through metal. Patrick’s vision darkened as he passed through and brightened when he caught a glimpse of the blue sky… and then nothing.

  THE SMELL OF VANILLA and butter hit Patrick so abruptly, he rolled off the bed and hit the floor, his nose half-smooshed against the wood. He’d clearly been dreaming this whole death thing. He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs and pushing himself onto his knees. The clock by his bed read one o’clock, and his room was bright.

  “Shit!” he yelled, looking around wildly. He was late for work. It was only when he reached for the knob on his door that he realized his death hadn’t been a bizarre fantasy; his hand passed through the knob, the sickening heavy feeling making him wince.

  “Shit,” he repeated, backing away, shoulders slumping. And what the Hell? That had to have been some kind of fluke, the passing out as he tried to leave the house thing. Patrick grasped at his hair, pulling in frustration.

  He stomped downstairs, stepping around the spot where he’d died, and ran at the front door. The sunlight hit him square in the face, and the excitement sizzled in his chest for a second until everything dimmed, spiraling out to oblivion.

  PANCAKES. HIS NOSE TWITCHED, and Patrick sat straight up in bed, remembering exactly what led to his reappearance there. The bedside clock read five o’clock, and he groaned. He couldn’t believe it – until he was escorted to Heaven, he’d be stuck here in the house.

  He turned his face upward, glaring at the ceiling. “Why are you doing this to me?” he screamed.

  God was obviously not on his side. Patrick stomped across the floor of his room, muttering obscenities under his breath. The scent of pancakes still lingered in his nose.

  PATRICK STUDIED ANDY CAREFULLY, a half grin lifting his mouth. He looked like a dork in the brown suit with broad lapels, and Andy tugged at the wide, striped necktie that appeared to choke him. He always thought it was kind of silly to dress up for wakes, and it was even dumber to make anyone get gussied up for his wake.

  The neighbors and friends of Patrick’s parents milled around the house, everyone looking appropriately stricken and somber while picking over the huge spread of food laid out in the kitchen. His mother sat on the couch in the living room, shell-shocked eyes and downturned mouth in place, his dad hovering near the front door as if he might bolt any second.

  It wouldn’t be the first time Patrick was jealous of the living.

  A group of guys he’d played football with came trooping into the house. Instead of pads and jerseys, they all wore dark suits, another kind of uniform. After stopping to say a few words to his parents, they disappeared into the kitchen.

  “He was such a good boy,” his Aunt Jenny said, eyes red and puffy.

  Patrick snorted and crossed his arms. “You didn’t think so when I broke your window.”

  Come to think of it, he really hadn’t seen much of her and Uncle Bob since then – it had only been a few years ago. Window. Huh. Maybe he could get out of the house through a window. Maybe it was only the front door… he’d have to try it out. Embarrassment washed over his face as he wondered why it never occurred to him before, but then he shook his head. He hadn’t been dead that long, and he’d been in a constant state of shock – how could he be expected to think of every possibility?

  “Yes, he had such a bright future.” His high school shop teacher stood by his aunt’s side, giving her the eye.

  “I can’t believe you’re trying to get lucky at my wake, man.” Patrick chuckled and moved away, gravitating toward Ginny and her parents. He couldn’t believe what people were saying about him – hearing all about what a good guy he was, how generous he’d been, how kind and giving. Most of these people had barely known him. Dying transformed him into a hero, apparently, although that shouldn’t have surprised him – he’d been to a funeral or two, and no one ever said anything shitty about the person who’d kicked the bucket.

  When the old guy down the street had a heart attack, Patrick’s mother had dragged him to the viewing. The man had been a real jerk, chasing kids off his lawn and stealing newspapers off his neighbors’ porches, but everyone had gone on and on about what a saint the guy’d been.

  Ginny’s parents were deep in discussion about picking up milk on the way home, but Ginny’s lips clamped into a firm, white line. She looked upset, and even though Patrick thought this whole wake scene was idiotic, he was glad at least one person who really knew him – other than his parents – was sad he was gone. Well, not gone… dead.

  “I have to visit the bathroom,” Ginny muttered, heading toward the stairs. Patrick followed, Ginny’s brown dress swishing around her legs as she climbed, and she immediately turned into his bedroom instead of the bathroom.

  “Patrick?” she whispered, startling him.

  “Ginny?” He moved closer, sinking fingers in her shoulder. She wrapped her arms across her chest, shuddering and staring out the window. “Hey, can you hear me?”

  She crossed herself and continued to stare at the yard below. “I can’t believe you’re dead.”

  “I can’t believe I’m dead, either. It kind of sucks.” He wished she would open the window so he could jump through. Wait. What would it matter? He’d just toss himself out of it – he could move through the glass and screens, no problem.

  A lone tear traversed the slope of Ginny’s cheek, and she allowed it to roll to her chin before she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Patrick moved around and sat on his bed – all the crying was killing him. It was such a drag, and it made him feel bad for dying. It was definitely a buzz kill to his idea about trying the window – he couldn’t let Ginny cry by herself.

  “I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,” she mumbled, touching the glass. Patrick’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. What was that from? “If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.”

  It came to him in a few moments. “Nice.” He snorted in amusement. “Seeing me off with some Whitman. I hear it’s better than the mass during my funeral – Andy said it was like cats squealing or something when the soloist sang.”

  Ginny bowed her head and leaned forward, turning her head and laying her cheek against the window. “I’ll miss you.”

  “Hey, hey, don’t…”

  She sighed and turned sharply, stalking out of the room before he could say another word.

  Patrick watched her go and heaved a sigh before looking back toward the window. Well, might as well get it out of the way; he wasn’t missing much downstairs. He took a running start, groaning as his moved through the glass, but the smell of damp earth had him sniffing until he spiraled into darkness and the smell of pancakes assaulted him. Crap.

  “I CAN'T STAY HERE, Jack.”

  Patrick’s father shuffled slowly through the kitchen, quietly pulling out a chair and slumping into it. His grease-st
ained fingers pulled at each other, never at rest. He scratched at the bald patch on top of his head, face giving nothing away.

  “Well, we can sell the house if you want. There’s a nice place that just went up for sale across town on Jackson Street.”

  “Sell the house? Jesus, Dad, are you crazy? You can’t leave me here alone!” Patrick glared, eyes softening when tears slipped down his mother’s cheeks.

  “No. I can’t be here. In this town. I have to… I have to go. Somewhere else.”

  Patrick wanted to throw things, but there was nothing here he could pick up. Over the two weeks, he’d come to understand what had been his in life… the things he owned or considered his alone… those were the only things he could move. He thought longingly of the Chevelle, still sitting in the driveway. If only he could leave the house - he could almost feel the vinyl seats and the smoothness of the steering wheel under his hands.

  “Arlene, we grew up here. My garage is here. Where on earth do you want to go? I suppose we could move to Springfield or something.”

  She shook her head, the short curls clinging to her head. “Let’s just… go. I can’t be anywhere near where… he’s dead, honey. Patrick is dead, and he died here. I can’t do it.”

  “But… what am I supposed to do for work?”

  Patrick’s mother slammed her hands down on the table. “I don’t care about your Goddamn business! My son is dead! I just need to get the Hell away from here!” Her breath came faster, the harshness of it ringing out in the small space.

  Patrick was stunned - he’d never heard his mother swear before. His father reached across the table and folded his fingers around her hand, neither of them saying a thing.

  “We’re forty years old,” his mother said. “We’re not supposed to outlive him.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “I can’t believe this is happening!” Patrick screeched, pacing around the kitchen, barely feeling it when his hip half-sank into the counter. “How can you just… leave?” It was bad enough that God hadn’t shown up yet, but now he might have to deal with living here with people he didn’t even know?