Page 2 of My Blind Date is a Ghost

"Oh, not for at least another half hour yet," I said. "Which is fine. It will give me time to unpack and display a crate of abolitionist books and papers I just received."

"That sounds like a fine idea," Edward said as he hugged my shoulders and kissed my head. "Come along, you little wild thing. Lets go feed the ducks in the park before they all huddle down for the night."

"Quack, quack!" Joseph said, running out the door.

"Do lock up behind you," I called to Edward as he followed our little boy. He nodded and I saw him pull his keys out before I dashed to the water closet at the back of the store. I felt as though I was going to throw up. I kneeled before the bowl and heaved, but nothing came up. I tried to remember if I had sickness like this when I was pregnant with Joseph, but I couldn't recall. The pregnancy had been relatively easy. But I suppose it was not a stretch to imagine I could be pregnant now. It could happen at any time.

After a moment, my stomach started to settle. I hoped that the illness had already passed. A little hiccup and nothing more. I went back to the front of the store and drank the rest of my red raspberry tea. I then arranged a tray with cups and plates and cookies. I would add hot water to the teapot as soon as the ladies started arriving.

I then went behind the counter and got to work on the abolitionist literature I wanted to display in the window. As Northerners, many of our friends and neighbors were abolitionists, but not everyone was. Mystic Cove was a haven town not only for witches, werewolves, vampires, and other supernatural creatures, but for Black folk too. But we could only exert our beliefs and influence so far. Many people in the countryside, especially those with large farms, had slaves. For many of those people, Mystic Cove was the nearest town with a post office and general store, so they had to come into town regularly. I wanted to always make sure that, as a bastion of knowledge, The Book Coven did its part for the abolitionist cause.

As I arranged a display stand, I started and nearly screamed as I looked out the door window and saw Jeremiah Holland just on the outside, staring at me. His eyes were wild and I could swear his teeth were fangs. My heart seized in my chest. I prayed that Edward had not forgotten to lock the door. Certainly, he hadn't. I saw him with his keys out. But then why did I see the doorknob turning?

I turned to run to the back of the store. Through my office was a back door I could easily escape through. I only had to get back there fast enough. As I tried to run, though, my head felt light and I stumbled. I started to heave again, my stomach desperate to be rid of whatever was plaguing it, but nothing came up.

I heard the door slam open behind me. I struggled to my knees and tried to crawl away as fast as I could. But I knew I would never be fast enough. He would fall upon me like a wolf on an injured sheep. I tried to scream. My shop was on main street and the door was open. Surely, someone would hear my pleas for help. Maybe even Edward himself. But when I opened my mouth, no sound came out. My throat was closed in terror. I fell onto my back, gasping for air.

I saw him. Jeremiah Holland was on top of me, his hair wild. He called my name, grabbed my arms, and shook me. I tried to fight him, but I was too weak. I couldn't breathe. My body was racked with pain.

Jeremiah released me and I fell onto my back. I rolled to my stomach to crawl away, but every movement was like trying to climb a mountain. I heard footsteps, and I prayed someone had found us, but I didn't know who it was. I would never know.

I collapsed to the ground and everything went black.

CHAPTER 2

The bell above the door to the shop rings and I look up, expecting to see my darling husband walk in. But it's never him. After more than two hundred years, I don't know why I still expect it to be him. That's the plight of a ghost, I suppose. Part of me, of my mind, is caught in an infinite loop.

Yes, dear reader, I am a ghost. I'm not sure why I am a ghost. According to the many, many, books I have read on the subject over the years, most humans seem to think that ghosts become trapped on the mortal plane when they have some sort of "unfished business" to contend with. I think that may be a bit of poppycock. As far as I know, I have no unfinished business. My death was an unfortunate tragedy, to be sure. I still had so much living left to do. But I am not angry or bitter about what happened. The last thing I remember was that man, that werewolf, Jeremiah Holland, leaning over me. I don't remember my death, thankfully. Everything went black, and then I woke up here, at The Book Coven, the place I died. I didn't know I was dead at first, naturally. Who would ever imagine that they could wake up dead? It's a dreadful thought. I try not to dwell on it. Anyway, as I discovered later through eavesdropping on conversations, Jeremiah was tried, convicted, and hanged for my murder. Justice was done. My family moved on.

But why haven't I?

I have long since stopped trying to figure it out. Dwelling on such thoughts is enough to drive a person mad. Can a ghost go mad? I don't know. I've never met another ghost. I have wandered near and far, over decades, and never come across another person like me. I know I am not the only ghost in existence. I can't be. Far too many people have had experiences with them for me to be the only one. Are we ghosts to each other as well? Do we all exist on different planes? Why do we exist at all? What is the purpose of such a lonely, unending existence? These are the thoughts that keep me up at night... Well, that, and the fact that I don't sleep anyway. At least my home, the place I died, is a bookstore. I never run out of things to read., people to see, or conversations to listen to. It's not a terrible life, but it's not living either.

I look up and smile when I see Parker Smith enter the store. Parker is a zombie, and the fiance of Dianna Flowers, a young lady who works for my great-great-great granddaughter, Beverly Barnes. It's quite lovely to know that, despite my death, my beloved bookstore remained in the family. I'm not quite sure how it happened, as I am sure my husband would not have managed the bookstore for me. I had inherited the store from my own mother. She must have passed it on to my son or my granddaughters. I'm not sure. I didn't wake up right away after my death, but some decades later. And it took me a long time, decades more, to figure out what I was and how to exist in such a matterless form. I eventually learned how to move, how to travel, how to manipulate objects. But I was always called back here. Back home.

"I could have just brought your books home for you," Dianna teases Parker, pulling his regular order of fantasy novels and comic books out from under her desk and placing them on the counter.

"But then I would have had to wait a whole three more hours to see you," he says, leaning over the counter and wiggling his eyebrows at her. She giggles and they kiss. I walk up behind him and tap him on the shoulder. He shudders and stands back upright, rubbing the back of his neck.

"What is it?" Dianna asks. "The ghoooost?" She wiggles her fingers in a spooky manner.

Parker gives her a half smile as he looks around the room. "You know there is a ghost here. I can feel it every time I come see you."

"She must like you," Dianna says, teasingly. "I never feel her."

"That's because you don't have one foot in the grave," he says solemnly.

Apparently, at some point, Parker died. Only instead of waking up as a ghost like me, he came back fleshly. A zombie. I have no idea how. Even less is known about zombies than vampires. All I know is that zombies, of all supernatural beings, can sense ghosts. And I only know that from getting to know Parker. And it's also how I know I am not the only ghost in existence. Parker feels ghosts in many places: graveyards, mortuaries, the movie theater down the road. I know he senses them because he has mentioned it to Dianna and Beverly. But whenever I have visited these places, I find myself just as alone as everywhere else.

"Who has one foot in the grave?" Beverly whirls into the bookstore like a hurricane. Pink hair, a long bohemian-style coat, big sunglasses. She saunters over to the counter and places down a cardboard holder with three coffees from Jumpin' Beans, the coffee shop next door.

"Is one for me?" Parker asks, picking up a coffee cup with his name on it. "How'd you know I'd be here?"

"Silly boy," Beverly says, pinching his cheek.

"Oh, right. Witch-tuition."

"As if you don't come in here every single day that Dianna works," Beverly says with a smirk.

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