Page 37 of Ghosted
“Please, on a Sunday when I’m forced to work? I eat a peanut butter-waffle sandwich, dunked in my coffee. And then I drag myself to the office and try not to think about all the other things I’d rather be doing.”
“A peanut butter-waffle sandwich?” I ask, mildly disgusted.
He grins like the Cheshire Cat and says, “Well, since I can’t eat it, you’ll have to so I can get the sense memory.” He disappears out of the room too fast for me to track, but I can hear him cackling all the way down the stairs.
Stupid ghosts.
TWENTY-TWO
The cool metalof the door handle feels foreboding under my hand, even though I know it’s silly. This door is not threatening. It’s a decidedly unthreatening door. What with the white paint and fancy modern handle. I’ve seen way more threatening doors in my day. Like pretty much any basement door. But it’s what’s behind the door that’s sending preemptive chills down my spine.
“Why do you look more stressed about this than me?” Dean asks, nudging my shoulder with a finger.
“Maybe it’s the disgusting coffee-soaked peanut butter waffle sitting in my gut,” I grumble.
His eyebrows raise in mock outrage. “Um, excuse me, you know it was delicious.”
I’ll never admit it, but it was decent. Not something I’d ever do again on purpose, but if my wafflehappenedto drop in my coffee cup, I guess I wouldn’t be that upset. “Delicious is a stretch.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Alderwood,” he singsongs.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say, opening the door to the garage. This is the final stop in Dean’s morning routine. He would usually get into his fancy car, select a playlist for his thirty-minute commute, and take off. Obviously we can’t do most of that, but I’m hoping that being here will do something for his memory.
The automatic lights click on, and we’re greeted with the same unsettling tableau as before: a seemingly normal garage. But when you look closer, you can see evidence of foul play. Dean appears in front of me and walks confidently towards the car. He flickers in and out as he gets closer to the driver’s side door, betraying how nervous he actually is. I see him take a breath that he doesn’t need, and then he’s sitting in the car.
He wraps his hands around the steering wheel and closes his eyes. His brows furrow in deep concentration and he tilts his head back against the head rest. We wait like that for what feels like a small eternity, and then his eyes spring open.
He turns to me and chokes out, “Oh my god.”
“What? What happened?” I ask, walking towards him. He emerges from the car, his frame glitching through the solid door. He paces in a tight circle in front of me, hands on top of his head in clear distress. The air drops a few degrees with his mood. “Can you fill me in?” I ask, getting more freaked out the longer he goes without saying anything.
I watch his jaw twitch in agitation. “Sorry, I’m just trying to calm down, because the last time I got worked up, it made me burn out. When that happens, it takes me a while to get back to you.” I reach out my hand, focusing intently on it so I can grab his, and lace our fingers together. He gives my hand a squeeze.
“You alright?” I ask eventually.
“I will be. Can we get out of here though? I don’t think I ever want to see the inside of this garage again,” he responds with a shiver.
I nod and lead him by the hand back through the garage door and into his house. It’s an odd feeling, because physically, I can only really sense his hand. So it’s a lot like holding hands with Thing fromThe Addams Family. There’s no sense of the rest of his body being tugged along behind me.
We land back in his living room, where my discarded coffee cup and plate sit on the coffee table. I’m not even sure yet what he saw in the garage, but I already wish we could go back in time to when I was giving him shit about his breakfast choices. He was so insistent that I eat his odd breakfast because of the “sense memory,” even though I know he can’t really smell anything anymore. I secretly suspect he just got some pleasure out of having a domestic moment with me.
We both sit on the couch and turn to face each other. I wait for him to speak, watching him look around the room as he tries to process whatever it was he remembered. I’m vaguely aware of the fact that this is the longest he’s been able to be corporeal at one time.
I turn my attention to the view out the window again, watching as a mild breeze blows some of the bright orange and red leaves off the trees, creating something my mom used to call “nature confetti” when I was little.
Eventually, he clears his throat, dragging my eyes back to him. “I, um. Well—I saw the last few moments of my life. They were ultra-vivid, but also fragmented. Like watching the worst movie in 4K, but it keeps jumping around in time.”
He adjusts in his seat restlessly. “I didn’t see the whole day,just the end. Like, probably the last few minutes. I saw myself pull into the garage, and I felt weird. Bone-tired with a pounding headache. I remember thinking that I needed to look into blue-light blocking glasses,” he scoffs and rubs his eyebrows in a show of frustration against his past self.
“Anyway, it was awful. I thought I was going to puke and pass out at the same time. I think I might have when I pulled into my garage…? I’m not sure. The next thing I can remember is waking up and feeling like I couldn’t move. I remember trying to get out of the car, but it was like my body just wasn’t working. It almost felt like I was being restrained. My vision was blurry, and all I could hear was the roar of my engine. It sounded so loud, I got scared that a dragon was on top of my house—” He breaks off into laughter which surprises me, considering we both know what’s coming next; but it’s contagious, and I find myself laughing as well at the absurdity of it all.
After a few moments, our laughter subsides. A shadow crosses his face. He reaches out to take my hand again. “Then what?” I ask gently.
“I felt even more tired. And I remember smelling gasoline. I drifted in and out for a while, and then finally… it was just darkness.” He had been looking at our joined hands, but now he looks directly at me. “The next thing I remember is you. Suddenly I was in your apartment, more confused than I had ever been in my life. But also, weirdly happy that I was seeing you again, even though at first I was sure you’d drugged me or something.” He smirks when I roll my eyes.
I absently drag my thumb over the back of his hand, drawing comfort from the feel of him here, even if he’s not quite as solid as he used to be. “So, you remember coming home,feeling sick, passing out, and then waking up but unable to move. And then?—”
“Lights out, curtains closed, the end,” he says, running his free hand along the air as if listing a headline.
