The last thing I remember was the fire. It was almost like a dream. I was alone, reaching for the top shelf towards the cookies Mom had tried to keep hidden. When I turned around, flames were all around me, licking at my feet, my hair, the smoke overpowering everything, making my eyes water. I dropped the cookies, watching, mesmerized as the fire consumed them like I should have been. I lifted my chin, trying to see through the smoke. The flames grew closer as I was suddenly shaken out of my daze. By then, my feet were burning. Clutching my feet as I got down on my hands and knees, I began to crawl towards the door. The entire house must have been up in flames at that point, the cause of the fire just an insignificant point in my head.
It must have been the Christmas candle I had lit to welcome Santa, disobeying Mom's orders to not touch the candle until she got home with my sister from their late night Christmas shopping. I had seen them light the candle often enough. Just slide the match across the box and, magic, you have fire. Could something so small and simple create this havoc? Of course, I thought. It can't be my fault.
I was jarred out of my thoughts by a sharp crackling. I looked up, just in time to see a burning beam for the house's support structure flash down towards me. Before I had time to scream, or move, as I realized now that I should have, everything was black. That was the last thing I remember.
I woke up, blinking from the change to color instead of the dark, ominous black that had surrounded me since that moment. The first thing I saw was my mom. She was sitting at a table I didn't recognize in a house I didn't recognize, alone. I was laying on the ground, and as I propped myself up on my elbow, I realized how different she looked. Instead of the usual dark, wavy hair we both shared, her hair was stringy, tied in a bun to try to hide that fact, only emphasizing the dark circles under her eyes, the way her cheeks had started to cave inward, and the pale, chalky color of her skin.
“Mom, are you okay? What happened?” I tried to speak, but seemed unable to utter the words as they got stuck in my throat. I pulled myself up to my feet, clutching my throat as I tried to understand what was happening. “MOM!” Screaming didn't help, the same tightness blocking any of my words.
I gave up on speaking, worrying more about my mom than my momentary loss of speech. I walked towards, wondering how I could reassure her, trying to tell her I hadn't meant to start the fire, if it was even my fault. I got a weird sensation in my foot, and as I looked down at it, I realized that there was a toy just behind my foot, in the way of where my foot would have been seconds before. But that was impossible. Realizing it was one of my favorite toys, I bent down to pick it up, hoping it could bring Mom some joy. My fingers were within distance to touch it, leaning closer with every second, in a perfect position to pick up my toy, and suddenly my hand missed. I tried again and again, hoping that this wasn't happening.
Most kids would be thrilled to find out the could pass through objects, believing they had finally been granted their long wished for superpowers. Jumping off tables, hoping they could fly. Staring at door knobs, holding their breath, face turning purple, willing the knob to turn. But who could be happy when the last thing you remembered was a flaming beam about to fall on you, you couldn't speak, and now, nothing, even objects didn't seem to notice my presence.
I fought back the fear even as it flooded my little body, hoping this wasn't happening. You always hear stories like this around the campfire, but you would never expect it to happen. The stories about the dead, the ghost, and the haunting. It really was happening. Even as my life shattered around me, I knew pieces were slowly falling back into their frame in a jumble, only on piece fitting back into place as reality set in. I was dead, and I was a ghost.
With a deep breath to stomp out the fear, maybe even the reality, I walked over to my mom. I tried to sit in the chair next to her and just ended up falling onto the floor under the chair. So far, the only upside to being a ghost was no physical pain.
I tried to speak again, even hoping that anything but the impossible truth was true. “Mom, please. Just look at me,” I tried to say in a whisper, only being shut off again by my throat. This would usually be the part where I would end up bawling on the floor, but no tears came. Another upside was no physical expression of emotion.
Just then, my sister walked in. The same changes I had noticed in my mom were there, just less pronounced. She held the keys to our only car, a beat up old thing Mom had always been ranting about. “Come on, Mom,” she said in a soft voice as she rattled the keys. “I know its hard. Its hard for me too, but we need something to take our minds off of it.” As she said this, her eyes glazed over as she tried to fight the tears. Instead, she just sniffled. “Lets go shopping, anything. Please, just...something.”
Finally, Mom looked up. With a sad, small, almost painful smile, she said, “I guess its time to leave the house after all. You know, we haven't been out since...that night. Sure. Okay. Lets go.”
At the mention of “that night,” my sister shuddered, but held her ground. “Okay then. Get your coat. It's cold.” With that, she walked out the door.
Both Mom and I followed, only Mom making footprints in the snow as more fell out of the cloudy sky. With that same sad smile, Mom looked up at the sky. “He always loved the snow.”
I followed Mom and my sister on their entire shopping trip. Along the way, they received many sad, condoling smiles in their direction, and even a few brave people gave their condolences in the form of words. Eventually, my family got tired of shopping and decided to go get something to eat. Before they ate of course, they both went to wash their hands, practically a sacred ritual in my family. I followed them inside, always wondering what the inside of a girl's bathroom looked like. Sadly, it had the same basic look, but if anything, it was a bit cleaner. Neat freaks.
My sister blow dried her hands as my mom washed her hands, both located within a foot of each other and the mirror. This started to steam up the mirror, and out of habit I reached my hand over to the mirror to draw on it. Once again, my hand just passed through the mirror. Concentrating hard this time, refusing to lose to a mirror, I placed my hand against the smooth surface. When I removed my hand, I felt drained but looked in triumph at the place where a replica of my was. My sister looked up, saw the print, looked around, and just shook her head, biting down on her lip.
Back at their table once again, my sister turned to my mom. “I thought I saw a hand print on the mirror. It looked like...his.” Her voice grew quiet at the end, her eyes glancing down to avoid my mom.
“You know that isn't possible, honey,” my mom said as the sad smile once again returned to her lips.
I had to let them know I was here. Realizing that I could interfere with objects if I concentrated, I reached for the ketchup bottle. When I finished, my family was staring at the bottle, and I realized it must have looked like it was floating, so I set it down. With that, the last of my energy left me and I was gone forever. The last thing I had done lay on the table in front of my family.
As they read the scrawling script they recognized as a familiar eight year old's, they read his last words that read, “I love you. -B”
With an intake of breath and the disappearance of that sad smile, the mother opened her mouth and murmured,
“Ben?”