where ghosts wander || ONC 2022

chapter two; a missed chance and a less bothersome ghost

So it's with considerable dread that I lift my gaze to the place where I walked through the ghost.

It's another man, but this one is old, a myriad of wrinkles lining his face and what's visible of his hands, the silver rim of his glasses a contrast against his dark skin. There's absolutely no menacing energy coming from him, thank the stars.

"Oh, dearie, can you see me?" he asks, his voice frail but genuine.

He's wearing pajamas.

I wonder how long he's been wandering.

"I can," I say, making my voice as gentle as I can, despite my own emotional whiplash.

"Oh! I've gotten terribly turned around, would you mind pointing me back home? I'm sure my Martha is terribly worried for me."

My heart breaks for him. "I'm afraid I can't do that, sir." There's just no easy way to break this to anyone. Charging straight ahead has become my favored method long ago, whenever I'm in an uncomfortable situation like this one. "You're dead, you see?"

He looks stunned, and like he wants to protest. I don't give him the chance and babble on, "I'm sure you died peacefully in your sleep, and Martha loves you very much."

There's a rather heavy pause, then.

I bite my lip and try not to look too much as though I'm waiting for him to hurry up. He does, thankfully.

His face changes, slowly.

The wrinkles disappear.

His back straightens, his hair turns from white to black.

He blinks at me with eyes that look like he's waking up from a deep sleep.

"Oh," he says, and blinks again. Lifts his hands to his face and stares at them, then pushes his glasses up into his hair and looks at them again. "Oh."

It will never not be disconcerting to watch this happen, how their age regresses to the point they were happiest in their life.

I flick my eyes around, but of course there isn't anyone around who could take over for me here, and there's no one here anymore who looks like my—

"I'm sorry," I say, awkwardly. "This must be difficult." I do feel very awkward, too, and can't hold the man's gaze. Shift my weight on my feet, finger the fraying strap of my tote bag, try to figure out if I can just leave. This just never does get any easier.

"Yeah," the ghost says, eventually. "Martha isn't waiting for me at all, is she?"

"I don't know, sir. I don't think I knew you."

"Knew, huh. Past tense." I look up at him at that, but I think he's talking to himself.

"I'm sorry," I say, again, and then I remember. "But, oh! It's Samhain soon, you know?"

The blank look I get in return to that tells me that no, he doesn't know. "Halloween, I guess. It's when the veil is at its thinnest. If your... Martha is in any was magical or even believes in the supernatural, you might be able to talk to her then. The witching hour usually works best for that. It's no guarantee, of course, there's actually a lot of interesting factors playing into it—" I cut myself off, clear my throat. Nobody ever wants to hear about that. "But it's your best bet, sir, if you wanted to try talking to her, maybe say goodbye."

The light that has started to fill his eyes during my rant fades a bit. His shoulders slump. "Oh. I'm not sure if that would work, then. She isn't a very talented witch, and our old age hasn't made it easier."

Hmm. I guess it's worth a try, digging up my rusty salesperson skills. "Well, it might still be worth a try. And if it doesn't work out and you still wanted to see her, there is one other way..."

His interest is caught immediately, if the way he steps closer and straightens his shoulders is any indicator.

I point straight through the crowd at the shop that doesn't have an official name. I've taken to calling it the "Vanishing Shop" affectionately, or Vanny for short.

"This is where I work," I explain. "We offer a potion that allows the drinker an hour of seeing a ghost. It's a difficult potion to make, and therefore rather expensive, but maybe that would be an option for you."

And now I have the perfect segue into getting away from this conversation. "You can come by anytime we're here — roughly every weekend and Tuesdays or Wednesdays, depends on its mood — and we'd be happy to elaborate. But alas, I am rather late, and should really be getting back to work. Have a nice day!"

This time when I push to the crowd I'm careful to avoid any and all ghosts.

When I look back, the man is still standing there, looking at me with a contemplative look on his face.

When I look back the second time, my hand on the doorknob of the shop, he's gone.