I Am a Ghost

I am a ghost.

            I was seventeen when I died from a plague that struck the coast of the upper peninsula of Michigan. I remember the fever that wracked my body, the liquids that oozed down my face. The plague came with boils, and that was the worst part. Itchy welts crawled up my arms and legs like swollen hickeys.

            It was the plague that wiped out the town, that and unemployment, the deadliest of diseases. The factory that stood on the edge of the bay — that produced the charcoal pig iron used — ceased to bring in money and ceased to create jobs for the boys that passed the eighth grade. It was a wonder it had ever sprung up to begin with; people only used manufactured pig iron for some ten years.

That's a mere breath of a second in ghost time.

I worked at the factory for a while, scooping coal into the giant furnace, black coating my lungs, but that was only a perk of being the son of the factory supervisor. My family was to survive the recession. Most others did not.

            But I didn't survive, after all.

            I am a ghost living in a ghost town. The bones of the grocery store still stand. They've revived the doctor's house up the hill and the theater next to the small school. I guess they decided, two hundred years later, that the town offered something of value. I watched as they painted over old walls, rebuilt fallen buildings, and reverted the town to its base, no personality.

            Visitors liked the houses the best. I'd watch couples, families, boys and girls enter the open doorways, smile at the beds that used to fit five at a time, comment about how odd it all seemed.

            How ancient.

I am an ancient ghost in an ancient ghost town.

Fayette State Park requires a parking pass. They profit from my old life.

It was hard to be bitter when chubby toddler feet ran down my flowered hills. It was hard to regret when tourists came for pictures of my home. Days turn to weeks turn to months. Years turn to decades turn to centuries. Time warps after your blood cools. Every day is the same. I flash to and from buildings. I sit on rooftops and throw myself off. I watch.

            Ghosts don't have the burden of walking. We can, if we wish, but flashing is faster – walking through walls, stepping out of the butcher and into the bakery in a single blink. Walking reminds me too much of humanity, of the people I left behind when I died, and the people who left me behind when they did.

            I'm flashing past the boats when I see her. After fixing this ghost of a town, the living added a campground and a boat launch. The campground sits a mile away, the dirt path lined with wildflowers and scoliotic trees. But the boat launch — brand new wood glistens with water and fish oil. Boats dock along the edge, white and sterile.

            If I was the kind of ghost who scared the living, I might take one. I might climb behind the wheel and ride it into the waves. But I don't care to make myself known, so I climb pillars, watch the unloading of fish, and admire the sharp architecture.

            Her green eyes make me want to whisper hello.

            I was almost married before I died. Margaret Holloway. She had a nose like the perfectly sloping hill behind the Grand Hotel and straight hair the color of the dirt path to the factory, blackened by soot. I didn't love her, which fills me with shame. Our parents thought it was a good match, but I still needed two-hundred years to learn about what it meant to love a girl.

            The first time I saw Jane — I learned her name was Jane from a conversation between her and her father. It seemed it was just the two of them — I stopped in my tracks. Her hair was a dark red, an unnatural but eye-catching color. Her green eyes could be seen from any place in town.