Tag: ghost

Misplaced

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I cannot for the life of me find my car. It’s not in its assigned space. There is a car I don’t recognise there already. I’ve never had that problem before: management are very clear about the parking spaces. Probably some new neighbour. I’ll have a word with them.

As I consider keying the blue paint, I realise that I don’t actually have my car keys either. So. I’m locked out of my apartment, looking for a car I wouldn’t be able to drive regardless of if I found it.

I am not a smart man.

I try to think hard about the last time I drove. It was raining, I’m sure of it. I remember running to the car, hunched over my bag to protect it from the droplets. I must have looked ridiculous: a shuffling figure in the darkness. My clothes are still damp and hear myself drip as I walk away from the carpark.

The sun is shining, but it doesn’t seem to do my clothes much good. I still leave wet footprints on the warm pavement. I notice two teenagers point at my footprints. I move faster before they can take a photo of my sorry state.

I pull at my collar. I wish I was wearing more casual clothes, but I suppose the last time I was driving, it was home from work. I don’t remember getting home, although I remember rushing towards it. I was late for something. Something that seems very unimportant now.

There is a puddle in the street, almost dried up by now. It hasn’t rained in days, after all. I look at my reflection, and look away quickly. I’m a bedraggled mess. It’s a miracle no one is staring at me.

As I walk along the street, I hear a car horn honk and it reminds me of something. A car honking for a long time, bright lights, impact…

I’m such an idiot – I remember where I left the keys! they’re still in the ignition of the car, at the bottom of the lake. Fortunately I don’t remember exactly where that was. Well, that’s probably for the best. I think I can only stay as long as I have unfinished business, and thanks to my poor memory, this little task will take a long, long time. As I said, I am not a smart man.

I continue walking down the street, into the bright sunshine, leaving wet footprints behind me.

Three Questions (Part 2)

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Despite my success, my mother was still the target of my father’s anger. Every trip outside the house was scrutinised, every phone call monitored. On the rare occasions that he left the house, my father would often sneak back into our home quietly, trying to catch my mother in some act I didn’t yet understand. I know now that she stayed because she believed it was best for me. She couldn’t take me away until I knew fully how to use my power, and she couldn’t leave me alone with him.

I was eleven the night that I heard my parents’ arguing stop. Read More »

Three Questions (Part 1)

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It took me decades to realise that my childhood wasn’t normal.

My father knew how to raise the dead. With words, wards and symbols he could cause the soul of any deceased person to appear before him. Rising from his spell, he could command the spirit to answer any three questions that he put to them, truthfully and completely. Answering the questions of the bereaved was his trade and he was paid richly for his services. A ceremony could only be carried out once with each spirit, and could only be asked by the person who summoned them, so the three answers were all that the client would ever receive  from the deceased in this life.

He never operated in front of a direct audience, instead summoning the spirit behind a curtain. It was certainly the more pleasant option for clients. Spirits are always recognisable, but something about them is wrong. It’s something in their eyes. They have no desire to hide the truth, and appear completely dispassionate towards the living. No matter how loving the relationship, they have no interest in their former loved on any more. Some spirits were even outright hostile to my father, but they were always carefully bound inside the summoning circle. They could not escape, and had to remain within it until they answered the three questions my father put to them. I would observe from the side of the room, to make sure that the client was paying attention, and that they did not approach the curtain. My mother waited outside the locked door, waiting to unlock it and usher out the client once it was all over.

Clients were always instructed to have three questions. It didn’t matter if only one was what they needed. A man once very rudely insisted that he only needed to know where his mother’s will was, and that he didn’t give a damn what else my father wanted to ask the old bitch. As I sat to observe that ceremony, I wondered why my father didn’t insist on getting two more questions. I soon found out.

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