A World of Ghosts

Patrick didn’t feel sad when his mother died. Instead, he felt numb as the coroners came to take her body away. They interviewed her ghost. She had died of natural causes in her sleep. Heart failure, sudden and unexpected. It would have been impossible for him to have gotten her to the Death Houses. That was where all the nearly-dead-but-not-yet-dead went to remain in cryosleep rather than becoming ghosts forever haunting a person, place or thing.

Ghosts had become a part of everyday life before WWI ended in 1916. After 32 years, there were more ghosts than living people. Birth rates had steeply dropped off. Patrick had met very few people younger than himself, having been born nine months after his father left for the war.

At first, it was nice, not having to say goodbye to his mother in such an all-encompassing way. He knew though, that eventually all ghosts went bad—except for animals. They seemed to not even know they were dead. Patrick took the first few weeks to talk with his mother. They reminisced and laughed over old memories. She pointed to her intricate heart shaped locket that he had left on her bedside table, “My two greatest loves are in there.”

Patrick opened the locket. A photo of him as a boy on one side. The other, a horse. A real horse, not a sickly clone that he had produced at “the farm” as the locals called it. The Ghost Lake Cloning Lab. Patrick flicked the locket closed, thinking it was what she had chosen to haunt for eternity, “What about dad?”

“Dad?” Her ghost said, her silver hair drifting around her face as she sat upright in bed. She was wearing the white night gown she had died in, all her features pale and silvery. His mom had tried to sit under the covers, but they slipped through her translucent figure. She was always complaining of the cold. She looked out the window, whispering, “Dad…”

It was like she didn’t know what the word meant. Patrick’s father had died in WWI. At least, that was what he had been told. Some poor soldier that killed him probably still had his ghost sitting on his shoulder. Unless he had died before the world had become full of ghosts. Patrick hadn’t thought about it much. He had never met his father.

“My father was a farmer. Never took a day off in his life,” she said.

“Yes mom,” he had the impulse to brush her hair back and give her a kiss on the forehead but immediately regretted moving close enough to touch her. The chill stung his fingers like frost bite. Patrick tried not to react, “Get some sleep mom. We will talk in the morning.”

“Good night sunny.”

He left the locket on her nightstand and closed the door behind him. Ever since she had died, he struggled to sleep. He had strange dreams and would wake to find his mother mumbling under her breath, objects rattling as she drifted from room to room of the house. She was losing her humanity already. He had done the research and knew that eventually she would not know him. It didn’t matter that it was his photo in her locket.

After a few more sleepless nights, Patrick decided it would be best if he got out of the house. Maybe talk with someone that was still living. He started up his electric sedan and drove to the local diner. It was always open until midnight and had a juke box loaded with the newest music from the 40’s. Patrick liked Jingle, Jangle, Jingle by Kay Kyser. It reminded him of grandpa walking around in cowboy boots and spurs when he was a boy. Grampa was little more than a screaming banshee now, haunting the farmhouse. Nobody had lived there since he died.

Patrick thought his mother had chosen to haunt her locket. That it would be no problem for him to get away from her if he left it behind. It was a great relief to him that, when he stepped over the salt line of the diner, only living beings were inside. He ordered a cup of coffee and a slice of Saskatoon berry pie. The waitress smiled pleasantly at him as she filled his cup, she wore a bright green uniform, the white apron still fresh and free of stains despite how busy the diner was.

“Sorry to hear about your momma,” she said, “She was always nice to me. An excellent seamstress.”

Patrick didn’t pick up his coffee until she looked away, he didn’t want her to see his hands shaking as he muttered, “She won’t be nice to anyone ever again.”

After his second cup of coffee and a few coins in the juke box, he found himself smiling and tapping his toes along to the beat. He made idle chit chat with the other people sitting at the counter and the waitress that flitted between them. Patrick almost felt human again. As midnight approached and most of the customers left, he decided he should return home as well, despite the dread clawing his stomach.

As he started his car, he felt a familiar chill. In his rearview mirror he could see her, sitting in the back seat. He choked back a sob, coffee burning the back of his throat.

“What’s wrong sunny?” Her ghostly hands reached for him, “Don’t you still love me?”

It seemed he would not be able to escape his mothers’ ghost after all.

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Written by Kelsey Reich on June 27/2021 in Ontario, Canada.