Conversing with Ghosts

The lucky ones perished in the beginning, and the rest scattered. 

Some went to government facilities to escape the initial onslaught, while others fled underground, only coming out after everything settled to form small tribal communities. 

Some travelled alone, traversing long stretches of barren highways and empty cities where it quickly devolved into a lawless playground. Morals and empathy had no place in such a fractured society — something my father taught me while we roamed. 

I haven’t been the same since he died, but I've never stopped walking.

An untouched house is my favourite thing.

A cluster of them sit in rotting piles, just waiting for me to rummage around. It’s rare to discover a house that isn’t picked clean, but the intact front door promises me great things. 

The porch groans threateningly beneath my weight as I pry it open, but soon I’m in the house and grinning with triumph. Even though the ceiling has almost given up and the plaster is turning to powder, it’s in good shape; but best of all, there’s a distinct lack of footprints on the dusty floorboards. 

The kitchen is a treasure trove; cans of food and packets of dried fruit quickly find their way into my bag and water bottles slot into the empty spaces between. A jar of honey is too good of a treat to pass up, so I stand there and scrape it clean with my knife.

After chugging a couple of water bottles, I investigate the rest of the house. I peruse old rooms and drawers; collect a couple shirts that haven’t been attacked by moths and mould too badly. Rubbish and debris litter the floor, and I can’t resist tucking away the couple of crumbling paperbacks I find amongst it. I’m not the most learned man, but sometimes when I can’t bear the quiet any longer I’ll lose myself for hours in these words. 

Dark clouds roll in on the horizon when I secure the room up for the evening. Storms nowadays aren’t like what my grandparents went through, but they can be violent and lethal, sometimes lasting weeks on end. I know I’ll need to move on in the morning to find better shelter, but for tonight I can indulge in an actual bed. 

Except the bed is a bitter disappointment. 

I’ve shaken the sheets out, but the dust and smell of mildew overwhelm my senses. A stubborn spring pinches my back like questing fingers. I should be used to sleeping in uncomfortable places by now, but it doesn’t take long before I admit defeat and throw my pillow and blanket on the floor.

It’s hard and cold, but my body relaxes at the familiarity, and when I roll onto my side, I catch a glint beneath the bed.

Snatching it up and bringing it to my face, I can make out an intricate pattern carved into the face of a heart-shaped locket in the dim light. 

Huh.

The necklace looks small and fragile in my calloused hands. 

Turning it round, I find an engraving on the back. My reading isn’t so good, so I take a while to form the words, shaping them out loud until they make sense. 

“To my dearest, Love, May.”

I’m transfixed by this tiny message, but it’s what’s hidden inside that makes me pause. 

A faded photograph of a woman. Her smile is vibrant. Her eyes pierce me with the intensity of love and content that she radiates at the camera, and I snap the locket closed and tuck it beneath my pillow with sharp, jerky movements. 

I ignore my trembling hands — ignore the precious trinket under my head and my reaction to it— and try to sleep. 

Yet sleep eludes me, and all I see when I close my eyes is her face. 

Early the next morning, the necklace somehow finds its way into my pocket.

Two weeks pass before I work up the courage to fish it out.

My fingers shake as I hold the locket carefully. My body is weary and sore. The night is bitter, a brutal wind slicing through my layers, leaving me shivering. 

But all I can focus on is this necklace. 

The onslaught of my emotions startle me. Such a simple thing, yet my heart feels as though it'll burst from my chest at any moment. Sweat soaks my shirt and my mouth is bone-dry, and all I can do is stare at this photograph some more.

It mocks and soothes my loneliness all at once; a stranger once held this dear to them, wore it close to their heart, and I can’t help but feel like I’m sullying something precious. 

These people are long dead and gone; it shouldn’t matter. 

Yet it does, for reasons I can't decipher from the web of envy and yearning in my gut. 

My fingers twitch. My mind races.

Put it on.

“That’s stupid,” I say.

I should put it away — or better yet, throw it into the night and be done with it one and for all. But I remain entranced.

What’s the worst that could happen?

“It’s not for me,” I say, louder now, like I can chase away the intrusive thoughts. Goosebumps prickle along my forearms.

But what would the harm be in pretending, just for a little while? Maybe if I indulge in it for a few minutes, I’ll rid myself of this strange fixation. 

Just put it on.

I almost don’t. I almost put it back in my pocket.

But then the inscription on the back catches my eye, and before I know it I’ve slipped it over my head, yanking it from where it catches on my ear and settling it against my chest. 

The chain is bitingly cold for a few seconds, pinching the fine hairs on my nape. It feels forbidden. Indulgent. Logically, I know I’m not doing anything wrong, though the yearning inside my chest is terrifying. 

I tell myself I’ll only wear it until morning — a fair compromise. I think of May before I sleep, and the person she must have loved before the end of the world. 

A dangerous thought creeps in alongside it — maybe I can be that person, at least for tonight.

Morning comes, and the necklace remains. I go through my usual routine, my ageing body creaking and groaning, and tell myself just one more day.

One day turns into two, then a week, and then a month passes and the locket doesn’t leave my neck. 

I can’t stop myself from making up stories of how we met. Of how we would live if we’d existed on the same sides of the apocalypse. They're just silly fantasies that keep me company, though, with each one more enticing than the last. 

The lure is stronger than my will, and I am a weak, lonely man. I always promise I’ll wear it just one more day. One more week. One more moment with May, and that’ll be it. 

I repeat this again and again, but it never sticks. 

“Nasty storm coming, May.”

She doesn’t respond, but that’s okay.

Sometimes she replies in my head, and her voice is strong but sweet. 

Other times I don’t talk to her for days on end.

I’m not crazy or stupid — I know she’s not real. At least, she’s not real in my world. I will never know the May that existed in the photograph, but the locket lulls me into a deep fantasy. She listens to my stories. Her smile comforts me in my darkest, loneliest times, and saturates my dreams with fleeting moments that are gone when I wake. 

So around my neck she stays. 

The suburbs fade into deepening forest. My boots kick up leaves and undergrowth as I navigate through the trees, following old hiking trails for miles — all the while searching for adequate shelter. 

Black clouds choke the sunlight. The wind is so strong that it throws me around, knocking me into every tree I pass as I struggle to stay on my feet. Debris whips against my face like stinging insects. 

Desperation squeezes my throat. I know I’ve left it too late, but I naively thought I could take my chances away from the suburbs. 

The day drags on, the weather builds, and I’m panicking just before I spot salvation. A cave with an entrance wide enough for me to duck through, and I'm dizzy with relief.

“We’re okay,” I assure May. 

The roar of the storm muffles as soon as I enter the cave. It’s dim and damp, but safe, and I only hope my provisions will outlast the weather. 

I can’t have been more wrong. 

Four dried apricots are the last of my rations. I can’t tell how many days have passed, but I’ve burned through my stash of water and food faster than I thought. 

I should have been better prepared. I would have been better prepared, but I've been hiding in a dream. My gaze finds the locket glinting innocently against my chest, but my gut burns with resentment. 

“This is your fault,” I tell it. Tell her. 

I’m better than this. I’ve experienced so many storms, I shouldn’t have made such rookie mistakes. The weather shows no sign of calming before I starve to death in this cave, and rage washes over me in overwhelming waves. 

Yanking the locket from around my neck, I glare at May. 

I say, “You made me careless.”

I say, “I should have thrown you in the river.”

Long moments stretch on painfully while May smiles and despair claws up the back of my throat.

I say, “I’m gonna die.”

Then I’m screaming, because screaming feels better than crying. I clutch the locket so hard it leaves purple dents in my skin and I blame her — because it’s easier than blaming myself.

A violent throw sends the locket soaring towards the back of the cave with a musical ring.

A heartbeat passes.

“May?”

There’s no answer.

“Shit.”

Scrambling from my slump, I crawl across the stone floor, frantically searching for a kiss of cold metal. If I find her and apologise, maybe everything will turn out okay. The storm will die down enough for us to leave the cave, and we’ll head back to those houses to search for food. We’ll be safe. 

The thought of losing her is too much.

“May?”

I can’t find her. 

The cave swallows every shred of light, and there’s only stone under my hands — until suddenly there’s nothing.

I have no time to scream.

The drop steals the breath from my lungs and I barely register that I’m falling before my head connects with a rocky shelf —

I wake, contorted and disorientated. My skull pounds with such a viciousness it’s hard to form thoughts, and the pain in my leg renders me speechless. Consciousness fades in and out with no thought to time. Through the fog of pain and grief, It’s clear I won’t be leaving this cave.

I can do nothing but lay there.

But through the agony of my broken body and foggy mind, I recognise the distinct lump under my back.

I’ve spent months tracing that shape. Feeling its ridges in my palm, against my sternum. Tears track down my temples, and it takes more strength than I thought I had left to manoeuvre the locket from where it's wedged.

I almost can’t do it — but May is calling for me, and I cannot resist. 

Finally she comes free, and I lay there, panting and trembling, as she rests on my chest where she belongs. Her weight is comforting. I can’t see her face in the dark, but I don’t need to.

May’s image is as clear as if she stood in front of me, and even though it hurts to speak, I say, “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t reply, but that doesn’t matter. My eyes drop closed against my will.

I don’t mind so much now.