Haunted Lover

His wife died here... in the house they shared with their family for three and a half decades. Doctors diagnosed Elizabeth or Lizzy, as her husband called her, with cancer. It went into remission after year one and the beginning of year three is when it came back with a vengeance. She'd gone through all kinds of chemotherapy treatments and other holistic medicine to help her fight as hard as she could. Martin woke up one Sunday morning to find his wife had transitioned. Despite all their efforts, it wasn’t enough to keep her here and healthy. The once vibrant woman, full of laughter and sarcasm, devoid of her spirit, was an image that seared itself to her husband’s memory. Nightly terror seized his nerves, waking him up in a cold sweat. Lizzy started appearing around the house. Her lifeless body with empty eyes pleading with Martin in the kitchen, garden, or on the stairs. He loved his wife, but he didn’t want to remember her like this.

The scent of mildew hung thickly in the air. This old house used to be full of fond memories. Now, sorrow and obligation haunt this place... Four life times worth of birthdays, holidays, and family get-togethers stored in pictures, cards, and handwritten letters. I had lined all the boxes up in the main dining room. The boy from next door fetched the last of them down from the attic for ten dollars and a cola.

Martin turned slowly in a circle. Taking in one last view of the home his family had built a life in. He sold his house and signed a mortgage agreement. Tomorrow morning, he’d be leaving New Orleans for his new home in Casablanca. Martin didn’t sleep at all that night. Before arriving at the airport, he’d stopped by the public works trash disposal services. There was a box of things from his old life he needed to burn. The girl at the front desk said they could take care of it for him. But it was imperative to watch it burn himself. Sitting on the plane a few hours later, Martin smiled. He was finally free of that house! Fantasies of his new life carried him to sleep... 

Casablanca was a majestic place. Martin secured a small farm beyond the reaches of the tightly packed city. Free-range chickens and a tomato garden occupied his time during the day. Two times a week, in the evening, he would ride his bike into the city to have dinner and drinks with an old friend. One Thursday evening, returning home on his bike. Elizabeth entered Martin’s thoughts. He smiled as his house came into view, remembering the home they’d once shared.

“You’d love this place Lizzy.”

He said out loud, affectionately tapping the picture in his left breast pocket. A sepia toned wedding photo of him and his late wife. The only keepsake he had from that house. A familiar perfume rode on the passing breeze in front of his new home. He closed his eyes to analyze the scent more closely. Each note of the seductive floral scent matched that of his late wife’s favorite perfume exactly. The odor was strongest in front of rose bushes he’d never seen before. Stems as tall as he was, ended in vibrant red blossoms. Reaching into the soft leather pouch around his waist. Martin retrieved a small pair of pruning shears and snipped at the stems, collecting a bunch of the roses to bring into the house. He didn’t have a vase, so; he put the flowers in the refrigerator until he could get one. That next morning, Martin rode his bike into the city to get a vase for the roses he picked. Smiling at the bush as he collected his bike from the front porch.

He found a tall ceramic floor vase with a cream white base coat. The decorative jar wore thick hand painted filigree and intricate flowers. The shop owner had wrapped it in three layers of paper and bubble wrap. Then placed it inside of a box made especially for the precious urn. Martin was still extra careful riding his bike to ensure it didn’t crack or break. When he returned home, he noticed the mysterious rose bush had disappeared. Confused, he stood in the spot where he was sure it had been this morning. He scented the air and all he could smell were the chickens nearby. He hurried into the house and tore open the fridge. The roses he picked yesterday were still there. Proof of the mysterious bush made him feel less crazy. He filled the memorial to his wife with water and placed the roses inside. 

“ They’re beautiful Harold.”

He could imagine Lizzy saying to him. A crash upstairs pushed him out of his fantasy as he moved his seventy-eight-year-old frame up the stairs. The sound came from the bedroom. An open window blew the door shut. He opened the bedroom door and placed a chair as a doorstop. Walking over to the window, he surveyed his property. The chickens milling about below had his attention until a knock at the door startled him. His eyes spied the mailman on the doorstep.

“ Gotta package for you today Mr. Shepard.” 

The mailman says holding up the small brown box.

“ Call me Martin, Hassan. I told you that.”

He leaves the window to answer the door. 

“ Some habits die hard Mr.Martin; enjoy your day!”

“ You too Hassan.” 

Martin signed for his unexpected package and brought it into the house. He didn’t think the kids would send anything unless it was his birthday or Christmas. Curiosity drove his excitement as he sliced open the tape on the box. The stale, burned smell of sulfur leaked out with that first cut of the tape. Like an old match. Reaching inside the box, Harold’s fingertips met with charred fragments of cardboard and photos. This was the box he burned before catching his flight! How did it get here? Shook, Martin took the box outside. Studying the ashes, he noticed a clean-looking slip of paper buried in the silt. He fished it out by grabbing one corner and shaking off the excess dust. The slip carried the scent of his wife’s perfume. Two words written in beautiful cursive handwriting, ‘Remember me.’ Martin hurried to the slaughter area by the chicken coop. Lit the message and tossed it in the box of charred remains. After it had burned completely, he sacrificed a chicken. Grabbing it by the neck and whipping it in a circle to crack its neck, then chopping the head off with a butcher knife. Blood splashed across his neck and mouth and across his left breast pocket. Like a thirsty sponge, the photo sucked up the blood.                                      

Memory induced fear directed Martin’s chaotic heart rhythm. Old letters he’d kept from his first love before his wife were haunting him. Lizzy found them when she was cleaning out the attic. Martin had forgotten about the box until he was confronted with it. He’d spent the entire day apologizing and failing to explain why he’d held onto it for all these years. Convincing his wife that their thirty-plus years of marriage weren’t a sham. That he was true to her and had never cheated on her. The day after she found the box, they found out she had cancer. Her anger vanished, and she loved as though she were trying to spend every ounce before her time ran out. Elizabeth would always say to her husband,

“ Remember me when I’m gone, Martin. Hold on to me like you held onto her.”

Those words whispered in his ear as he stared into the smoldering remains of Lizzy’s dying request. Tires crunching over rocks on the dirt road drew Martin’s attention. He looked down at his watch; she was early. He waited as the car rolled to a stop next to him.

“Afternoon darling. I wasn’t expecting you for another couple hours.”

He says with a smile.

“ I’m old and I can’t wait that long. I hope it’s not a bother.” She says.

“ Not at all, sugar. Gone head and pull up in front of the house. I’ll meet you there shortly.”

“Hop in. I’ll give you a ride.” She says,

“I’m a mess pudding. I was just making dinner.”

He says, grinning and holding up the slain chicken. Martin’s female caller is Gabrielle, his first love. 

Later...

“ Martin… is everything okay? You’re electric this evening. What’s going on with you?”

“Ah, nothing. Don’t you go worrying about old Martin.”

“ Honey, we are too good of friends and too old to be playing games.”

She reaches into her purse sitting on the empty chair next to her and pulls out a 5th of bourbon.

“ I’ll get to pouring. You get to spilling.”

Martin smiles at the size of the bottle.

“ You had that thing in your purse? What else you got in there, woman?” Martin teases. 

“ Stop stalling and spill it, Martin!” Gabrielle says.

The smile leaves Martin’s face and Gabrielle notices how tired he looks. 

“ It’s Lizzy. I think she’s come back.” He starts.

“ You mean like a zombie?”

She says with a chuckle as she pours two fingers of the amber liquid for both of them.

“ No, like a ghost or something. I don’t know. Weird things have been happening. Some familiar and some not.”

Martin reaches for the glass being handed to him and takes a sip. Wincing at the bite of the bourbon before resting the glass on his knee and sitting back in his chair.

“ Like what?” Gabriele presses. 

“ Well, the other day when I got home from the market, there’s this giant rose bush in front of my house. They smelled exactly like her perfume… I clipped a bunch and brought them inside.”

“ The flowers in the kitchen?”

She asks. Martin nods in confirmation.

“ The next morning, when I came back from buying a vase in the city... the bush was gone.”

“ Martin...”

Gabrielle says, speechless.

“ When I was still living in our house, I would see her. I’m seeing her here too.”

“ Why do you think you she’s appearing to you now?”

“ I think she knows that I never stopped loving you. Even though I told her I did. I think she knows we’re together right now...”

“ That sounds like guilt, Martin. It doesn’t mean you don’t still love her. But she’s gone. We deserve to be happy.”

She wraps him into a hug, covering him with the love she sent him in her letters those years ago. Kissing him softly, Martin returns her embrace, and the pair takes to the bedroom to love his worries away.

Laying in bed next to her, He reflects on what she said regarding his guilt being what’s making him imagine Lizzy. The logic of it helps her suggestion become the solution to his woes. Before he rolls over to sleep, Martin stares at the photo of him and Elizabeth on their wedding day that he keeps in his breast pocket. He thought of the years they spent together. Feet on the floor, Martin sneaks out of bed, holding the picture out in front of him. Inside the bathroom, he shuts the door and switches on the light to speak to the photo of his late wife. 

“ Hey Lizzy… listen, darling, I loved you and our marriage. I never stepped out on you once. But I never stopped loving Gabrielle. I held onto her all those years because a part of me hoped that we’d have another chance. Now that you’re gone, we do. Admittedly, I could’ve given you more if I wasn’t holding onto Gabrielle during our marriage. Hindsight is making me not want to repeat the same mistake… I’m an old man, Lizzy. With little time left and I don’t want to spend it with my heart divided. I have to let you go so I can love Gabrielle.”

With those last words, he kissed the wedding photo and then burned it in the sink. Immense guilt pulled tears from his betrayal; but the scent of Gabrielle’s hair on the pillow next to him seemed to absolve him of that.

Someone sat down on the bed next to him. He could feel the mattress give under their weight. He thought it was Gabrielle until he heard the soft flutter of her rhythmic snoring. An eerie familiarity creeped over Martin and he stopped breathing to avoid detection from whatever was in bed with them. Elizabeth’s rose scented perfume filled the surrounding darkness. Martin coughed and choked as his palette became overrun by the odor. Clumsily, he got out of bed. His bare feet landing on rose petals. He stumbled towards the window. Scrambling for the latch to open it. The scent of roses so thick it was consuming all the oxygen. Pinched vocal cords failed to call out to his sleeping lover. Pins and needles rippled up his temples, threatening a blackout. His lungs were coated with film and his throat burned from coughing it up. Tears and snot oozed out of his face as Martin lay on the floor, dying of asphyxiation. Lizzy’s voice entered his mind. 

“ I asked you to remember me, Martin! I asked you to hold on to me the way you held on to her.”