The Sweet Haunting

"I think he's ghosting me," my friend Sarah says, handing me a cup of tea and joining me at her kitchen table.

"Who?" I say.

"James," she responds in a duh tone.

"James as in . . . your dead husband James?" I ask.

"Of course. Who else?" she says, annoyed.

"Um," I say.

"His spirit has been visiting me every night," she confides.

"Yeah I don't think that's what the word means but—"

"I can barely believe it myself, but the proof is overwhelming. At first I thought that maybe I was being delusional, or just, you know, stuck in the past or whatever. But it's real." Her eyes gaze into a realm I can't follow. "He came back for me." She smiles softly, as if relaxing into a gentle embrace.

I have no idea what to say. I buy myself a minute by adding a couple sugar cubes to my tea. I stir them in with one of Sarah's adorable tiny silver spoons. It clinks against the porcelain cup, reverberating into the silence between us.

"I've just never encountered a ghost before," I finally say, trying to be diplomatic. I feel like I'm walking on eggshells. I haven't seen her this excited in a long time, but I don't know what to say because I don't really believe in ghosts. I could go along with it so I don't hurt her feelings, but aren't you supposed to not encourage people's delusions? Then again, if the delusion makes her happy, is it inherently bad? My mind spins. I take a sip of the Earl Grey tea.

"Look," she says to me. "I knew you'd be skeptical. And I know you love to 'cite your sources' or whatever. So, here's my sources!" I smile, a bit relieved that Sarah knows me well. She continues. "So, whenever I get in bed, that's when it starts. I hear noises, like scratching and sometimes little thuds—maybe footsteps? The first time it happened, I thought it was an intruder so I completely froze."

I think of Sarah alone in her little house on the edge of the woods. It's beautiful in the daylight with the sunbeams softly streaming in. But nighttime could definitely cast it into a creepy, creaky horror movie vibe. She continues.

"After a few nights of this, I concluded it wasn't an intruder. So naturally I started looking into signs of a ghost. Cold spots—check. Cupboards and doors swinging open—check."

"I mean, that technically could be from the wind though, right?" I venture.

"It's not the puzzle pieces; it's the puzzle picture," she says, as if that makes sense. Brushing me off, she continues, "Other signs: unexplained smells—check. There's this weird ammonia-like scent that I get a whiff of occasionally but can't explain. Flickering lights—check. Something is up with the electrical, and it just so happens that that's a way ghosts communicate. What else? Oh! Shadows—check. While I was reading, well, scrolling my phone but in a literate way the other night, a shadow absolutely passed over the cracks of light around my door."

I'm clocking all of this and personally thinking: wind, mold, faulty wiring, trick of the light, trick of the eyes, trick of the heart.

"The main sign," she says, "is that I've been dreaming of him. James." She gazes off. "Oh yeah, and then there was the time I saw a ghost face outside my window." She sips her tea, pleased with herself.

"What the heck, Sarah!" I say. "That's terrifying! What do you think it was?"

"A ghost," she deadpans.

"Maybe the headlights of a car driving by?" I try.

"Try: heart-shaped face, just like James, but ghostly white, with pitch-black eyes, hovering there one minute and gone the next."

Trick of the eyes, trick of the heart, I think. She pulls out her phone.

"And since you're a baby about needing 'evidence not anecdotes,' here's the final sign: strange sounds." She pulls up a recording on her phone and presses play. At first it sounds like a tea kettle screeching, but then it becomes a bone-chilling shriek. A blood-curdling scream. Unearthly.

"Okay . . . that's weird," I concede.

"I think James is trying to communicate with me. Probably that he loves me, but also maybe his spirit isn't at peace? I need to figure out if there's a way I can help him," she says. "Stay the night?" she asks. "Help me look into this ghosting?"

"All right," I say. "But maybe just call it a haunting."

* * *

Once night has fallen, our ears are perked for ghost screams, our eyes on alert for paranormal movement. I still don't really believe, but part of me is itching for something to happen, mostly for Sarah's sake. Even if what's going on isn't real, the result of her feeling loved is real. I can see it in the color that is back in her cheeks. So I go along with it.

We turn all the lights out and each hold a candle, intuitively feeling that this could beckon the spirit. We sit on her couch as Sarah brainstorms what she may need to communicate to help "put his spirit at peace."

"If it is his spirit," I say, "what do you think he needs to hear to be able to rest?"

"That I love him?" Sarah says, her eyes shining in the candlelight.

"He knew that, I'm sure of it," I tell her.

"Maybe he needs to know I'm okay?" she tries.

"Are you?" I ask. She goes quiet. The candlelight flickers and casts bouncing shadows. I reach out for her hand, gently taking it. She squeezes mine.

"I don't want to be okay without him," she says.

There's a sudden rustling sound. Then, that horrible rasping shriek. My heart begins pounding. My eyes dart around, but Sarah closes hers.

"James," she says, "if you can hear me, I want you to be at peace." There's a thud above us. "As much as I want you here with me, I know your soul needs to rest. So I, um, I promise you, I'll find my way. I'll connect with people, like you were always trying to get me to do. Be less of a hermit? Is this what you're trying to tell me?"

The rustling seems to be coming from directly above us.

"Do you have an attic?" I ask. She nods. She leads me to a door off the hallway. It opens to a small, dusty staircase. Candles in hand, we ascend into the attic. It's a short space so we have to crouch. We move our candles around in the darkness.

"Oh my God!" Sarah says. I look over and stumble backwards in shock. There's a huge figure in the corner. My limbs freeze. My hand starts to tremble, shaking the candle.

As my eyes adjust to the dark, my brain catches up and processes that we are looking at the bright white face of a barn owl. It lets out that unearthly scream, then a hiss.

The ammonia-like smell. The noises. The shadows. The heart-shaped face hovering. It's news to me that this owl screams instead of just hooting like a normal owl, but it all adds up.

"It's just a barn owl," I muse. "It's beautiful though."

I turn to Sarah. In the candle glow, I see her face falling in disappointment. My heart sinks.

"I really wanted it to be him," she says.

"Sarah," I begin, finally saying what I think she needs to hear instead of what she wants to hear, "this not being him doesn't mean that any of the stuff we talked about isn't true. Of course James loved you. Of course he wanted you to be okay. And even though he's not here to tell it to you, I know he would want you to be open to the world."

"Is this a sign that I'm losing it?"

"No. Honestly . . . I think it's a sign that you're grieving. And people say grief is the price of love. It's proportional to it, and you had a big love."

We sit down, my arm around her as she cries against my shoulder.

"Sorry for snotting up your shirt."

We watch the barn owl for a while, and it watches us. Its white feathers glint in the moonlight coming in through a small window, which I realize is broken and letting in a chill.

"James's brother Evan works in forestry; he would probably have some ideas for what to do to help this little guy," Sarah says, sniffling.

"I remember Evan! What ever happened to hanging out with him?"

"Seeing Evan without James would be too weird, would make the absence of James too . . . real," she says.

"Have you not seen each other? Since?" I ask. She shakes her head no.

"He's been wanting to get together, share memories, whatever," she says. "What's the point? Won't bring him back."

I think for a minute.

"Well," I say, "I mean, you were both extremely close to him. You both carry him in you, in a way."

"Fine. Text Evan tomorrow. Just don't tell him I thought the owl was, well, you know."

We crawl out of the attic, down the stairs, and extinguish our candles.

* * *

The next morning as we await Evan's arrival, there's a different vibrancy to the air. No longer straining to hear ghost sounds, Sarah has put on music. Plinking piano notes waltz through the little house. I join her in the kitchen, where she's tying an apron around her waist.

"James used to always make these blueberry muffins when Evan would come over. I was thinking I could make them today, as a thank-you to Evan for looking into the owl situation," she says, opening various cupboards and pulling out bags of flour and sugar.

"Yeah, that'd be sweet," I say. "I can help."

The blueberry muffins are in the oven when we hear a knock at the door. Sarah opens the door and looks pale for a second, like she's seen a ghost. She takes a breath.

"Come on in, Evan," she says. He steps inside.

"Sarah," he says warmly. "It's so good to see you. And at the same time, it's so weird and hard to not have James here with us too, eh?"

Sarah nods, her face crumpling. Evan opens his arms and she steps into his embrace.

"You're still family to me," he says softly while hugging her. After a minute he steps back and says, "Something smells delicious in here. Wait, is it what I think it is?" Sarah smiles.

There's a sudden screech. The tea kettle, I realize.

"Tea?" I offer.

"I'd love some," Evan says.

"I'm good. I'm going to see if the owl is up there right now," Sarah says.

"We'll be right behind you," I say. Evan follows me into the kitchen and picks out an Irish breakfast tea.

"So, a barn owl, eh?" he says.

"Yeah, it's really amazing to see," I say. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Milk would be lovely," he says. I hand him the carton.

"I do hope it's up there right now so you get a chance to see it," I say.

"Huh. Funny thing is, James would have loved this. When we were kids, we'd play a version of hide-and-go-seek we called Owl and Mouse. But as my big brother, he always insisted on being the owl."

He finishes pouring milk in his tea. "Anyway, cheers." He raises his teacup and heads towards the attic. Funny thing indeed.

I use a tiny silver spoon to dunk a sugar cube into my own steaming tea. I watch the cube dissolve, formed and then formless, invisible but not gone, leaving behind an undeniable sweetness.