Most ghosts pass their time in denial, failing to realize that the world has moved on without them.
It all started the year after high school, during my first year of community college in my town of Seaside, Washington. I’d probably always lived in a haunted house. But I’d never seen the spirits that were in it. That is, not until the the spring of my nineteenth year.
Which brings me to Gregg. He’d had the same tired ideas for over a hundred years and no amount of explanation on my part ever fixed that. He was animated, vivacious, and expected to become a millionaire at least once in his short life. But his plans were outdated.
I woke up on Saturday morning immersed in that dim light that always shined through the my lacy window curtains whenever the sky was overcast. A thick, billowing fog rolled across the floor of my room, seeping out from underneath the curtains. It should have been impossible because the window was latched shut.
And then Gregg was there.
He wore his brown, wool suit and paced around the wood floor of my bedroom in circles. I wouldn’t have called it my bedroom in front of him. He believed that it was his bedroom. I was just a girl who lived there. Which, strangely, he seemed to be fine with. Strange, because I wouldn’t have been so accepting if one day I had found a stranger, especially a man, living in my bedroom without permission. I wonder if being dead makes one more complacent and less questioning.
So there he was, in his pleated jacket, matching knickerbockers, and brown socks. Today he was very excited because of some idea about starting a business of his own. You see, when he died, he was nineteen, just like me. I remember, he wore a grand smile on his face. “You see, I will make a lot of money with this.” He continued his aimless stroll.
There I was, in my flannel pajamas and white bedsheets, looking at him as if he was a character from a dream. “I now have my own stallion and I’ve finally paid off the carriage. Passengers will pay me a dollar just to get outside of town across the bridge....” “Gregg!” I interrupted as I sat up in bed and rubbed my tired eyes. “You’re getting on my nerves! Do I have to hear this shit so early in the morning?” He looked at me in surprise, the smile slowly leaving his face. “Why do you swear?” “No one uses horses for transportation, any more. It’s outdated.” “Why not?” His face was pale, his brown hair fell across his eyes. “I don’t know why not. Why don’t you go downstairs and get some breakfast?” I asked. “No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll stay right here. I don’t like it downstairs. I don’t like leaving the room.” “Why not?” “That woman downstairs, she never acknowledges me. It’s not polite. It frightens me. It’s like I don’t exist to her. Never once did she offer me some eggs or a croissant or one of those little glasses of orange juice.” His expression was petulant. “I never see my mother anymore, just that cook.” “She’s not a cook, she owns the house.” I stared at him hard. Soon he would see. That cook was my mom. “Where’s mother, then?” “I don’t know. It’s early. I wish you’d talk to someone else. I’m still tired,” I said.
He vanished, leaving behind only a faint mist which quickly dissipated.
I rolled over and fell back asleep, glad to be rid of him. Gregg was bad at being dead. He didn’t know how to do it properly. He didn’t even scare people. If I was dead, I’d have a lot of fun with it, dragging chains across the floor and rustling curtains. I’d make it interesting. But Gregg didn’t like scaring humans.
It all started the year after high school, during my first year of community college in my town of Seaside, Washington. I’d probably always lived in a haunted house. But I’d never seen the spirits that were in it. That is, not until the the spring of my nineteenth year.
Which brings me to Gregg. He’d had the same tired ideas for over a hundred years and no amount of explanation on my part ever fixed that. He was animated, vivacious, and expected to become a millionaire at least once in his short life. But his plans were outdated.
I woke up on Saturday morning immersed in that dim light that always shined through the my lacy window curtains whenever the sky was overcast. A thick, billowing fog rolled across the floor of my room, seeping out from underneath the curtains. It should have been impossible because the window was latched shut.
And then Gregg was there.
He wore his brown, wool suit and paced around the wood floor of my bedroom in circles. I wouldn’t have called it my bedroom in front of him. He believed that it was his bedroom. I was just a girl who lived there. Which, strangely, he seemed to be fine with. Strange, because I wouldn’t have been so accepting if one day I had found a stranger, especially a man, living in my bedroom without permission. I wonder if being dead makes one more complacent and less questioning.
So there he was, in his pleated jacket, matching knickerbockers, and brown socks. Today he was very excited because of some idea about starting a business of his own. You see, when he died, he was nineteen, just like me.
I remember, he wore a grand smile on his face.
“You see, I will make a lot of money with this.” He continued his aimless stroll.
There I was, in my flannel pajamas and white bedsheets, looking at him as if he was a character from a dream. “I now have my own stallion and I’ve finally paid off the carriage. Passengers will pay me a dollar just to get outside of town across the bridge....”
“Gregg!” I interrupted as I sat up in bed and rubbed my tired eyes. “You’re getting on my nerves! Do I have to hear this shit so early in the morning?”
He looked at me in surprise, the smile slowly leaving his face.
“Why do you swear?”
“No one uses horses for transportation, any more. It’s outdated.”
“Why not?” His face was pale, his brown hair fell across his eyes.
“I don’t know why not. Why don’t you go downstairs and get some breakfast?” I asked.
“No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll stay right here. I don’t like it downstairs. I don’t like leaving the room.”
“Why not?”
“That woman downstairs, she never acknowledges me. It’s not polite. It frightens me. It’s like I don’t exist to her. Never once did she offer me some eggs or a croissant or one of those little glasses of orange juice.” His expression was petulant. “I never see my mother anymore, just that cook.”
“She’s not a cook, she owns the house.” I stared at him hard. Soon he would see. That cook was my mom.
“Where’s mother, then?”
“I don’t know. It’s early. I wish you’d talk to someone else. I’m still tired,” I said.
He vanished, leaving behind only a faint mist which quickly dissipated.
I rolled over and fell back asleep, glad to be rid of him. Gregg was bad at being dead. He didn’t know how to do it properly. He didn’t even scare people. If I was dead, I’d have a lot of fun with it, dragging chains across the floor and rustling curtains. I’d make it interesting. But Gregg didn’t like scaring humans.
In my dream, however, I met a ghost who did.