Let’s just say I’m no longer a skeptic.
I hit send and immediately see that he’s typing something out. I watch the chat box until his next message comes up.
So you’ve communicated?
Yes.
Are you still there at the house? Or did you leave?
I’m still here.
Is there a reason you chose to stay? Most people would have left if they were in your situation.
She doesn’t seem dangerous.
Hopefully. They usually aren’t.
I stare at that sentence for a beat. This person hasn’t hesitated at all while chatting with me. What if whoever this is has had an experience like mine? I type out another question:
She has no memory of her life. I don’t know how to help her. I’m not even sure she wants help.
Ghosts have no capacity to hold specific memories. Only feelings, so that’s not unusual. But her lack of desire for answers could be an indicator that she might be a fairly new spirit. It takes its toll after a while. They’re usually more than ready to move on the longer they’ve been around. It’s not a fun place to be.
I reread the response, wanting to believe this person knows what they’re talking about, but this is the internet. Chances are the person on the other end of this conversation is laughing at my gullibility.
I would like to help your ghost find answers. It’s what I do.
I start to type a response to that, but my fingers grow still on the keyboard. How could this person possibly help without me having to give him personal information, like where the ghost resides or how to contact me? I can’t tell a complete stranger who I am. I learned my lesson the hard way that privacy is a precious and fragile thing.
My entire body jerks when the buzzer from the dryer sounds off. I quickly close my laptop, go get Layla’s bathing suit, and head back upstairs.
Willow is staring at the TV as the credits roll, her eyes full of tears. She doesn’t even look away from the TV when I close the door behind me. I put Layla’s bathing suit back in the dresser and then grab the empty popcorn bowl from Willow. She finally breaks her stare and follows me with her eyes as I set the bowl on my nightstand. “It’s such a terrible ending,” she mutters. “I always forget how bad the ending is.”
“How does it end?”
“He finds closure and goes to heaven,” she says with a pout.
I laugh, not understanding why that’s a bad ending. “If heaven exists, isn’t that what a ghost should want?”
She waves her arm angrily at the television. “What about Molly? She’s all alone now. She has to live the rest of her life knowing her husband is gallivanting around in eternity while she still has to work and pay the bills and . . . live.”
She says live like it’s such a bad thing. I take a seat on the bed. “Let me make sure I have this right. You’re sad for the human? Not the ghost?”
“Of course I’m sad for the human. Wow, great ending, the ghost became an even ghostlier ghost,” she says sarcastically. “Big freaking deal, we knew he was dead since it happened in the beginning of the movie. But where does that leave her? She got proof he was dead, and then she got even more proof that he was dead. How is that romantic? She had to grieve twice! It’s the worst movie I’ve ever seen.”
“I thought you’ve seen it before.”
“I have, but not while I was in a body with a heart that could break and tears that could form. I didn’t feel all this when I watched it before. This sucks.” She drops down onto the bed and hugs Layla’s pillow. “I don’t like all these feelings.”
I point the remote at the TV and then hit the power button. The room grows dark. I set the remote on the nightstand and then lie down in the bed and pull the covers over me. Willow turns to face me, curling her hands beneath her cheek. “Patrick Swayze died, right? In real life?”
“Yeah.”
“You think he’s a real ghost now? You think he could be like me?”
“Maybe. But you’ve never left this property, so how can you know what else is out there? Who else is out there?”
She grins. “I’d leave this property for Patrick Swayze.”
“Maybe that’s what you need to do. Leave. Travel. Go see if there are others like you.”
“But it feels like I’m supposed to stay here.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “I’ve just always felt that way. Surely there’s a reason I’m here, in this random house in the middle of nowhere.”
“Maybe you used to live here. Maybe you died here.”
She thinks on that for a moment. “It doesn’t feel like home, though. Not that anywhere could, I guess.”
“What if there was a way you could find out where you’re from? Who you are? Would you do it?”