Ghost Story
By Joseph Kerschbaum
October 15, 2022
October 15, 2022
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-1983-
can you feel him holding your hand Kristin asks as she points at empty air he is standing right next to you he is real she insists they are best friends he misses his parents you can share mine she says the sitting room next to the kitchen with baby-blue shag carpeting used to be his bedroom Kristin reports this is where he died stop talking about him like he isn’t here as if he can’t hear you she says his name is Albee her conviction almost convinces the adults who still think this is a party game -2020- “Wait, you really knew these people?” my daughter interrupts to clarify that this is a true story. “Albee slept at the foot of Kristin’s bed & his breathing sounded like unwrapping Christmas presents?” The specter in my story is spooky enough. The other ghosts enamor my daughter more, the relatives she has never met or even heard of. -1984- overnight shoes from every closet arranged neatly by size in a single file row appear in the upstairs hallway Aunt Janice screams almost snaps her ankle running down the stairs no one ever confesses to the prank -1985- Thanksgiving evening deep in a serious game of hearts all of the playing cards clear off the dining room table as if a tiny tornado blows through laughter mixes with screaming from downstairs we hear a window in the northwest bedroom creak open then slam shut on its own more than once when we investigate flurries drift through the open window winter isn’t the only thing chilling the air this is how Albee makes his presence known to everyone else in the family no one thinks you’re a bad boy Kristin consoles him that’s OK comforting nothing in the corner she says I don’t know what year it is either -2020- “Can we go there?” my daughter asks, wanting to see the old farmhouse with faulty wiring that burned down decades ago. On a map, I show her the small black dot that is the one-stoplight town where I grew up. I tell her we can go there but we can't go back to the setting of the story. The people are just as gone as the house. “No, I don’t know where everyone went.” There were fallouts, dropouts, & folks move away, pass away, drift away with time & distance. We all scattered like cigarette smoke. Dying isn't the only way to become a ghost. -1989- on a gray Sunday afternoon an old couple wearing loose fitting faded church clothes knock on the door they ask to visit their old house if it isn't an imposition they haven't been here since their young son died of tuberculosis Albert was a very good boy they say hurts as if it happened yesterday they leave shriveled together in their long sadness -2020- Hoping for a big reveal or a twist ending, at least something unexpected, my daughter is disappointed. There is no spine-tingling conclusion or breath-snatching jump scare, only the slow dissolve of everyone into variations of ghosts. She asks if this will happen to us — |
Joseph Kerschbaum’s most recent publications include Mirror Box (Main St Rag Press, 2020) and Distant Shores of a Split Second (Louisiana Literature Press, 2018). His recent work has appeared in Reunion: The Dallas Review, Hamilton Stone Review, The Inflectionist Review, Main Street Rag, In Parentheses, and Umbrella Factory. Joseph lives in Bloomington, Indiana with his family.