Page 8 of Ghostly
Ida shrugged. “I’m a ghost. You can’t touch me. And I’d recommend not calling the police, since they wouldn’t be able to see me and they’d bill you for raising a false alarm. That is, if they believed you and came here in the first place.”
“What kind of trick is this? A hologram? How are they making you talk?” He passed a hand through her again and flinched.
“You feel cold if you, uh, pass through me. Or I pass through you, though I try not to do that, mainly because of the aforementioned cold—”
“There’s got to be a device in here somewhere.” He crouched and sunk his hand into her skirt.
“Well, excuse me!” She stepped back and put her hands at her hips. “Ghosts deserve some privacy too.”
“Will you stop it with this ghost nonsense?” He straightened back to his full, rather impressive six-foot height, and crossed his arms over his chest.
Ida took another step back and accidentally phased through the wall. She quickly flew back into the hallway. “Sorry, unintended departure. Can we start again? Hi, I’m Ida.” She reached out a hand and quickly retracted it. “Forget it, you’ll just feel cold.”
The man inspected her with more wariness than previously. Darn it, she’d never considered this problem: someone seeing her, but not believing her. But now that she could finally communicate with someone, now thatshe finally had a proper companion—one that seemed rather well educated, too—she couldn’t chase him away. How could she make him believe?
Alright, calm down. Be your usual self.
Actually, that wasn’t the best idea. Ida had never performed well as her usual self around men, especially handsome ones, and he definitely was that. Jet black hair, tan skin, a square face with full, sculpted lips, and moss green eyes, staring at her suspiciously from under strong, straight eyebrows. He had a good taste in pajamas, too—a simple gray t-shirt and checkered bottoms. Her previous tenant, Larry, had a thing for matching sets with bunny motifs, which looked slightly disturbing on a 55-year-old man.
“Hey. Lady.” The man waved in front of her face. “Or whoever’s talking.”
“For the last time, I’m not a hologram. I’m a ghost. See?” She zoomed past him, flew through a wall to the bathroom, back out, past the railing to the downstairs hallway, and flicked into the little deer statue. She loved that one—being in it felt like lying in a warm autumnal forest, with a slight smell of leaves and earth. After a few seconds, she sprung back out and flew up to the man.
His eyes widened.
“Don’t be afraid,” she blurted. “Standard ghost stuff.”
“I’m dreaming.” He rubbed his eyes, squinted at her through his fingers, and groaned.
Oh, wonderful. How did he come up with all these excuses? “It’s not a dream. I’m real. Well, I’m not material, but I exist, somewhere—”
“Probably sleepwalking. I’m going back to bed.” He took a step back, entangling his foot into the cable from the lamp.
“Careful—” She reached out her hand.
Another step;the cable stretched, he stumbled, fell back, and hit the doorknob with the back of his head. He collapsed by the door, unconscious.
Damn,damn, damn. Please, don’t let the first person to ever see me die because of astupid lamp.
Ida glided over to him and crouched so she was at level with his chest. It rose and fell evenly, and there was no blood on his head; he’d probably just have a bump. And if anyone, Ida knew her head injuries. He’d be fine in the morning. But it would be nice—and hospitable—of her to get him back to bed. She rubbed her hands. Her person-moving skills were rusty, but there was no time like the present.
***
Gabriel woke up with mild pain and strong confusion. His first thought was he’d gotten wasted the night before, but memories of hangovers from his college years didn’t match with the slight pulsating pain at the back of his head, and otherwise, his memory was clear. Not to mention he didn’t drink yesterday.
He went through his usual morning routine, stepping cautiously. So, last night. The knocking again. A strange woman in the hallway, he couldn’t touch her, and she sort of glided, instead of walked—even flew down the stairs…
In the kitchen, he grabbed an icepack to soothe the swelling, then sat in the living room. She said she was a ghost. He thought it was a prank, a hologram, but the way she moved—would some prankster kid own technology like that? Well, it didn’t matter, because it was a dream.
But such a vivid dream. More vivid than even the dream he’d had the night before the closing of his first trial, in which the judge bowed down to him and the jury wiped the tears his closing argument had induced. He’d woken up that morning 27% convinced it had really happened.
With this one, he might dare to go as high as 29%.
Bits of sunlight streamed in from the two windows that looked onto the backyard. In the early morning, the living room looked innocent, normal. It should help him separate the real from the imagined, but the more he latched onto the memory of last night, the more it felt like it belonged in the first category. His injury proved he’d been out and about. And something about the dream was so tangible—he could still feel the slight cold as his hand passed through the woman, he remembered her voice so clearly. And the strange noises and the sculptures that changed positions during the night…
He walked to the hallway. The deer-hog statue was lined perfectly with the other two. Feeling like a total idiot, he waved around the general stair area. Floating motes of dust blinked back, but nothing else—no invisible thread that would make things move, no holograms.
Stop embarrassing yourself. It was a dream.Time to get to actual work and never think of it again.
