She's Home

I saw my wife's ghost for the first time two days ago. At least I think it was her ghost. I guess you can't really be too sure about these things. I feel like I can’t be sure of anything. One thing I am sure of, though, is in the last two days, I've seen her more times than I care to think about. Today was supposed to be the day she came back from some auditors' conference in Cincinnati. She's coming back, all right, but not from Cincinnati.

It was four days ago and we were sitting on the small wooden deck that attaches to the back of our fourth floor apartment. Andrea's plane to Cincinnati wasn't leaving for another three hours, so she came out on the deck with me to kill some time while I read the paper.

"Hey, Mike."

"Hey, babe."

"I'm all packed and ready to go."

"Good. So when will you be back?" I asked.

"I'll be back on Thursday. The plane is scheduled to land at…"

She withdrew her travel itinerary from her jacket pocket. "Here we go. The plane is scheduled to land at 3:02 PM."

"Want me to pick you up?"

"I'll take a cab."

"You sure? I don't mind."

"I know you don't. But if the plane is running late, I don't want you to have to sit there for hours on end. I'll call you when the plane lands and I'll grab a taxi. I'll be home in time for dinner," she said as she stood next to where I was sitting, and leaned back against the deck railing.

As it turned out, the Medical Examiner said that the four story fall from the deck had caused sufficient trauma that she died the instant she hit the ground. I'm thankful for that. I didn't want her to suffer. Even as I pushed her over the railing, I didn't want her to suffer. I just wanted her dead.

I thought for sure she'd yell or scream as she fell. She didn't. She just let out a surprised yelp as I grabbed behind her knees from my sitting position and simply stood up, toppling her over the railing. The noise it made when she hit the ground was awful: one part wet thump, one part crunch, one part muffled grunt. Mix well. I peered over the railing for just a moment. There she lay in an expanding pool of blood, her body bent and contorted in ways for which it was clearly never designed. There was no movement. I didn't expect that there would be, but to be honest, I hadn't really come up with a contingency plan for if she survived the fall. Fortunately for me, such a plan wasn't necessary. Then I turned, screaming "Andrea!" at the top of my lungs, and raced down the back stairs.

* * *

Police involvement was perfunctory, which was what I expected. Her death was ruled accidental; I had gone to great lengths to make sure there were no outward signs that I wanted her dead. As a result, I played the distraught husband, and all interested parties dismissed the whole thing as a tragic, unfortunate accident. As I finished writing the sentence prior to this one, it occurred to me that not all interested parties accepted it was an accident. Apparently, she didn't.

It is a fair question, at this point, to ask why I wanted her dead. I'm not a bad person, by any means. I loved her, and on some level, I still do. So what would make an otherwise loving husband decide to kill his wife, you ask? The best answer I can come up with is Edgar Allan Poe. Let me explain.

My wife and I met in college. We hit it off right away, and the sex was fantastic. The summer after we graduated from college, we got married, and everything was right with the world as far as we were concerned. Ultimately, though, it was her voice, her fucking voice that finally pushed me around the bend. You see, she was very bright, but she had this baby talk sort of voice that set my teeth on edge. It was soft and breathy, and sounded like a hateful combination of Melanie Griffith and Marilyn Monroe. Perhaps you may be thinking that you would find such a voice sexy or coquettish. All I can say in response is that you didn't live with it. I thought it was cute at first, and yes, a little sexy. Over the years, though, it started to drive me nuts. Day in and day out, hearing this breathy, baby doll voice talking about the next ISACA meeting, or her thoughts on Tibet, or reminding me to pick up the dry cleaning, cured me of the misguided notion that it was anything but infuriating. So where does Edgar Allan Poe fit in? I was sitting on the sofa, reading a horror story anthology, and was in the midst of reading Mr. Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart," when she started carrying on about something.

"Sweetums?" I heard her say. Christ how that little pet name drove me crazy. I think that may have been why she used it.

"Yeah?"

And then she started yammering. What she was going on about, I haven't a clue. But here I was, enjoying an afternoon read, when that fucking voice starts intruding, grating on me like an icicle against a raw nerve. In "The Tell-Tale Heart," it is the old man's eye that seals his fate. It was then that my brain decided to make some sort of cross-connect, and these two separate, seemingly unrelated ideas, "The Tell-Tale Heart," and that fucking baby doll voice, came together. Can't see how I would put those two things together and arrive at the conclusion that she was going to have to die? Well, again, all I can say is that you didn't live with it. I did.

I didn't have an exact plan for when I was going to do it, but instantly I knew how. Several times in the past, when we had been sitting on the apartment balcony, we both had made comments on what a long drop it was down to the pavement. If I was careful, and if I did it quickly enough, there would be no trace of what I had done. At the time, it almost seemed too easy.

My first encounter with her ghost was the day after the fall. The police had come and gone, and there had been a steady stream of phone calls. I was on the phone with my sister, Tracy, in Detroit.

"Mike, I'm so sorry," she said for the 500th time.

"Me, too," I replied.

"When will services be held?"

"I don't know yet."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"I don't think so. Not yet anyway. Maybe when you get here."

There was a hiss of static on the line.

"--as early as possible."

"What was that?" I said. "I missed that."

"I said I'll call the airline and get a plane out tomorrow as early as possible."

"That'll be fine."

Again there was a hiss of static, louder this time.

"--est to your apartment?"

"Sorry, this connection is bad. Can you say that again?"

"Weird," she replied. "It sounds ok on my end. I asked if you knew the name of the hotel nearest to your apartment."

I rubbed my forehead. I had a headache coming on.

"I guess that would be the Ramada on Hampton and Wilson."

"Ok," she said. I could hear her writing.

There was silence, and then the loudest burst of static yet made me wince and pull the phone from my ear. From out of the cloud of static, I picked up a single word: Mike.

I shook my head.

"You're going to have to say that again, Tracy. Static on this end. Must be this bloody cordless phone."

"All I said was 'ok.' I was writing down the hotel info."

"No, after that. I heard you say 'Mike.'"

"Nope, not me, hon."

"Oh," I said, and shrugged inwardly. "I'm going to let you go. I'm going to take a shower and try to get some rest."

"I think that's a good idea. I'll call you tomorrow to give you my flight information."

"Sounds good."

"I love you, Mike."

"I love you, too."

There was a pause.

"Andrea was a wonderful woman," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," I sighed. "She was."

"Good-bye, Mike. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Ok. Bye."

As I went to put the phone back in its cradle, I heard another burst of static. I couldn't be sure, but as the static turned into an electronic howl, and a split second before it abruptly fell to silence, I thought I heard a voice say "coming home."

* * *

I sat and stared at the phone for a long time. The voice sounded a little like Andrea. But it couldn't have been. That just wasn't possible. No, of course not. I heard static, and my brain happily made something up. And why not? As you might expect, she had been on my mind quite a bit, so it really only made sense. Still, though, I didn't like it.

Tracy called the next morning at 7:30 and told me she'd be landing in Chicago just past noon and would take a cab to my apartment. I really wasn't in the mood for company, but it was a necessary part of the show. A quick check of the fridge showed that I needed to pick up a few things to host my sister and what I anticipated to be a steady trickle of people wanting to pay their respects. I showered, shaved, and dressed, and then made my way down the four flights of stairs to street level.

Parking on my street is at a premium. Big apartment buildings like mine go on for blocks in every direction, so it isn't uncommon to have to park a block or two away. On this particular day, I was lucky; I was parked around the corner, at the end of the block, on the opposite side of the street. My hands were shoved in my pockets, and I watched my feet as I walked down the sidewalk and around the corner.

I arrived at the intersection without once having to look up. The street here is two lanes in either direction, with a turn lane in the middle. A strip mall is a few blocks further down from here, and that marks the beginning of a commercial area, complete with chain restaurants, banks, gas stations, and the area's slimiest adult bookstore. About 15 blocks in the other direction is the industrial park, so as you might expect, traffic is brisk, even in the middle of the night. When I reached the intersection, I pushed the crosswalk button and looked up, directly at my car, parked on the other side of the intersection. And directly at her.

My mouth was instantly dry, and I felt like my blood had been drained out and replaced with ice water. Andrea was standing directly in front of my car, looking at me.

She wore the white dress she had been wearing during the fall, only now it was torn and dirty and covered in blood. She was missing one shoe. Her long hair hung down, partially obscuring her face. Large clumps of her hair was matted to her face, caked with dried blood. Blood streaked both of her arms, and her skin looked ghastly pale. She cocked her head to one side as she looked at me, and I felt my legs turn to jelly. I reached out with my right hand, bracing myself against the traffic light.

There were people walking on the sidewalk near her, but no one seemed to notice. Not entirely surprising, I suppose. People generally ignore each other on the sidewalk. But it wasn't until someone stepped into the crosswalk and actually walked through her that I had to fight back a scream.

A delivery truck raced through a yellow light, briefly removing her from view. I was pelted with grit as the truck roared by, and a candy wrapper flew past my face. She had only been obscured from my view for a second, maybe two, but when the truck was gone, so was Andrea. The woman who, apparently unknowingly, walked through her reached my side of the intersection. I glanced around quickly, hoping to see her, but also hoping that I wouldn't. She was gone. As the "DONT WALK" sign began to flash, I jogged across the street to my car.

* * *

While I was at the grocery store, I kept replaying the scene in my head. There she had been, plain as day. She seemed real enough, solid enough, but then that woman walked through her. And then she disappeared during the instant I couldn't see her. Stress. That's all it was, stress. And I hadn't been sleeping that well over the last few days, either. Stress, lack of sleep, surely that explained it away. Nothing else made sense.

I pushed the shopping cart through the store, picking up a few things, not really paying much attention. I grabbed some coffee and coffee filters, a bag of potato chips, a loaf of bread, a two liter bottle of diet cola, just that kind of stuff. I knew that Tracy wasn't going to expect me to prepare a fancy meal, but it seemed like I needed to have something more than bare cabinets when she got there. Having collected all of the essentials I could think of, I moved toward the front of the store and got in the shortest of the three check-out lines.

It was mid-morning, so the store wasn't very crowded. There were three or four people in front of me at the check-out line. When my turn came, I put the black plastic separator on the conveyor belt, separating my purchases from those of the lady in front of me. The cashier was surprisingly cheerful. The lady in front of me paid and headed out to the parking lot with her cart full of groceries. The cashier turned to me and smiled as she starting ringing up my stuff.

"Hi," she said. Her name badge identified her as Britney.

"Hi," I said, and smiled. She was cute, but way too young. I still couldn't help but think about what she must look like under that cashier's frock.

"Did you find everything ok?" Britney asked.

"Yeah. Sure did," I replied and groped in my back pocket for my wallet.

"You think we're going to get that rain they're predicting?" she asked as she continued to ring up my items.

"They are?" I replied. "I didn't know. Probably not. They're wrong more often than not."

She chuckled.

"No doubt about that. I ain't gonna wash my car, though, just in case. Never fails, I wash my car and then it rains."

I smiled and nodded as I pulled my check card from my wallet.

"I know you killed her," I heard her say.

I froze. For the second time in the last hour, I felt my blood turn to ice. I stood there holding out my check card and blinked. I swallowed and heard a dry clicking in the back of my throat.

"Excuse me?" I croaked. I felt like I was going to pass out.

"All I said was I'm tired of this weather."

I must have looked like hell. The cashier glanced around nervously as she took my check card to swipe it.

"Are you feeling all right?" she asked. "You look a little pale."

I cleared my throat.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Sorry. Still getting over a cold."

She handed my check card back to me, careful to keep her fingers from accidentally touching mine. The register spat out the receipt. She handed it to me, wished me a good day, and started talking to the next person in line. I pushed the cart outside and tossed the groceries into the back seat. I sat for several minutes behind the wheel of my car, thinking. Finally, I turned the key, and headed for home.

* * *

Tracy arrived by cab at just after 1:00. It was good to see her. She's only 18 months older than me, and we were very close when we were kids. As adults, though, we don't see each other as much as we used to. She came in and hugged me.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

"About as well as can be expected."

It was a stale line, to be sure, but I had rehearsed it in the mirror the night before, so I thought I pulled it off. She smiled a closed mouth smile and touched my cheek.

She came in and we set her two bags on the floor in front of the false fireplace. I asked her if she'd had lunch, and she said she hadn't. I fixed lunchmeat sandwiches and chicken noodle soup for both of us. We sat at our...my tiny kitchen table and ate and talked. After we were done eating, I talked on the phone to the folks at the funeral home, and Tracy graciously volunteered to help me handle the arrangements. While she was on the phone, I cleared the dishes from the table and took them over to the sink.

I turned on the hot water and started washing the soup bowls. The window over the sink overlooks the balcony, and I glanced up while I listened to the steady chatter from Tracy. From where I stood, the vertical slats in the balcony railing afforded a limited view of the back courtyard. I quickly checked the sky to see if it was going to rain as Britney at the grocery store suggested. Sunshine, a few clouds, but nothing more. As I directed my attention back down to the sink, I caught a glimpse of movement in the courtyard below. Without thinking, I leaned forward and stood on my tiptoes to get a better look. I quickly wished I hadn't.

Andrea stood in the courtyard, her dark hair--that which wasn't plastered to the side of her face with dried blood, that is--hung down, obscuring most of her face. She appeared to be looking down. I dried my hands on the dish towel, and seeing that Tracy was completely engaged on the phone, I opened the back door and stepped onto the balcony.

I leaned against the railing, the very same railing that Andrea had so recently fallen over, and looked down. Her white dress looked about the same as it had before, but now the blood stains had taken on a much darker tone, almost brown. Her skin, which yesterday when I saw her had looked pale, now looked waxy. Splotches of a dreadful olive color and of purplish-brown had begun to form on her arms. She was looking down at the spot where she had fallen. And she was still missing one shoe. For some reason, that is what really stuck with me. That, and the fact that she didn't cast a shadow.

"Andrea," I whispered, not really meaning to.

As though she heard me, she slowly lifted her head toward me. Her face had started to have the same ugly splotches that I had seen on her arms. We made eye contact. I felt my intestines begin to roil around in my belly like a den of snakes. Very deliberately, she looked back down at the spot on the ground--still discolored from the effusion of blood--and then back up at me. My whole body began to tremble and vibrate like a tuning fork.

"Mike?" I heard a voice behind me say. I jumped like I had been shocked. I might have let out a muffled yelp, but I can't be sure of that. It was Tracy, of course.

"You probably shouldn't be out here," she said softly, putting her hand on my arm.

I snapped my gaze back to the courtyard. Andrea was gone. I cleared my throat and turned back to Tracy.

"You're right," I said, and went back inside.

* * *

By late afternoon, Tracy had tended to all of the arrangements, for which I was very grateful. She then took a cab to the hotel, for which I was also grateful. Don't get me wrong. I love Tracy and was glad to see her. But this business with seeing Andrea, on the other hand, was really getting to me.

I've never really believed in ghosts. Not until now, anyway. I mean, I love a good scary story or movie as much as the next guy, and ghost stories have always been a particular favorite. But actually believing in ghosts? No. At the time I didn't. Though I soon would.

That evening, I had some nondescript microwave dinner and sat on the sofa to read my email and watch some television. I turned on the TV and opened my laptop. Not finding anything worth watching, I turned to one of the cartoon channels and logged in to my email account.

There were about 200 unread messages waiting for me, most of them containing information on penny stocks that were about to explode, or asking if I wanted to have a bigger wanker. I deleted the messages that were obviously junk mail, and started going through those that remained. Toward the top of the list, one that caught my eye. The subject was simply "Why?" I clicked on the message.


To: Mike Norman <[e-mail]>
Subject: Why?
From: [e-mail]
Reply-To: [e-mail]
Message-Id: <[e-mail]>
Date: Thu, 27 Mar 2008 17:14:36 -0500 (CDT)

Why, Mike? Why did you kill me? I loved you.

Your wife,
Andrea


I sat and looked at the message. I felt dizzy and nauseous. I closed my eyes and felt the world swirl around me. After a few deep breaths I opened my eyes again. The nausea and dizziness passed, though my hands were still shaking so badly I could hardly type. I clicked "Reply."


To: [e-mail]
Subject: Re: Why?
From: Mike Norman <[e-mail]>
Reply-To: [e-mail]
Message-Id: <[e-mail]>
Date: Thu, 27 Mar 2008 18:31:40 -0500 (CDT)

Who is this? Whoever this is, you're not funny.



I clicked the "Send" button and waited. A few minutes passed, during which I got an email from the widow of a Ugandan prince who needed my help to get about a zillion dollars out of Uganda and into the U.S. I deleted it and waited some more. A few seconds later, I got a reply.


To: Mike Norman <[e-mail]>
Subject: Re: Why?
From: [e-mail]
Reply-To: [e-mail]
Message-Id: <[e-mail]>
Date: Thu, 27 Mar 2008 17:33:02 -0500 (CDT)

You know damn well who this is. I'm your wife. Rather, I was your wife, until you killed me. I want you to tell me why, Mike. I never hurt you or did anything to you. I'm coming home. And then I'm going to kill you.

Love,
Andrea


My stomach turned over and I thought I was going to vomit. I clenched my teeth and swallowed hard. My eyes began to water. I hit the reply button again.


To: [e-mail]
Subject: Re: Why?
From: Mike Norman <[e-mail]>
Reply-To: [e-mail]
Message-Id: <[e-mail]>
Date: Thu, 27 Mar 2008 18:35:51 -0500 (CDT)

YOU ARE NOT ANDREA!!

Andrea is dead. This is ridiculous. I'm done. Fuck off.


A few minutes passed, during which I scarcely breathed. Then I got another reply.


To: Mike Norman <[e-mail]>
Subject: Re: Why?
From: [e-mail]
Reply-To: [e-mail]
Message-Id: <[e-mail]>
Date: Thu, 27 Mar 2008 17:38:12 -0500 (CDT)

Believe what you want. You are right about two things, though. This *is* ridiculous. And you *are* done.

I'll be home soon, sweetums. And don't worry about leaving the door unlocked. I've got my own keys.

Love,
Andrea


I slammed my laptop shut and threw it across the room. That was an hour ago. The laptop still sits where it landed. Here I sit, on the floor, next to the sofa. This damned old building, I nearly crap myself every time I hear the stairs creak. The people from upstairs came home a few minutes ago, and when I heard them on the stairs, I nearly screamed.

She's coming. I know it. I feel it. Maybe when she gets here I can talk to her and she won't be angry. I'll tell her I still love her. I can make her understand. Sure I can. She'll understand that I--

Wait...

Heard the stairs creak again. Just once, though. Probably nothing. Jumping at shadows again. Surely I can explain to her that it was all a big--

Oh shit. Someone outside the door. When I lean forward I can peek around the sofa and see the door. There's someone there. I can see a shadow under the door. Can't be her. Can't be. Things like this don't really happen. Do they?

Keys. I just heard keys in the lock on the door. Who else has keys? Me, Andrea, landlord. Did we ever give keys to anyone else? No, I'm sure we didn't. The lock just clicked. This can't be happening. This is all just a bad dream, right? Any second I'll wake up and everything will be fine.

The doorknob is turning. Very slowly, but it is turning. Oh shit. The door is opening. Why is this happening? Must be dreaming. Have to wake up. Wake up now!

Door still opening. Oh Christ, I can see the hand. Pale, waxy, mottled, purplish.

"Oh sswwweeeeeeetummmms...."

Oh shit, she's here. She's home.