Ghosts

Ghosts, they play a significant part in our minds. Even if we might not think about them much, they are there—always there.

A person thinks about the life after, what comes next. It's a commonality. When they close their eyes, they get one step closer to that world with each blink. And no one knows—not really—what happens after; what we experience, what we become and what we understand.

“Would you have ten more cents,” asks the young cashier from behind the counter, a boy possibly in his early to mid-twenties. He wears a red cap, no logo. A significant tear is on the side of the visor.

Standing on the other side of the counter is a tall man in his late thirties. He has short dark hair and an even shorter stubble. A loden overcoat hangs on him; the wool fabric is a tint of dark indigo blue.

His thick, coarse fingers rummage through the coins in his old leather wallet.

“Here.” He takes out a ten-cent coin, placing it on the counter.

“Thank you,” the young man says enthusiastically, before dropping the coin into the register.

The man's eyes linger. “Nice cap, by the way. Old. Vintage.”

The cashier's eyes open wider when he hears that. Without a doubt, he didn't expect it.

“Oh—” He reaches, grabbing the edge of the visor. “Thank you, sir. Found it at a local second-hand shop not too long ago.”

A lie. The boy is lying—understandably so.

The man just nods, knowing well it was a deflection.

That is the same cap the young man's supposed, older brother is wearing; the one standing right behind him, slouching. The shape of their eyes is identical. Same crooked nose.

The right half of the older brother's face is covered by the young man's head, but the man assumes it's nothing pretty.

“Well, its previous owner took great care of it.” The man grabs his plastic bag of groceries, giving the cashier boy a gentle nod before leaving.

The cashier—still holding his cap—looks down. He can't help but smile.

The man in the overcoat exits the store. The night streets of the city are still wet from the rain that came previously, less than an hour ago.

In this city, the rain never stops. It's like a blight. Every time you look out the window or prepare to go somewhere, it's always there, smiling at you. Even if you never want to smile back.

With one hand holding his bag of groceries and the other in the pocket of his trousers, the man begins on the pavement. He passes by some people—real or not—he doesn't care; not at this point, not anymore. This world has a way about itself, and he respects its boundaries.

Poor kid, he thinks to himself. Leave it to the city to swallow you whole without remorse or human decency. There are no winners here. And I'm a loser myself… Mh, I haven't gambled in a while. Maybe that should change?

The man glances at his bag.

Or maybe, better, not. I barely have money for this plastic bag.

Even though the man doesn't turn around, he knows that she's following him. He's unable to hear her footsteps, and her breathing isn't going down his neck—not now—but she's there.

It's been following him for weeks, maybe months at this point. And he knows well that those who are followed are the ones who can see. Helpful souls. Communication is possible between him and them.

The roads glisten wet as the lights above capture the streets. The man turns the corner, coming into a familiar street. The one he knows every building on—every brick and door.

He looks up at a second-story window. The window has its blind drawn, but there's a faint light. His eyes linger, and the light dies. A curious question appears in his brown eyes.

The man enters the building through the front door.

It's a rundown type of place. Mostly wooden interior. There's a reception, but it's empty. The counter is guarded by a glass window.

His bag crinkles as he makes his way up the stairs. The creaks are all too familiar. As a matter of fact, so familiar that he knew which step made a noise and which did not.

He has his key in hand before reaching the top of the staircase. Casually, he makes his way to the door right in front of him.

A small plaque was screwed to the door. Detective Mortimer, it read.

The man turns the key after getting it in the keyhole, then opens the door.

It's an office space, a small one. There's a wooden desk in the far end of the room with a window right behind it. By the left wall, in the corner, a hammock hangs down from the ceiling. The right wall has a small kitchen space with a humble hob and a small fridge.

The man enters further into his room, placing the bag on his desk, before hanging his overcoat by the door; a wrinkled button-down shirt and suspenders attached to his trousers.

The man turns towards his desk, his eyes focusing on the lamp, which is now off.

The damnedest thing, he thinks.

He lets out a sigh and goes ahead and turns it on. The light is a warm yellow, giving some life to the room. It exposes the broken light bulb attached to the ceiling, as well as the ceiling fan that's missing one of its three wings.

He leans over the desk, looking at his telephone. The small screen tells him that he has sixteen unread messages.

Make it seventeen, and maybe we could have a fun Friday night, the man says in his head.

From out of the bag, he takes out a packet of peanuts, placing it down on the desk before taking the bag over to the kitchen area.

He starts to put things like milk and ham into the fridge. A small bottle of water that he immediately opens to take a sip.

Sewage water sure isn't too far from this, but a man has to quench his thirst somehow.

His lips part to let out a satisfactory breath. He freezes. His eyes squint as he looks towards the desk. Or rather, down by the desk. A bare foot sticks out from behind it. From its delicate structure, it must belong to a girl.

The big toe twitches as the man continues to stare.

His expression is nothing in particular. Yes, at first it caught him off guard, but now it's a blank. He isn't surprised or worried—even if he thinks he should be.

However, a splash of curiosity enters his eyes.

The single step he takes causes the foot to slip back behind the desk.

He stands there for a long while, maybe longer than he would like to admit. He feels his arm tensing, making him undo the button on the cuff and pull the sleeve up. Lifting the arm slightly, he can see it clearly, goosebumps all over his hairy forearm.

“Was it you,” he questions out loud.

After all this time, you're still hanging around after everyone else has left. Was it worth the wait, you think?