"Let's Split Up, Gang!"

“ZOINKS!” I cry out. The ghosts stare into my soul; I stumble backwards, leap backwards, landing in JB’s arms. “G-G-Ghosts!”

The mother and daughter, empty sockets for eyes, black viscosity tumbling downwards across faces, floating with a hint of light blue, descend into the rotting wood, disappearing beneath our feet.

“Yeah, they tend to do that,” JB says. “It’s been getting on my nerves. I haven’t been able to sleep.”

The alien lets me down. I examine the floor where the ghosts phased through; it’s covered in ectoplasm. “Boy howdy,” I mutter. “A world where both aliens and ghosts are real. You could make some sort of Saturday morning cartoon with a concept like that.”

JB leads me out of the living room, towards a set of stairs going into the basement. “I’ve read enough of your Earthling Super Science Monthly to know that ghosts remain trapped in this plane of existence until their unfinished business is concluded. I believe it has something to do with the basement.”

“Say, Jack,” I interrupt, feeling the cold wind rise from below. “If you’re able to move around with all the lights off, you must have some sooper-dooper night vision powers. And poor ol’ Mary Lou just has a lighter. Maybe, you know…you oughta go finish that business.”

JB raises his hands. “I couldn’t. This isn’t my place to interfere. This is a human conundrum. I’d only make things worse, just like with my first wife, and now she has the kids and I’m hiding out on a planet where they haven’t even invented the cheeseflurger yet.”

“Right, right…”

But, c’mon Mary Lou, it’s not like you have to go down there.

That’s right, the School sez. Come back to me, Mary Lou. You won’t like what you find down there.

No, don’t listen to him, the house sez. Explore the basement, Mary Lou.

“Stop arguing,” I mutter. “I’ll go, I’ll go.”

JB raises a silver eyebrow. “Who are you talking to?”

I lead the way down into the basement, the small flicker of the lighter my only defense against the drooping darkness. The stairs groan; my hand comes away sticky from some ghost slime on the brick walls.

When we get into the basement, I feel like I’m in some sort of time capsule. Untouched since the murder. Gulping, swallowing, I look around. There’s a workstation down here, a bench filled with screwdrivers, hammers, tools, you name it. A boiler blows out cold air, which don’t make sense, but that’s how it is when you’re dealing with ghosts. The brick walls loom over me as I study the workbench. There’s an old photograph on there, taken in what must be the backyard. There’s the mother, and the daughter, and what looks like the father, too. He’s dressed in military fatigues, a last photo before he goes off to war.

“My nocto-vision sez there’s something hidden behind the photo,” JB tells me.

I frown, ‘cuz he could be doing all this himself, but when I open up the back of the frame, a slip of paper slides out onto the workbench. I pick it up gingerly, since I recognize it right away. The dreaded telegram.

FROM: 101ST AIRBORNE

WE DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT IT HAS NOW BEEN PRESUMED FOR OFFICIAL PURPOSES THAT THE DEATH OF YOUR:

HUSBAND

JOHN SUNDAY

My eyes go wide. Just what the hell?

OCCURRED ON:

TWENTY-FIFTH DECEMBER 1944

OUR SINCEREST SYMPATHIES.

A man named Sunday, dies in December 1944, at the height of the Bulge…right when Sepp Dietrich would’ve been doing his dirty work at Malmedy, rocket artillery not too far behind…

The little girl in the photo looks like she’s around three years old, the same age I would’ve been-

And then, through the comas Dr. Funny put me in, through the layer of gunk jamming up the gears of memory, some scenes work their way to the surface, scenes he intended to keep down there, away from the light.

EXT. HOUSE ON MAPLE STREET - SUNSET

Bing Crosby plays on a radio. There’s a knock on the door. A hand reaches out to turn down the radio.

UNKNOWN WOMAN (O.S.)

Coming!

Camera lingers on radio.

DR. FUNNY (O.S.)

Honey, I’m home!

UNKNOWN WOMAN (O.S.)

Who are you?

DR. FUNNY (O.S.)

Your husband! Don’t you recognize me, dear?

UNKNOWN WOMAN (O.S.)

You’re…you’re not my husband. He died-

DR. FUNNY (O.S.)

Didn’t you see the news out of Hiroshima? We have become death. We can twist it to our own liking. Now, if you’ll excuse us.

UNKNOWN WOMAN (O.S.)

Hey! What are you-

Sounds of furniture smashing, vases shatter. Bing Crosby grows louder. A child starts crying. A man laughs.

UNKNOWN WOMAN (O.S.)

Stop! Stop! You monster, you think this is funny?

DR. FUNNY (O.S.)

Europe was funny.

Single gunshot.

DR. FUNNY (O.S.)

Right. Now where’s that baby?

“Hey, Jack,” JB sez, trying to get my attention. “You alright? You passed out in my arms.”

I rub my woozy head. “I forgot to remember to forget.”

Ectoplasm seeps out of the walls. Walking in a haze, I follow the trail to a particular spot in the bricks. Kneeling down, I can see it - a single bullet impact in the wall. Glancing up at the ceiling, following the straight-line trajectory of the bullet, ectoplasm following behind me, I can see where it entered from the first floor, from when Dr. Funny shot her.

The ghost mother glides silently behind JB and I, towards the workbench. She tries to pick up the photograph, but her fingers slip right through it. She’s not merely silent, she’s incapable of making a single sound. Deathly quiet. She weeps with no noise, black vapors drifting from her face.

“Dr. Funny murdered you.” I clench a fist. “That man…I always knew he was capable of doing something this awful.” I approach the mother. “Sorry, Jack. This ain’t right. I’ll swear, Dr. Funny will pay for this.”

I wish I could hug her or something, but my hands go right through her. But she appreciates the gesture. Floating up and down, she wipes away a metaphoric tear.

“What’s a Doctor Funny?” JB asks.

I ignore him, pacing. “John Sunday, if he’s my father…blown apart at the Bulge...only thing that remained was his dog tags…but wait. If all they got left was his dog tags, if he was pulverized…then how could they truly prove it was him that died? Maybe he faked his death, and came back not as John Sunday, who was presumed dead, but as someone else.”

Dry mouth again. “And if he came back, murdered…my mother, and then he took the baby with him, and did experiments with it, with her…then Mary Lou Sunday, is Dr. Funny your father?”

My head starts pounding. I’ve been through dehydration experiments before, and this headache hurts like the worst of 'em. “That almost checks out, except-”

I glance up at the ghost daughter, who floats stoically. With this closer look, it’s clear to me now that this is the ghost of a three-year-old.

“Who the hell are you, then?”