Ghost on Vacation | #SouthwestContest

Ghost on Vacation

I'm what you might call a seasonal worker. Every December my two coworkers and I are given a list of clients—usually curmudgeons in ostentatious houses who spend their days making profits instead of friends. My job is to show them how no one except their money managers will mourn their untimely deaths. Or in Eddie's case, how no one visits his drooling self twenty years in the future.

"That can't be me," he says, staring at his paunchy, glassy-eyed future self moored in a wheelchair next to a wilting poinsettia. "What am I doing in a nursing home?"

I say nothing.

Around us, the other residents have families with children laughing and cuddling their grandmas.

"Where are my kids?" Eddie peers up at me for answers.

I gaze ahead steadily.

"Say something! Why don't you ever talk?"

They always ask me this. But the last time I spoke, the sound frightened my client so badly it took an hour to coax him out of the broom closet.

"I liked the other two ghosts better," he grumbles.

This, too, is a common utterance. I'd like to say I've gotten used to it over the centuries, but the reverse is actually true. Showing all these sourpusses their futures makes it impossible for me to ignore the facts. They have no friends. Their destinies are bleak.

I have no friends. Therefore my future is bleak.

And I may be a sourpuss.

When at last Eddie learns his lesson, I return him to his mansion. He cries with relief, making numerous promises before tripping out of the room in his reindeer socks.

My job is done. I am forgotten. If he remembers me later, it will be with foreboding. That, too, is part of the job. I'm about as lovable as a tax collector.

I sigh and consider returning to my bungalow in Pasadena for another lonesome year of crossword puzzles, knitting, and yoga. I live in the attic and rent out the rest to travelers. Everything is taken care of online, so I never have to interact. Smalltalk is quite difficult when you don't speak.

That doesn't mean I don't watch them, though. Not in a creepy way. I peek out the attic window, and they look happy as they're coming and going. Traveling seems to do that for them.

Maybe I should travel too. I keep meaning to, but—I look down at my attire—the head-to-toe black shroud tends to frighten people. Still, maybe times have changed. People seem to wear pajamas in public now. Maybe the sight of a seven-foot phantom with no visible face will no longer send people shrieking for help.

Honestly, what have I got to lose?

I pull out my phone and notice my frightfully pasty arm. Someplace sunny would be great. I start looking at destinations. Honolulu? San Antonio? A photo of parasailers suspended over the pristine, turquoise waters of Fort Lauderdale looks fun.

There. I will go there.

***

When I board the plane, the chatter stops. I make my way to the seats by the emergency exit for extra legroom. The man seated by the window gapes up at me, eyes round as beach balls. It takes him exactly two seconds to scramble out of there with a mumbled apology and scamper to another seat.

No one sits next to me.

No one talks to me except for the flight attendant, who cheerfully hands me a packet of pretzels and a cup of ginger ale.

After we arrive at the airport, I seek the nearest hotel. Wary travelers keep their distance. No one asks if I want a taxi. No one tries to sell me a condo. All the smiles are for other people.

Maybe the beach will be different.

***

It isn't different. My intimidating presence renders people mute and incapable of hospitality. They don't understand that I'm not here for them. I'm here for me. One group of tourists think I'm an attraction of some kind and take turns snapping selfies with me.

I wander away from the palm tree-lined promenade, into the powdery white sand. The fine grains slide into my sandals and caress my toes. Here, families bustle past, doing their best to ignore the hooded stranger in black robes.

I'm used to fear. It's part of the job. But this? People pretending I don't exist? Feeling invisible is a new sensation for me. I'm not sure I like it.

I perch on a low wall, taking in my surroundings, pushing back at the loneliness I thought I could escape. It's a beautiful city, full of vibrant people, colors, and food. Kites flutter happily in the sky. In the distance, children sell fund-raising bracelets to tourists.

But I am alone.

A tug on my robe startles me. When I look down, a small child stands there, smiling up at me with wide eyes. Dark hair flops over brown skin that glows with innocence.

I lean forward, curious why this little girl is unafraid.

She holds up a friendship bracelet. Extends it toward me.

Realizing she probably wants me to buy it, I reach into my pocket.

Shock number two arrives when she gasps my wrist—actually touches me—and pulls my hand toward her. She proceeds to tie the bracelet around my pale wrist.

I watch, too captivated to speak even if I wanted to.

"Now you have a friend," she says before skipping away, singing to herself.

I stare at the bracelet in wonder. Yellow flowers embroidered into a red base. It's beautiful in its simplicity. Now I have a friend.

Something shifts within me. Something subtle yet powerful. I feel lighter. My face, forever hidden from human eyes, contorts into an unfamiliar shape. I reach into my hood and touch it. Is it true?

I trace the curve of my mouth. Yes, it is true. Something I never thought possible has happened.

I'm smiling.

Many thanks go to BrittanieCharmintine for helping me shape this story into the best version it could be. If you're looking for humor and talented writing, go check out her stuff! You'll find mermaids, princes who need to die, and other fun, magical stories, including an alternate ending to A Christmas Carol! Go see what actually happened to Scrooge after my ghost left him...