The Haunted and other short stories

The Buffalo who Rode the Waves (Part 1)

The decaying pane seals the window shut. It holds back the sunny warmth of mortal spring. I cannot look straight at the window but I watch the shadows cast on the painted floor. In this I know it's daytime.
If I were more a person, I would be joining the earth walkers as they go about their schedules. Yet I am ill, so I do not. The lady who takes my notes, the one who comes on Thursdays, says I should try to be more like the earth walkers. Maybe next week. Maybe I'll try then.
I am not a buffalo. The earth walkers are buffalo. I tried to explain this to the lady who takes my notes but she says I'm wrong. I wish she'd watch that NOVA special with me. Then she'd understand. I'm not a buffalo. I feel no call to move. Migrations. In-grained movement. I can do nothing.
She will come back. I will ask her again to watch it with me.
A man emails me. He is an earth walker. But he is not a buffalo either so I suppose that is okay. I like to hear his stories. In his emails he talks about his mission trips and all the people he helps. He sends pictures. He is always alone. I think he wants me to join him. I do not tell him no. I do not want him to stop his emails.
I open his message which appears on my screen. He has read my email to him. I have upset him. My temples grow damp with sweat.
Why? I ask.
You should stop your research, he says. I am confused. I go to the closet to rearrange my shoes. I like the black ones that smell like mint. The lady who takes my notes likes my black shoes that smell like mint too. I'm afraid she will steal them.
The computer is making horrible noises.
The blue shoes cannot go next to the black ones, but the brown ones can go next to the blue ones. No one likes the blue shoes. Perhaps I can hide the blue shoes in the black shoes. There is a shadow on the wall. I go back to the computer. He says, Casey. That is my name. You are. I exit the messenger. I caught the words I do not want to repeat. My attention slips to remaximized a webpage and I feel calmer. These are stories the man sends me. The stories not not ask things of me. Not like the devil man.

The story starts with a woman who has many different faces. Each face reflects an aspect of human nature. One day she goes out walking and comes across a weary farmer. She helps him plant his wheat.
"Thankyou my sweet goddess," the farmer says, "What may I do for you?"
"Be kind. Take care of the world beneath your feet," the woman answers.
The farmer agrees. His crop is multiplied. When he brings his food back to the village, they insist upon giving the woman an offering for her service. Yet one man objects.
"Why give this woman our bread when our mouths are hungry?" he says.
So the villagers mill the wheat and eat the bread all while secretly giving thanks to the woman. Except when the farmer goes to sow the field the second time, the woman does not appear. The crop withers from heat of the sun. The woman hears his sobbing and asks what is wrong.
"I cannot go back to the village without any wheat," he says, "Can't you help me?"
"I cannot help you," she admits, "Did you not take care of the ground beneath your feet?"
"My village was hungry. I must feed them first or we will all perish."
"And you will all perish now. Is that any better?"
"So tell me what I should do."
"Tell them the story of the many faced woman who wove the world and plants the wheat. Tell them to feed the world beneath their feet."
The farmer went back to his village and told the story of the many faces woman. He warned that they must act or they would not survive. The town gathered the last of their food. They built a great pit and cast the food down. Then they waited for the wheat to grow.
I stop reading. I know the rest of the story. It has pictures. I much prefer the pictures. Pictures of horror, of great ends, and sorrow. I am the child starving, the mother weeping, the old man who reaches his hand out to the heavens like they are old friends, and the woman who burns on a pire. Her eyes are scooped our like jello.
The lady who takes my notes says I do not know such pain. They are phantom memories planted in my mind. Things distorted. I asked her who put them there. She said I. But I think it is the couple outside who cast their shadows too early in the day. The one on the leash who is covered in fur is an anomaly. Must be alien. Must be planting bad memories.
I turn the messenger back on.
Please don't shut me out, Casey, the man writes.
Tell me a story, I respond.
Why don't you tell me a story?
The shadows on the wall are becoming distorted. I close my eyes. It is time to sleep. I must dream of a story. He will leave me if I don't dream of a story.
The bed is shoved in the bathroom. It is made of water and I fear it will leak. The man and the lady who takes my notes say I should get a new one. But I like the bathroom. It is quieter here. The tiles reflect only darkness and dense towels embrace secret parts of me. Clean. It is full of clean. I can smell the ocean.
I lived by the ocean once. It was very loud. It was always talking. It would know a story. One that would make the man happy. One where people didn't starve. One where people didn't die.
The breeze is full of ocean. The ship is falling down...down...into the dark deep sea. And I will dream.