Wrong Ghost, Right Time #HauntedRomance

Untitled Part 1

When my sister told me she thought it was time I started seeing men again, she probably meant men who were still alive.

I woke up at 11:59 PM on Halloween to find a man standing over my bed. My body responded before my brain. Using what little I remembered from the few kickboxing classes my friend Sandra had dragged me to, I formed my hands into fists and aimed right for his nose. I watched my fist sail toward him. The punch would've been a doozy had it actually made contact. Instead, my hand passed right through the man's face. Yes, you read that right. One moment his admittedly chiseled face  was as solid looking as a rock, and the next moment the only thing my fist was hitting was air. I snatched my hand back, my mouth dropping open in disbelief.

"Wh...Wha...?" I stammered.

He frowned at me. "Did you just try to punch me?"

"This has to be a dream. You're not real."

"I most certainly am real," he protested.

"Prove it."

He blinked at me.

I shook my head. "Why am I even talking to you? You're a figment of my imagination. A sexy, rugged, outdoorsy, plaid flannel wearing figment of my imagination but a figment nonetheless. Who knew I had a thing for lumberjacks, huh?"

He looked down at his plaid flannel shirt then back to me, a smile on his face as he waggled his eyebrows. "You think I'm sexy?"

"Ugh, apparently my subconscious is trying to tell me I have a thing for arrogant guys too. Well, as fun as this dream has been, I'm ready to wake up now." I squeezed my eyes shut and then opened them again.

"I'm still here," the man said, folding his arms. "This isn't a dream." He looked about my bedroom, and I found myself wishing I'd taken the time to throw my laundry in the hamper rather than letting it land wherever I tossed it. Oh, man, was that my polka dot bra hanging on the door handle? Please don't look at it, please don't look at it.

Lumberjack man stiffened and pointed at my closet. "Where did you get that?" he asked, indicating a large men's long sleeved plaid shirt.

"My boyfriend," I said, then added, "I mean he was my boyfriend. I asked if I could have it because it looked comfy."

He crossed to the closet to examine it more closely. "It's my shirt."

"Uh, no, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

I climbed out of my bed and stalked over to my closet, determined to prove him wrong. "I hate to break it to you, Paul Bunyan, but you're not the only person in the world who wears plaid shirts."

He jabbed a finger at the breast pocket of the plaid shirt. "This particular plaid shirt is mine. It has my initials on it."

"What? That's ridiculous," I said, leaning closer to look. "There aren't any initials-" I broke off when I saw the letters PJB embroidered with black thread on the breast pocket.

"I'll believe this is your shirt, if you can tell me the initials without looking. What's your name?" I asked, placing my hand over the pocket so he couldn't see the initials.

"Patrick John Barrow," he said. "Now it's your turn to answer some questions. Who are you, and what are you doing with my shirt?"

I gaped at him.

"Well?"

"I'm Winnie."

"Winnie as in Winnie the Pooh?" he asked with a snicker.

"Ha ha, you're so hilarious," I drawled with a roll of my eyes. "You're not the first person to come up with that, and you won't be the last."

"With a name like Winnie, you have to expect it," he said with a grin.

"Yeah, well, when your parents name you Winnifred you almost have to go by a nickname or risk even worse teasing." I jutted my chin. "Besides, you're one to talk."

"What's wrong with Patrick?"

"There's nothing wrong with Patrick. It's your full name that's the problem. Your initials can be rearranged to PBJ, peanut butter and jelly."

He waved a hand, dismissing my point. "How did your boyfriend end up with my shirt?"

I frowned, running my hands through my short hair. "He's not my boyfriend anymore."

"Did you break up with him, or did he dump you?"

"Neither. He was killed in a car accident three months ago."

"Aw, hell," Patrick cursed. He moved as if to place his hand on my shoulder but stopped himself. "I'm so sorry, Winnie. I had no idea."

"It's okay," I said as I returned to my bed and sat on the edge of it.

"How are you doing?" Patrick asked, his blue eyes crinkling with concern. "Do you want to talk about him? I've heard talking can help people grieve."

"You're the second person to tell me that today." I nodded at his plaid shirt hanging in my closet. "My sister Peg thought it would help me move on if I could talk to my boyfriend and get some closure. I thought she was going to take me to his grave, but she told me to bring something that belonged to Jeremy and meet her at a place called Madame Moreau's. Peg has always been a little too New Agey for me, but I decided to humor her. Turns out, Madame Moreau is a psychic medium. Tonight, she tried using Jeremy's shirt, well technically your shirt, to make contact with him from beyond the grave. It didn't work of course."

"Or did it?"

"What?"

He walked over to my bed and reached his hand out to brush my hair away from my face, but his hand passed right through, a cold breeze whipping past my cheek. "In case you didn't notice, I'm a bit transparent. I think whatever Madame Moreau did worked, but it brought the wrong ghost to your doorstep."