i was all over him

1

Hi this isn't edited at all lol, but I had an idea and I'm finding it really hard to return to DeathWish, so sorry. I might work on this and DW at the same time, but who knows. 

In case you didn't read the story synopsis, a specter = a ghost, an empath = living human that can communicate with specters. Guess who the specter is in this one????

Song is I was all over her by Salvia Plath. did I write a whole story based off this one song? Kinda. enjoy please. x Milo

One could compare a phone call at 3 am to some sort of resurrection from the dead, if one was an egoist so as to compare oneself to Lazarus, a miracle, or, for the more self loathing, a leper. What may have been a gracious gift of god, the relief of rolling the stone away and stepping into blinding light instead becomes willing oneself up off the couch and into the fluorescent warm lights of a kitchen. Wandering blindly towards Bethany is instead towards the phone receiver, a man's salvation comes from either the word fallen from heaven, or from a rubber stopper, a compact speaker put to the ear.

Standing there a moment in the early morning chill, feet sticking to tile, I had wished I knew why I took the call at all. What sort of message could be worth the trouble? If I knew it all, then I wouldn't be in the kitchen with the buzzing light, naked despite the boxers that clung unaffectionately to my hips by an early morning sweat.

And yet, I had known the feeling immediately, had felt it that night, carried in by the wind as I sat in the automobile, and in the meeting, consultation after consultation, signature after signature, pause for lunch. Stamp the damn papers, and told Jenna, the pretty blond secretary to hold the next call. I had said to her, let them wait five damn minutes. Bless her heart, a woman is always cleaning up after the messes that men make.

The traffic, I seemed to remember, had been frightful, and yet in the blink of an eye I remember being back to my small apartment in West Hollywood, setting the briefcase down, and, feeling that sudden breeze, once again closed the damn window which seemed to open on its own accord. After that, it must have been changing, feeding the cat and myself and falling asleep, once more in front of the television. An overall unremarkable day.

But still, I had known something was afoot, slightly out of place. A telephone call at 3 am cemented this suspicion.

I pressed the speaker to my ear, and mutter spiritless, "Yes? Hello? You do know what time it is, right?"

"This is Tyler Joseph I'm speaking to?"

Tyler Joseph was a facade, an identity made on a foundation of sand that had been swept away by the tide of a half decade. I was not yet 22 when I had brusquely changed it to Robert Joseph, my grandfather's name, but as I would argue, a much more formidable name. A proper gentleman's name. After all, no one would meet a Head of Finances by the name of Tyler.

"Yes, this is him speaking."

A practiced laugh cut through the speaker. "Well, I'll be damned." It was a woman's voice, animated, you could almost hear her holding something back, and I've never been one who was enthusiastic about playing games of memory.

My response was not quite as delicate as I had hoped, but the frustration of an interrupted sleep weighed deeply in my mind and sharpened my tongue. "And just who the hell is this?"

"Oh, I suppose it's been some 8 years, but that doesn't give you an excuse to hide away and deny your years as a country boy, Ty." She tittered playfully.

But it had given me an idea, few had known me as Tyler, even fewer as Ty, which was practically a pet name from my late childhood. I was very well a teenager by the birth of that pet name. And I could only think of one who leaned so heavily into the name. The playfulness, callousness of calling at 3 am, 8 years, and pet name had all led to one person.