Coffee House Ghost

Sirens flared streets away. Jackson pulled his brown leather jacket closer to his ears. He had brown hair and eyes, and a handlebar mustache; middle-aged. Billows of steam erupted from a man hole nearby, where construction workers were hard at work. Jackson was headed to work, now.

He stopped, breathing on his cold hands and rubbing them. Jared's Coffee. He figured he could use some warming up. So he turned into the little coffee house.

Jackson stood at the register. The cashier smiled at him, asked him what he'd like to order. A girl stood upright, as her mother fussed over the hem of her skirt. A man with a face concealed by a scarf and hat sipped a steaming cup to his left, at a bistro table. At seven in the morning, this coffee house was bustling.

The cashier handed him a receipt, so he waited beside the counter, for his coffee. He took notice of a picture on the wall, across the counter. It was an old-fashioned Ford, parked in front of the coffee house. The color suggested the picture was very old. Though jackson didn't much care at the moment. He just wanted his coffee.

An old man with dusty hair and a grey cloak then joined the small huddle of people, waiting with their receipts. "Joshua," a young, pretty female employee called. The old man feebly walked around Jackson and took his coffee without thanking her. Jackson felt a little annoyed by this. Finally, they called his name. He reached over the counter, about to take his coffee. But the girl's eyes widened in horror. Confused, Jackson tried to reach for the coffee, but he couldn't.

"Why don't you just hand it over?" Jackson demanded, shouting at her.

But she didn't react to him. She pulled the cup back to herself. Jackson looked around for support. But the customers, the crowd, they were all gone. He thought they must've had to get on with their day. So he whipped around to tell off the cashier more, and she had left as well.

A scream smacked his ears from directly behind him. He turned around. The man held a gun, which had been pointing directly at the back of Jackson's head. He was a scrawny man, in a gray suit with a red tie, and ashen-yellow hair. His face was blotchy, and his teeth were chattering. Relentlessly, he pressed his finger on the trigger, making the clicking sound without the bang, running toward Jackson.

"Stop! Stop! The barrel's empty, you idiot!" shouted Jackson. Jackson reached a shaky hand into his pocket, continually backing away from him. "I'm calling the police."

His phone -- it wasn't turning on. As a measure of desperate self-defense, Jackson hurled the phone at the deranged man and made for the door. It wouldn't open. Now that he was right in front of the windows, Jackson noticed that it was dark out. But it was day just a moment ago.

Sobs issued from the floor. Jackson saw the deranged man laying on his face, the gun and cell phone on the floor several feet away from him. Jackson quietly tip-toed toward him, and kicked the gun away, behind the counter. Standing above him, his heart, racing, Jackson said, "Who are you?"

He continued sobbing. Jackson retreated to the empty kitchen, and found an exit door, but it, too, was locked. When he returned from the kitchen, he saw the deranged man upright, his face sinking like wax from a candle, in despair, as he looked into the picture on the wall behind the counter. Jackson carefully made his way around, behind the deranged man, and looked into the picture, himself.

It was a swirl of light and darkness, funneling into an ever-shrinking center. It was moving.

"Who are you?" asked Jackson again, his feet firm on the ground.

"Elias," said the other calmly. He laughed coldly, and peered over his shoulder at Jackson, like a snake looking above his huge, twisting body. "I shot you."

Jackson pursed his lips. "Couldn't've," he said. "Here I stand, before you."

"No, no, no," Elias hissed. He nodded confirmatively, smiling. He gestured wildly with his gloved hands. "I shot you! And then that old man shot me." He leaned in a little closer. "We're dead!"

His breath smelled rotten. Jackson stepped away from the insane creature, frightened. As they looked into each other's eyes, both slowly began to feel extremely uncomfortable.

Jackson, as bizzare as it felt to him, saw Elias; his feelings, his nature, and pieces of his life.

They broke the connection suddenly, without one word to each other. Elias's eyes were shut tightly, as his body curved uncomfortably to the right. Jackson had fallen onto a chair, breaking it, stunned by the creature that stood before him.

Elias had lived alone. He talked to imaginary friends, who were cruel to him. They told him how much he deserved better out of life; they also told him that he was worthless, insufficient, and far from masculine. Elias had shut out every other living soul, aside from those he spoke to briefly at work, and penned hourly entries in his diary. He blamed his mother for abandoning him. He blamed his father for abusing him. He blamed his siblings for never contacting him. He blamed his high school girlfriend for leaving him for someone else. He blamed his friends for ignoring him. He never blamed himself, though.

And that morning, Elias walked into Jared's Coffee House with the intention of sending a bullet through each person there. He simply started with Jackson, because Jackson had been standing in plain view.

The last thing he saw was the old man throwing his coffee to the floor, feeling the splash of heat around his ankles, and the barrel of a small gun being shoved to his heart.

"You did this to yourself," said Jackson.

"The hell I did," replied Elias. "I saw what you did to your ex-wife. Poor thing. She was sick. You're sick!"

Jackson stood on his feet, eyes blazing with judgement. "I left my wife," the words caught in his throat. But he continued at the man, "but you tried to murder a room full of innocent people!"

"They weren't innocent," Elias jeered. "Not one of them ever said hello to me. I lived alone for a long time, and no one bothered to help me."

"It's your own fault," Jackson roared at him indignantly, "you sabotaged yourself!" His countenance betrayed him. "I need to get home. Marrie!"

"Good luck," said Elias. "I think there's only one way out." His eyes glanced at the frame on the wall.

"That portal? It doesn't look welcoming to me," said Jackson. "You go ahead."

"The darkness," said Elias, consoling himself, "that's all I wanted, was to be gone." He crawled into it, and vanished.

Jackson could feel his heart beating slowing down in his ears, pounding. He couldn't possibly follow the man who murdered him, into the unknown. What if it lead to the darkness, to nothingness? Jackson couldn't bare the thought. He took a seat at a bistro table and stared out the window, at the streets, as people walked by and cars sped down the road. If he let his mind wander, he could hear the chatter, and clanking of cups, and a waitress asking "What would you all like to order?"