8
Demi
I blink once, then twice, to make sure I’m not just seeing things. I even check to make sure my fingers aren’t anywhere near the keyboard on the screen. My pulse races. Did the ghost haunting my house just… text me? Like some digital-age Ouija board?
One by one, the letters in the reply box delete themselves. Mittens looks up and purrs affectionately. Not at me. At something, ?someone ?else.
A new message types in the reply box.
Sorry. Not trying to scare you.
A shocked, too-loud laugh bursts out of me, echoing into the quiet night. Excitement, amusement, and, yes, a little bit of fear fill me with a rush of warm adrenaline. I feel my cheeks blush.
This is weird, it types.
I clear my throat and find my voice, speaking to the empty air around me.
“You’re right. This is really fucking weird,” I say, unable to temper the thrill in my voice.
The letters on the screen disappear, and a new message appears.
I know. Sorry.
Grinning, I reply out loud, “I don’t know if they had cell phones back in your day, but it’s generally considered rude to read someone else’s text messages. It’s like reading someone’s mail. ”
I’m going about this all wrong.
“Listen, points for creativity.”
That guy sounds like an asshole.
“How do you know they’re a guy?”
Only men act that way.
“What way?”
Not taking no for an answer.
That hits me in the gut. Our entire relationship felt like a push-and-pull, with me making more compromises than I should have to keep things copasetic.
Blue was right when she said I’m a go-with-the-flow gal.
I prefer a calm energy, and sometimes when things get too serious or dramatic, it makes me uncomfortable.
So, I’ll do what I can to diffuse a situation to protect my peace.
I did that one too many times with Owen, and it taught him that he could get what he wanted if he pushed hard enough.
Are you safe?
I sigh. “He’s all bark and no bite.”
Barking is bad enough.
For whatever reason, the protective energy I’m feeling from my ghostly roommate makes me melt a little.
If it were anyone else, even my sister, I’d feel annoyed.
I’m a capable woman, and I don’t like feeling as if I need to be looked after.
Maybe it’s the fact that the person–or entity, I guess– I’m speaking to doesn’t technically exist, but it feels different.
Or maybe it's that now I’m imagining the ghost in my house as the tall, broody photographer with long hair from the Rolling Stone pictures.
“Look, Owen is harmless. He’s a piece of shit, but he’s not going to hurt me. I’m safe.”
I swear to god, the air around me sighs with relief.
Ok, good .
Then, after a moment: You deserve better.
“Are you flirting ?with me?” ?I ask it as a joke, but also maybe kind of not. I suppose there is some truth to what The Pams say about me – Demi St. James is a little off.
This is weird.
“You’re right. It’s weird.”
Sorry.
“You apologize a lot.”
I’m trying not to freak you out .
“Who are you?”
Who do you think I am?
“No, no, no. You don’t get to be cryptic,” I say, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders and relaxing into the cushions of the porch swing.
I’m a ghost. Cryptic is what I do.
At that, I laugh out loud. “Okay, fair.”
I’m Tristan.
“I thought so,” I say. “I was just reading about you.”
I know.
“You’re a bit of a snoop, aren’t you?”
Not much else to do when you’re dead.
A pause.
You’re the most exciting thing to happen in this house in decades.
“I’m flattered,” I say. And I am. In fact, it makes me feel a little blushy, a little too warm to confirm that he’s been watching me so closely.
I wonder what he’s seen, where he’s followed me, what he’s heard.
“You can’t leave the house?”
The house, yes. The property, no .
My heart breaks a little. I can’t imagine being stuck on a handful of acres for decades, for eternity. An afterlife without a seaside sunrise, despite being only a few miles away from the shore. So close, yet so far.
It’s my turn to say, “I’m sorry.”
I’m used to it.
“What do you do with all your time?”
Listen to music, read, haunt.
I laugh again, then shake my head. “I haven’t heard you playing music in the house.”
I’m trying not to disturb you.
“Isn’t that the whole point of haunting?”
I’m a gentleman.
“For the record, you have free rein to listen to music whenever you want.”
I appreciate that.
“You must have read every book in this house by now.”
A few times.
Fifty years without a new book? That might as well be hell.
“I’ll bring home some new ones for you. What do you like?”
The pause between messages stretches out, and I begin to think I may have said something wrong.
Finally, the words start typing out again.
You don’t have to go out of your way for me.
I roll my eyes, and I hope he can see it. “I own a bookshop.”
I thought you owned a record store?
“It’s both. Records and books.”
In that case, I read everything .
“Everything? Do you read spicy books?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. The idea of this handsome ghost spending his eternity reading smut amuses me beyond belief.
What’s a spicy book?
“Oh, sweet summer child, you have so much to learn about this brave new world we’re in.”
Dumb it down for me. I’m an old man.
Cute.
“Romance novels with sex in them.”
We had those in my time, too. Bodice rippers.
“They’re better now. Less bodices, more consent.”
I’ll read whatever you think is good.
“You’re giving me a lot of power with that statement.”
Take it.
Okay, now we’re definitely flirting. I know he doesn’t mean those words in the way my brain is interpreting them, but we were just talking about spicy romance books, and I’m picturing how big his hands were in that picture of him holding his camera, and my mind just goes ?there.
I’m obviously some kind of pervert. Sitting here having sex thoughts about my ghost roommate because he told me to “take it.” Get your shit together, Demi.
You okay?
I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Yeah. I think I’m just starting to get tired. Long weekend.” It’s a better excuse than the truth, that’s for sure, and it’s not entirely a lie.
Thanks for not freaking out. It’s been nice to talk to you .
“It’s been really nice.”
Goodnight, Demi.
I realize that I don’t want the conversation to end. I’ve really enjoyed talking to him. But I also think I need a little time to get my head on straight. This evening has been a whirlwind with an influx of new information.
“Goodnight, Tristan,” I say, and reluctantly set my phone down.
I settle into the porch swing a little deeper and cuddle up with Mittens. My blanket is warm, and so is the cat I’m spooning, while the air around me has gone from crisp to chilly. I’m cozy, and my head is filled with music from the seventies and images of a man with long brown hair.
After a while in the quiet, the porch swing starts to sway. Neither Mittens nor I is moving, but it swings all the same. Almost as if someone is gently pushing it.