Ghost Writer

How do you live with someone you never met? 

I step out into the cold, bright day and walk to my white Subaru. The chill in the air bites at my nose and stings my eyes, and I shut them tight as I get in and push the ignition button. My car slowly comes to life, and I turn the heat up to high.  

“I had a ton of cold mornings like this. I loved the cold. I remember this one time…”  

I jump. A deep male voice comes from the back seat, and I don’t bother to turn around to inspect who it is. Unfortunately, I already know. Essentially, I live with a ghost. I only really became conscious of him around the age of five, but he’s been around forever, and not of my own accord.  

“Would you stop?  There’s no need to infuse my life with every activity you ever did. Stop. Talking.” 

I turn up my 90s Rock and hit the road. I have an hour and a half drive to get back to college that I am not looking forward to, but a couple of errands here in my hometown to finish up first. I head over to my grandparents’ house to pick up some clothes that my Nana bought, as well as some food she froze for me to take to school. 

As I make the turn I’ve made a million times into their neighborhood, that pesky ghost shows up again.  

“See this intersection? One time I didn’t come to a complete stop. I had places to be, y’know? I hightailed it out on this road and a cop came right up on my ass. So maybe don’t do that when you drive.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” I reply shortly. “Thankfully, I know to look out for cops while I drive, and believe it or not, I’ve heard that one before. But again, thanks for the tip. You can go now.” 

I pull into my grandparents’ driveway lined with tall pines and crepe myrtles and cut the engine. Praying silently that my little friend doesn’t come back anytime soon, I walk inside. 

“Hey babe, I’ve got all your stuff right here,” my Nana scurries into the foyer from the kitchen, pointing to a pile of bags on the long wooden living room table. Like the ghost, my grandparents have a thick southern drawl. Right rhymes with rat and here has the letter “y” in it. “When do you go back?” 

“I’m on the way out after this,” I smile at my grandfather, who has hobbled in from his nap with their dog at his heels. A tall man with wiry white hair and a big grin, he is my favorite in the world. “I hate that I woke you up, I should have texted before.” 

“No, no that’s okay!” My grandparents recently acquired a small white Bichon Frise, who is now yapping at my feet. He is loud and takes a lot of attention and has dirty rings under his eyes, but my grandparents love having something to dote on. My grandfather scoops him up and places him in his lap, shushing and comforting him sweetly.  

“We were never allowed to have pets inside when I was growing up. Mom was too conscious of allergies.” There is that voice again. I shake my head and focus back to my grandparents.  

“Well, I guess I better get going. I still have to run by and get something to eat on my way out of town, and I want to be home before it gets dark out,” I smile sheepishly, and start to gather the pile of things that Nana has set out for me on the dining room table.  

The drive back to school felt long. I set my liked songs playlist on shuffle, and of course the ghost couldn’t help but play a few of his own songs. I flipped through them but changed to the Wicked soundtrack to keep me awake.  

Back in the apartment that I share with my boyfriend, I finish some homework and social content work, then go for a walk with Thomas and our golden retriever, Olive. The leaves are turning beautifully, and the sky is grey and threatening rain. Still cold out, we are bundled up; Thomas in his warm brown Carhartt, me in my big blue coat that once belonged to the ghost. 

Once back to the apartment, bathed and fed, Thomas and I headed to bed. We watch television until we fall asleep, but I can’t sleep. Lately, I have been waking up in the middle night, tossing and turning until I am forced to get out of bed and read in the living room. I don’t always mind getting up to read in the middle of the night; it’s peaceful, quiet and cozy in our home. However, weeks after weeks of insomnia has to go.  

Tonight, I gave up on trying. I quietly slip out of our dark bedroom and flip on the black electric kettle. Our rented apartment is small; we are saving up to get married someday. We are tidy, though, and like to keep everything clean to make our kitchen feel more spacious. The walls are painted a cream white with quartz countertops. I pointedly filled the apartment with warm lighting and sunflowers to make the space cheery and bright.  

There are nods to the ghost all over the apartment. His coat hangs in my closet, his guitar sits on a stand next to the bookshelf, and his favorite flower, sunflowers, litter the whole unit in little vases. I think that it’s nice to have pieces of him around, at least in the hope that he will be less talkative if there are pieces of him being seen.  

I pour my tea from the kettle and take my laptop to the kitchen table. My therapist has been encouraging me to write when I wake up at night, so I might as well start tonight. The empty Word document is daunting, and nothing comes to mind. I sit back and sip my tea. 

“I had a lot of nights like this. Wait, wait, just let me tell you, please? I remember this time I woke up and wrote a whole short story in the middle of the night based on a dream I had. Maybe you might remember reading that in my journal. And I wrote tons of songs that way, too. Something really great can come out of this opportunity, Elizabeth.” 

I shift in my chair. I didn’t plan to come out here to have a séance in my kitchen tonight.  

“Alright, okay, I’ll listen. So, what, you wake me up to share that I could write something down? Is this not something you could dive into when I’m awake? Or maybe just stop talking to me and driving me crazy altogether. You had your life, this is mine!” I hiss back and rub my eyes, careful not to wake Thomas in the other room.  

“Elizabeth, I have a request. I think we could work together here. I was going to be one of the greats. I was going to travel the world with my music and be the next Bono. You’re right, I had my chance, and I was foolish, and I lost it. But you could use this, and I’ve been planting this dream in you for 15 years.  

“Who do you think has been watching out for you, encouraging you to write, making sure you found all of my journals and stories and songs? You can do something with my story. Spin it and use it and make it something and put your name on it. Give both of us that voice.” 

I stand up and walk to the bathroom in our hallway. Looking in the mirror, I check my forehead for my temperature, thinking I must have a dangerously high fever and be hallucinating. Finding it normal, I splash cold water on my face.  

What is going on? This ghost has been following me for my entire life, reminding me of where he has been, what he has done, and inspiring me to follow in the footsteps, in some respects. I live in the same city he did, and love some of the same people. I have pored over his songs, journals, and short stories he wrote. When I am in my hometown, I drive the same streets and walk the same halls. I attended the same high school and listen to some of the same music. Adults come up to me and speak about his life, and how much theirs were changed by his short existence.  

For all of this, I’ve never known what to do with it. I’ve done a lot of therapy, and that helps. I’ve talked to friends and family about the heaviness of living for someone else and learning how to step out from that shadow.  

But does he make a point with this speech he’s giving? He did have an intense story that people could take interest in. And he’s right, I have always dreamt of a writing career. I know enough stories about his life to at least do a few short stories, and what I don’t know, I could ask from his friends and family.  

It couldn’t hurt to just write some of his stories down, right? They don’t have to go anywhere, but at least I could get them out of my head and onto something tangible. A step in the right direction to sanity. Maybe.  

I dry my face and look at my reflection one more time before turning out the light and going back to the kitchen. 

“Alright, fine. I’ll cut a deal with you. I will write what you say, as much as you give me, for one year. That’s it. Twelve months. After that time is up, you leave me alone. If you do return, it can only be for big occasions, and it must be limited to a message of support, not experience or inadvertent guilt tripping.”  

The room is silent for a few moments, and I don’t know what to do. I piddle around, then sit at my laptop on the table. Maybe I was too harsh with him. He is just a dead guy trapped on earth. Who wouldn’t want a little attention? 

I’m about to get up and try to go back to bed when the ghost starts in. “Thank you, thank you Elizabeth. I can’t believe this. It’s awesome. I can’t wait to get started, and what better bonding opportunity.”  

“Don’t get too excited. Let’s go ahead and start now while I’m up, I guess. Where do you want to start first?” 

I stretch back and open a new document as the ghost starts rambling. 

Written for EN 200: Introduction to Creative Writing at The University of Alabama, Fall 2023.