The Hungry Ghost

by Dalena Storm

  This hadn’t happened to Jimmy for quite some time, but occasionally it did happen. A stray would come his way, find itself on his doorstep. Mostly cats didn’t venture through this part of the city unless they’d been dumped. Either that or they were adventurous and dumb. No matter which sort of cat this was, it had come this way for a reason, and Jimmy wasted no time as he went through the inner door of the double-entrance, then paused at the front door, opening it carefully so that he didn’t startle whoever was out there.

  A gray cat, short-furred and young by the looks of her, was huddled in the doorway, soaking wet and shivering. Her tail twitched mightily and when she shifted her position Jimmy saw she was carrying a large belly beneath her.

  “By the tail of Macy Gray,” Jimmy said, naming her on the spot. The cat was pregnant, and she looked about to pop.

  Madeline couldn’t sleep. She was lying awake in the darkness, waiting for a text from Sam—an explanation, maybe, or an apology—that never came.

  She couldn’t stop mulling over the evening’s events. She’d been so close, and yet everything had gone just like it had every time with Sam before. Or, rather, it had not gone, which was the problem. Madeline had been waiting on Sam for over a year! She’d try to play it cool—she’d stopped calling Sam all the time—but now Sam wanted to put things off until “next week” and Madeline knew that next week would never happen, not if Sam continued prioritizing everything else over Madeline. This was how it always went: Madeline advanced and Sam seemed interested but then she retreated, and somehow it all had to do with Peter. But not just Peter. It was bigger than him, too. What was it that was making she and Sam act the way they did? Where did it come from, and how could she force it to finally change?

  Madeline bolted upright in the darkness. She needed to get outside of herself, to see this from another angle. She got up, flicked on the overhead light, and pressed her palms to her eyes as they ached through the adjustment. Blinking and squinting she grabbed her laptop from where it sat on her desk and pulled it with her into bed.

  Settling it in on her blanketed thighs, Madeline opened the laptop and then the document of her in-progress story, the one in which a hungry ghost made it into the human world to interfere in the lives of unwitting characters. Even after Sam and Madeline had stopped talking, Madeline had felt their connection. Like the story about the ghost, her almost-romance with Sam was a great, unfinished project that Madeline pulled with her everywhere, and she needed to finish it. She was getting sick of it sitting there, undone. In a way, the aching hunger in Madeline’s heart was not unlike that of the ghost’s in her story—hungry and greedy, and slowly consuming everything.

  Madeline started to write, and she didn’t stop until morning.

  Chapter Five

  While Madeline was busy writing, Sam’s Honda collided with the semi. The horrified truck driver screeched to a slippery stop that blocked both lanes of traffic. Cars honked on either end of him, tires squealing as their drivers slammed on brakes. The traffic jam that followed would last for miles in both directions, but for now, the semi’s driver only had eyes for what was left of the tiny car in front of him. Its front was smashed in, crumpled, and the windshield shattered. The trucker’s thoughts raced. It wasn’t his fault! His brakes couldn’t have done anything! He hadn’t even had time to try and turn…The rain… Fucking hell, what would his boss say?

  The trucker leaped out of his truck and crossed over to the crushed soda can that had once been a compact car. He tried to force open the driver's side door, but it was stuck tight. In the light of the semi's headlights, he could just make out a woman's body in the seat. She was slumped forward and bleeding from the head, her face obscured by shadow and blood. There were no other passengers. The trucker wiped the rain from the window and held his cell phone to his ear under the cover of his baseball hat as he dialed 9-1-1.

  Fifteen minutes later paramedics were on the scene. They retrieved Sam's body and took her away to an intensive care unit in Boston University Hospital where she was then connected to machines that would keep her alive with no guarantee of waking up.

  Occasionally, a male nurse passed through, checking on the patients one by one and administering medications as necessary. No one spoke to Sam, and she spoke to no one, but though her body lay there completely non-responsive, her mind was alert and aware.

  Peter awoke to the haze of a hangover. His limbs felt heavy and his body ached all over. His mouth was dry. There was a new hollowness within him. Something, it seemed, was missing.

  What was it?

  Peter rubbed his eyes and looked around. He heaved himself up from the couch and stumbled to the kitchen.

  Coffee.

  Coffee would fix him all right. No, booze first, and then coffee—or maybe coffee and then booze. Peter could never decide.

  Peter dumped grounds into the brew pot, not bothering to use a spoon. He poured water into the machine, switched it on so it started to gurgle, and staggered his way back toward the couch to wait for his head to stop pounding and the world to stop tilting. Where was his phone? What was the news? It was hard to estimate how long he’d been out.

  He found his phone wedged between couch cushions, the battery reduced to twelve percent since he’d failed—again—to remember to put it on the charger. Looking at the screen, memories of what he’d done the previous night flooded back to him. He’d called Sam. More than once. Shit! What had he said?

  “I’m drinking myself to death, you bitch! I hope you’re happy!”

  Fuck.

  His efforts had earned him two voicemails. One of them was from an unknown number, but the other was from her. Shit.

  Peter’s heart pounded, each beat alternating between anticipation and dread. Considering his two options, he pressed play on Sam’s voicemail first. Her voice filled his ear. Ohhhh fuck, she was mad. She was ranting. She would kick the shit out of him. She was on her way there. She would be there in an hour—an hour and he’d see Sam!

  Peter looked at the time on the message. It’d been midnight when she called. Now it was ten a.m., and she was…where?

  He shifted to look out the window. There was no sign of Sam’s car on the street outside.

  “Sam?” Peter called aloud, but the apartment was quiet. She was obviously not there.

  It was unlike Sam to turn around mid-trip. Or, maybe she’d gotten there after all, seen him passed out drunk (again), and said, “Ah, fuck you” and left? That was more likely, but still, Peter didn't think Sam would have let him off that easily.

  He contemplated the remaining voicemail, which had arrived at two a.m. Could Sam have been calling from a different number? Could something have happened?

  Peter didn’t want to press play, but it turned out he didn’t have to. As he sat there hesitating, his phone began to ring. The same number from the second voicemail flashed across the screen. A chill ran down Peter’s spine as he brought the phone to his ear.

  “Hello?” His voice was barely a croak. Peter cleared his throat.

  “Peter Harrison,” a terse voice assumed. “This is Dr. Shah from BU Hospital calling. Your wife was in a car accident this evening.”

  Your wife. The words echoed in Peter’s head, which caused his mouth to hang open. The doctor must have meant Sam, even though she was no longer his wife. She’d made that very clear to him, but she must not have updated her emergency contact information. The slip-up filled Peter with an irrational hope that maybe the divorce had been nothing but a nightmare. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him to fix things.

  Eventually, Peter managed to say, “What happened? Is Sam okay?”

  “She had a collision with another vehicle…” The voice on the other end of the line kept talking, and Peter fought through his hangover to follow along. Sam was in what they called a “non-response state” though her condition was “stable.” But what the hell did that mean—Sam wasn’t waking up?

  Sam’s mother had been at the hospital since the emergency
room called to deliver the news. When Bianca arrived, she’d been given a plastic bag that contained all of Sam’s belongings, all of the things Sam had had on her when she—

  No, these things still belonged to Sam. Her daughter was alive, and she was going to pull through. Bianca believed this with her whole heart as she clutched the bag of Sam’s things tightly against herself.

  The password on Sam’s phone was the same as it had always been. When Bianca unlocked it she saw all the new messages Sam had received since just last night. Even in the pain of the moment, Bianca swelled with pride. Her daughter was so popular, so loved. She’d been a social butterfly ever since high school. Of course, it wasn’t always a blessing. Sam had a way of stretching herself too thin, maintaining relationships that she’d acquired here and there over the years as if she felt some ridiculous responsibility to every Tom, Dick, and Harry she’d ever met. In Bianca’s motherly opinion, Sam gave so much of herself—to her students, her friends, even her ex—and got so little back in return.

  The most recent message was from a girl, Madeline: Sorry about last night. Hope everything’s okay. Call me? The name was familiar, but Bianca couldn’t place it. She looked at her daughter in the hospital bed and willed her to open her eyes, but Sam’s eyes stayed closed.

  The hungry ghost couldn’t get up. Its suffering was too intense. It lacked the strength to push itself to an upright position, and so it lay in the dirt with its face pressed against the ground. Dozens of tiny sharp rocks stabbed into the flesh of its round and distended belly. One jabbed deep into the ghost’s cheek, threatening to poke all the way through its skin and into its dry, empty mouth. Long and thin, the ghost’s tongue lolled out through its lips. It was far past the point a human being would have starved to death, but the ghost would never die of hunger or thirst. It would continue to exist in this state of starvation until it was released from this life—perhaps in another thousand years, if it was lucky. Too tired and in too much pain to moan, the ghost instead lay silent, its mouth a desert and its belly an empty cave, until it heard a strange sound whispering on the wind. The voice was airy and little more than a gust, but in its wake the ghost heard a distinct word forming—the first it had heard in a very long time, and one it recognized instantly.

  Help.

  Curiosity rose in the ghost and with it roused a tiny bit of strength, just enough for the ghost to lift its head and look around at its barren environment. The ghost couldn’t see very well. Everything appeared as a colorless haze, but the ghost looked as hard as it could and eventually it seemed to see small particles of something in the wind. Perhaps it was dust or leaves… the ghost couldn’t be sure, but it could tell they were blowing from a particular direction, which must have been the source of the voice.

  The voice was deeply in distress, but no one was listening to it—no one was coming. The ghost knew this with certainty and the knowledge triggered its predatory drive. The thing that was calling was helpless, which meant it would be easy prey. If no one else could hear it, then the ghost could find it. It could take it without contest.

  Desire that had fallen dormant in the ghost’s belly came roaring back to life as with a great burst of strength it heaved its tiny hands forward and placed them flat on the ground. It began the effortful task of lifting itself upright.

  This time, nothing was going to stop the ghost from feeding. This time, it would eat until nothing was left.

  Chapter Six

  Sam was dreaming, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t wake up.

  Help! She tried to yell, but her voice caught in her throat. She was tied to the bed, a prisoner in her own body.

  This can’t be right, Sam thought. This has to be a dream. This thought provided a sense of relief, because if it was indeed a dream then she was still in control—if it was a dream, she was not a captive but a creator.

  To confirm this, Sam attempted to will things into existence.

  Fish, she imagined, and they appeared before her, their scales sparkling like diamonds. She reached for one and it exploded into the multicolored light waves of the aurora borealis. Birds, she tried next, and was instantly surrounded by thousands of them—they landed, singing, on her outstretched arms. A small sparrow perched on her right hand and this one used a different voice than the others.

  “Oh, Sam, what’s happened to you?” the little sparrow said in Sam’s mother’s voice, and it was shuddering so fearfully that she brought it close to her face, nuzzling it against her cheek as she stroked its head to coax its fear away.

  “I’ll have a triple-shot, extra hot, sixteen-ounce vanilla skim latte.”

  Madeline’s first customer of the day greeted her with an order as she attempted to punch all the correct buttons and check the right boxes on the paper cup.

  It was a struggle, but eventually Madeline fell into the hypnotic rhythm of the day. Even her emotions assumed a reliable pattern, cycling through worry, fear, hope, and frustration and back again. It had been a late night, but she’d made it through the first draft of her story and it was coming along pretty well so far. It was about a ghost trying to find its way out of suffering, but it was more than that. It was also about Sam and herself and what kept happening between them, though the ending still wasn’t coming out right. Too many obstacles kept getting in their way, screwing up the storyline. Madeline was sure that if she could just tell the right story, then maybe she could change things in her real life, too.

  She could finally change her life—and Sam’s.

  Madeline finally got a chance to check her phone when she went on break at ten-fifteen. She saw—at last!—that Sam had texted her back.

  But no, something was wrong. The words on the screen weren’t Sam’s after all.

  This is Bianca, the message read, Sam’s mother. I just wanted to let all of Sam’s recent contacts know she’s been in a car accident and is currently at BU hospital, Room 409. She is stable, but the doctors are not yet sure which way things are going to go. Visiting hours are between ten and four, and well wishes are welcome, but please don’t call or text this number right now. If you need to contact me directly, my number is…

  Madeline read the text once, and then again, and then a third and fourth time. Her thoughts were scrambled and she was at a complete loss for how to react. The doctors weren’t sure which way things would go? A car accident? When? Not last night… Madeline remembered the rain and how distracted Sam had been when she'd left Grendel’s. Madeline had tried to stop her, but maybe she'd given up too easily. Was this partly her fault?

  The doctors had just finished taking Sam’s vitals when Peter walked in, and Bianca was too focused on her daughter to fully conceal her negative reaction. She tried to paint over it with a smile, but it felt thin and forced. Why the hell had they let him in? He was Sam’s ex-husband; he had no business being here.

  “Hi, Bianca. I came as fast as I could.”

  “Peter.” The smile still hadn’t reached Bianca’s voice by the time she greeted Peter. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  His eye twitched. He averted his gaze. His posture was hunched, his belly round from drinking.

  “Uh, well, you see…” His words floundered and then faded.

  Bianca knew it. Peter was unemployed. Again.

  “The doctors say her condition is stable,” Bianca spoke just to fill the silence, sparing Peter the humiliation of having to explain himself further. “Sam might wake up at any moment, or she might not wake up at all. If her unresponsiveness continues for forty-eight hours, she will officially be in a coma.”

  Bianca had grappled with the gravity of this statement all morning, and now that she said it she took some perverse pleasure in seeing horror fill Peter’s face. It served him right for always clinging to Sam like a lifeline—always putting the responsibility on her to fix things for him. Bianca wondered what he would he do now that Sam wasn’t around to save him. Maybe he’d have to actually face the consequences of his actions.

 
Before her break was officially over, Madeline returned to the café to seek out its owner. She found Christina ducked down behind the counter, replenishing the supply of paper cups. As Madeline reached her, Christina stood up sharply, so that the two nearly collided.

  Christina took one look at Madeline’s expression and saw that something was wrong. “Do you need something?”

  Madeline was still holding her phone, and she held it up as if in explanation. "I have a family emergency. I need to go to the hospital."

  Christina furrowed her eyebrows, glanced at the phone in Madeline’s hand, and sighed. A long line of customers was waiting impatiently at the counter, and there was only one other cashier at the register. “We’re a little short-staffed right now—”

  “It’s urgent.”

  Christina glanced back at Madeline and gave in. “All right, fine. You can go ahead and get out early, but will you be available later this evening?”

  “I don’t know,” said Madeline, already walking away.

  “Well, call me when you know! We could really use someone at—”

  The door had already closed behind Madeline before Christina could finish.

  Chapter Seven

  When Madeline arrived at the hospital, she made her way slowly down a long narrow white hall, each step filling her with a sense of growing dread. Would all of Sam’s family be there? Would Madeline have to make small talk? Would they have any idea who she was? Sam had mentioned Madeline to her mom, hadn’t she? Once or twice, at least? She hoped she wouldn’t see anyone. She only wanted to see Sam, to tell her she was sorry—that she shouldn’t have let Sam go, or at the very least she should have gone with her. She should be lying next to her in that hospital room. She wanted to shake Sam, and kiss her, and hold her, and wake her up.