The Hungry Ghost

by Dalena Storm

  Peter.

  There was nothing there, nothing aside from a towel hung on a rack, but that wasn’t a person. It must have been a trick of the light, or her imagination running away with her. Madeline rubbed at her eyes. She was feeling a little emotional, but it wasn’t a problem, she was fine. She checked her reflection in the mirror one last time, leaning in close to wipe her eyes, but as she did her breath fogged up the glass, revealing a swirl of letters that evaporated nearly as quickly as they appeared.

  S. A. M. Sam.

  Madeline screamed.

  Jimmy heard the girl shrieking and braced himself. The noise had scared little Sam and all her claws were out, carving tiny red scratches on the skin of his forearm.

  A moment later Madeline rushed back into the room. She’d been crying, from the look of it, and her face was a vision of terror.

  “In the bathroom…”

  Jimmy rushed to his feet at once. “Do I need to go check it out?”

  “No…yes! Maybe. There was…”

  Jimmy placed Sam on the floor and she followed on his heels as he strode down the hall to the bathroom, Madeline hot behind them. He pushed the door open so hard it banged against the wall. The light was still on. “Hello?” he demanded.

  “It’s not… It was here,” said Madeline, still gasping. She pointed at the mirror, and Jimmy noticed her hand was shaking. “I was washing my hands, and I leaned in a little close and I got some breath on the mirror, like fog you know, and right in front of my eyes someone wrote Sam.”

  Jimmy peered in close to the mirror, looking for a trace of evidence, some kind of fingerprint smudges, but there was nothing to prove or falsify her story.

  Jimmy pondered. It didn’t get him very far. “Okay,” he said.

  “Yeah.” Madeline was wringing her hands now.

  “So,” said Jimmy, “you think it was a… Well, just what do you think it was?”

  Madeline became excitable. “Okay, so, for just a second, I thought it was a trick of my eyes, but I think I saw Peter.”

  “Peter. And that’s…?”

  “Sam’s ex-husband. The kinda beardy guy with tattoos.”

  “The one I was picking up on earlier.”

  “Right.”

  “You think this was him, then? Writing her name on the mirror?”

  “I don’t know!” Madeline cried, her voice edging on hysteria.

  Jimmy patted the air with his palms in a motion of calm. “Okay, okay. It’s all right. It doesn’t look like there’s anything more to see in here, so why don’t we all go back to where we were and think.”

  Jimmy flipped off the light and ushered Madeline and Sam back into the little carpeted room. Sam didn’t seem too keen on going back in there and tried to wander away, but Jimmy nudged her through the door with the toe of his shoe. Once inside, he sat down and indicated that Madeline should do the same. They sat facing each other on the floor, with Sam idling around back and forth between them.

  “A ghost?” suggested Jimmy after the space of a few quiet minutes.

  Madeline groaned.

  “Well, we have to throw some ideas out there. Weren’t you talking about a ghost when you first came in?”

  “No!” she scoffed, and then reconsidered. “I mean, yes, but that was a different kind of ghost, I think, and a story, not a real thing. This might be a… I don’t know. Some kind of manifestation, or a trick. Maybe Peter is doing a spell somewhere, trying to send us a message or something, right?”

  Jimmy raised an eyebrow and spoke slowly. “Peter is doing a spell?”

  Madeline groaned again and shrugged. She knew it sounded insane.

  “Okay, sure,” Jimmy offered. “Could be something like that.”

  “Or…”

  “Or what?”

  “Nothing. Just… In this story I’m writing…” Madeline shook her head. “But stories aren’t real.” She looked at Jimmy like she was looking for confirmation so Jimmy nodded, though he didn't really know what she was getting at.

  She didn’t continue.

  “If this story is somehow connected to Sam, maybe you’d better talk through what you’re thinking,” he suggested.

  Madeline nodded hesitantly. “Right, so, I’m writing a story about a ghost. A hungry ghost.”

  “A hungry ghost! Well, I suppose Thanksgiving’s a good time for it to find something to eat.”

  “Exactly, that’s what I thought. So, this ghost has been slowly taking over Sam’s life. It’s stolen her body and it’s been eating non-stop, but now it’s discovering that it’s not satisfied with food. It wants to eat people, too. And so Peter, Sam’s ex-husband, is always around, and he seems like an easy target. It’s like he’s practically begging to be taken.”

  “So the ghost gobbles him up.”

  Madeline nodded slowly. “Possibly.”

  “But if the ghost has gobbled him up, then how would he be here now?”

  “What if he didn’t die completely? If his consciousness somehow lingered…”

  “What you’re saying,” clarified Jimmy, “is that he too became a ghost, which brings us right back to the idea of ghosts again.”

  “Let’s say it is a ghost, but a different kind of ghost—one that wants to talk to us. What would Peter want? Why would he be here?”

  “Something to do with Sam?” suggested Jimmy. Madeline nodded.

  “Yeah. Like, I was thinking about how he was probably at that party tonight, the one at Sam’s house. So, what if something happened at the party?”

  “That could be,” said Jimmy, “and now he needs to send us a message.”

  “Exactly. A message—something to do with Sam. But how could we figure it out what it is?”

  Jimmy thought on it. "I know! There are those boards, what are they called, Ouija boards? Old wooden things, supposed to be able to communicate with ghosts.”

  “Sure, but we’d need to have a board.”

  A smile spread across Jimmy’s face.

  “What?” asked Madeline, but Jimmy just kept on smiling. “What?”

  Madeline waited while Jimmy fetched the board. This was the single weirdest night of her entire life. Once in a while, in her life, certain things had lined up in ways that seemed like fate. There’d been little coincidences here and there that seemed like signs, but for the most part, life moved on and it was totally impossible to follow. All sorts of things happened for God knows why and it was all she could do to survive. Tonight was different. Things were headed in one direction. It was like Madeline was riding in a boat and Jimmy was in it, and other people were, too. Sam and Peter and maybe others, who knew, and together they were all trying to keep the thing afloat. It was unbelievable, but here she was.

  Jimmy returned with the board and set it down on the carpet. Sam pounced on it, batting at the planchette.

  “No, no,” said Jimmy, pushing her off of the board’s wooden surface. She protested a little, trying to get at it again, but Jimmy resolutely held her off and eventually she gave up. Madeline watched this with confusion. Where was Sam in that little cat?

  “What do you think she’s thinking, trying to get on there? Do you think she wants to contact Peter?”

  “I think she wants to play with our fun new toy,” Jimmy said, and then he looked at Madeline, who looked horrified. “I’m sorry,” he shrugged, although he didn’t really look sorry, “but even if she is Sam, the truth is she’s also a cat.”

  Madeline didn’t breathe for a second, and then ever so slowly she exhaled. She was going to let that go. She wasn’t going to think about it.

  “Okay,” said Madeline, “Fine. How do we work this thing?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Peter had arrived at what should have been Sam’s location, but all he’d discovered was that skinny home-wrecker Madeline and some black guy hanging out with a cat. Were his calculations off? He’d tried to question Madeline to see if she knew where Sam was, but she’d just freaked out. Still, perhaps if he hung around
long enough, he’d figure out why he was here.

  Peter watched the unlikely pair get out a Ouija board and set it up. He had no idea if things like that actually worked. So far he’d had some semi-successful attempts at communication— rearranging the crumbs, leaving the marks on the glass—but he had no idea if he could move that little pointer around on the board. He sat down on one side, between Madeline and Jimmy.

  “What you do,” Jimmy was explaining to Madeline, “is we both rest two fingers very lightly on one side of the planchette, and then we wait for something to move it.”

  “Why do we have to be touching it?” Madeline asked. “I mean, if there’s a ghost in here couldn’t he just move it himself?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jimmy, “all I know is that’s what the instructions said. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that if you want good results, you’d better follow the instructions. No improvising until you’ve got the hang of the basics.”

  “Okay,” said Madeline, and they both rested their fingers on the planchette as Jimmy had instructed. Just for fun, Peter reached out and did the same. If he engaged his muscles, he could feel them hover right at the line of resistance that defined the barrier of the object. If he exerted just a little more pressure, however, he’d pass right through.

  “And now?” asked Madeline.

  “Now,” said Jimmy, “we ask a question. Where do you think we should start?”

  “How about with ‘Are you Peter?’ since it’s a basic yes or no question?”

  At the outer edges of the board, the words Yes and No were written, and Peter saw that he should have been able to move the marker to either of them in response. However, when he tried to push the pointer, his fingers passed right through it. He tried again, and again, each time with no success. He cursed to himself. Was he doing this wrong? He just wanted the damn thing to say yes!

  As he watched, the planchette started to move.

  “Hey, it’s moving,” said Jimmy.

  “Yeah, it is,” agreed Madeline, her voice incredulous.

  Peter watched as the pointer slid across the board. It varied in between heading toward Yes or No as if uncertain, and then, shakily, it sped across the board to Yes.

  “Yes,” said Madeline.

  “Yes,” confirmed Jimmy.

  They looked at each other and Peter felt sort of useless.

  “Okay, what next?” said Madeline. “What else should we ask?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jimmy. “How about, let’s see, ‘Do you have a message for us’?”

  They reset the planchette in the middle of the board. Madeline closed her eyes this time and so did Jimmy. "Do you have a message for us, Peter?" Madeline whispered, unnecessarily, since Peter had heard the question the first time. He found himself watching Madeline and thinking how unfair it was that she’d tried to steal Sam from him when she had such an advantage. It wasn’t like he could compete with her—she was so young, so beautiful—and he’d always suspected Sam had been more attracted to women than men anyway. He hadn’t stood a chance, and things had already been shaky.

  In a way, this was all her fault. He’d fucked up with Sam, but Madeline had sealed the deal.

  The pointer zoomed to Yes.

  Madeline opened her eyes, and Peter couldn’t help but wonder if they’d ever seen Sam naked. “Yes,” Madeline read, and for a second she almost saw him, looking at her, but her gaze passed through his. “What’s the message?” asked Madeline, resetting the planchette.

  Peter realized it was him pushing the planchette, not with his fingers but with his thoughts.

  “B,” read Madeline, calling out the letters as the pointer moved, Peter’s mind brushing the planchette across the board as surely as Madeline’s fingers had brushed across Sam’s skin. I it moved again. “A… N… C… A… Bianca. Bianca. That’s Sam’s mom,” Madeline was explaining to the man. “Bianca… I… S… Bianca is… I… N… T… R… O… Bianca is in trouble? Yes. Bianca is in trouble. What kind of trouble? How? Where? A… T… at… T… H… At the… L… A… K… E… H… O… U… At the lake house—that's Sam's place—but why there? Don't answer that. Well, what can we do? What do we do?"

  “You know this lake house?” interjected Jimmy.

  “Well, yeah,” said Madeline, blushing as she remembered her plans for Sam in that place. “I mean, I have the address.”

  “Well, let’s go.”

  “Okay, but wait, maybe first…”

  “What is it?” said Jimmy.

  "Well, shouldn't we ask him if there's anything else we need to know?"

  “Sure.”

  Madeline asked, looking up into the room pleadingly as she closed her eyes. Peter wondered if Madeline had loved Sam, too, as much as he had loved her. No, he knew she had, just in a different way. He wasn’t sure if he could tell her what had happened to Sam, or to him. He wasn’t even sure if he could admit it to himself.

  The planchette sped to Yes without Peter even realizing he had thought it, and then he watched with horror as it went on to spell out the rest.

  Madeline read the result out loud: "I'm dead. Peter's dead." She looked up at Jimmy. "Well, I guess now we know.”

  “Fuck,” said Peter. The truth had been stolen from his subconscious whether he liked it or not and Madeline had narrated it out for him. He guessed he’d just have to accept it.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Bianca was beginning to feel like this wasn’t such a good idea. She’d acted hastily, impulsively, wanting to stop time. Bianca was sure that back at the house her family would be going crazy trying to reach her. They’d probably have assumed the worst—that Sam had done to her what she’d already done to Peter.

  Bianca shuddered. That was impossible. There was no way Sam could overpower her, even if she wanted to. She was all bark and no bite. And yet, she’d managed somehow with Peter. Of course, Sam had been holding on to such anger with that man, not that it was any justification. Bianca was Sam’s mother. Sam wouldn’t hurt her mother. That had to still be true.

  But then Bianca remembered what had happened in the basement with Rosa.

  “Look,” said Bianca, clearing her throat and hoping Sam didn’t hear the fear in her voice. "It's going to have to be a quick stop at the house. You can say goodbye to your old things, maybe grab a book that I’ll try to get to you. Anyway, you can still write, can’t you, after you’re all locked up? Your life isn’t over. You can still accomplish a lot. Maybe you’ll write a book.”

  Next to her, Sam stared silently through the windshield, which made Bianca extremely uncomfortable. They took the highway out of Boston, headed for Lakeville, and Bianca tried to ignore the feeling in the pit of her stomach that was telling her to turn back around. She’d promised Sam a drive. She’d offered to take her where she wanted. She’d follow it through.

  “Do you remember,” asked Bianca, “the first time we took you to the ocean? You were six years old, and you jumped into the water and started flailing around, splashing like mad. I was afraid you were drowning, but after I wrestled you out of the water you looked up at me with those big hazel eyes, lashes all wet, and said in that faint British accent you were putting on then, ‘Mummy, why did you stop me? I was turning into a fish!’ You were always so creative. You’d pretend to be a fish and then a dolphin. Then it was a mermaid rescuing sinking ships. You always had a good heart, Sam, right from the very beginning.”

  Bianca wrapped the memory around her, trying to find comfort in it. Little Sam, golden-haired and tanned, covered in salt water and sand. She’d had the most fantastic curls back then, but she’d grown out of them, as she had so many other things. Bianca’s heart ached as she looked at Sam in the seat next to her. After a pause Sam stared back at her, oncoming lights from a passing car briefly illuminating her face. For a split second, Bianca thought she saw something that was not her daughter sitting beside her. Her breath caught in her throat, and Bianca turned her eyes back to the road, tryin
g to be rational as she considered how much farther they had to travel before arriving at the lake house. Forty minutes, she guessed, and she suddenly wasn’t sure she could make it. She shouldn’t have agreed to go so far out of the way. She should have called Jeff and let the rest of her family know where she was.

  They’d have told her to come back right away. They’d have said that she’d gone mad—and they might have been right. She should go back...

  Her heart pounded in her chest and she tried to force it to subside. Calm down! Bianca scolded herself. You’re forty minutes away. You’ll swing by the lake house quickly and then you’ll turn back around and take Sam straight to the police station.

  In the seat beside Bianca, the ghost could tell the woman was growing suspicious. For a second—just a second—Bianca had seen its true face. The ghost would have to be careful; it would have to play nice. If it wanted to keep its human existence it would have to formulate a plan. This was difficult for the ghost, planning. It had never had the luxury. It had always been driven by hunger and the need to satisfy itself. That immediacy had eliminated the ability to think long-term. It couldn’t even remember how it had ended up a hungry ghost in the first place. It seemed it had always been that way, but that couldn’t have been true.

  “Bianca,” said the ghost, and then it realized its error. “Mother.”

  “Yes?” said Bianca, glancing sidelong at the ghost.

  “What do you think happened to Peter? I mean, what happens after we die?”

  "Oh, my," said Bianca, and her forehead wrinkled. "Well, I suppose he’s gone to Heaven.”

  “Heaven? What’s that?”

  “You know very well that I don’t know.”

  The ghost was silent, waiting her out. Eventually, she sighed, shook her head, and spoke again. "Come on, Sam. Heaven is a story from the Bible, something we tell ourselves to make death sound better, but if you want to know what I think, well, I guess we probably go back to some cosmic beginning. Some time before we were individual people, back when we were all just soul, no separate you or separate me. Maybe that’s a kind of heaven in itself.” She took a breath. “I believe Peter’s at peace now, or at least no longer suffering.”