by Amy Cross
“So do you forgive me?” the voice asks.
She turns and looks toward the partition, and for the first time she's able to make out just the faintest hint of his face on the other side.
“No?” he continues.
She opens her mouth to reply, but no words come out.
“I figured as much,” he mutters. “God and his agents always preach forgiveness, but when it's difficult, when it challenges their petty morals, they can't find it in their hearts.”
She takes a deep breath, desperately trying to think of something to say.
“That's fine,” the voice continues, and now he can be heard getting to his feet and making his way out of the box. “I was hoping you might manage to at least pretend, but I don't know why I bothered. You're not capable of forgiving me. You should think about that, you know. If this was a test, you'd have failed it miserably. Aren't you supposed to show compassion to all?”
She watches as his feet appear beneath the door to her side, and she waits, terrified that at any moment he might burst through and do unspeakable things.
“I forgive you,” he says finally. “I forgive you for not forgiving me. After all, I've done a lot of bad things. Not as many as you might think, given my reputation, but a lot nonetheless. Too many, perhaps. We all reach a point where there's no going back.”
She waits, but after a moment she sees the feet turning and walking away, and a few seconds later she hears him finally leaving the church.
“Dear Lord,” she stammers breathlessly, leaning back against the wall as she tries to calm her pounding heart, “thank you for giving me the strength to endure his temptation. Thank you for testing me and for letting me show my love for you, and thank you for...” She pauses, before glancing down at the scone. For a moment, it feels like the most tempting baked item in the world, but she quickly reminds herself not to be weak. Getting to her feet, she grabs the plate and hurries out of the box, pausing only to tip the scone into the bin as she hurries back toward her office.
***
“Do you ever think about the future?” Anna whispers.
Staring up at the ceiling, Scott pauses for a moment before turning to her. Or rather, turning to the spot on his bed where she should be.
“Let me see your face,” he replies.
“Answer my question first.”
Ignoring her, he reaches out and passes his hand through the air.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“I'm right here.”
“Am I looking at you right now?”
She sighs.
“I miss seeing you,” he continues, holding his hand still for a moment and then slowly wriggling his fingers. “What part of you am I touching right now? Can you feel me?”
“I can't feel anything,” she tells him. “Now can you please answer my question?”
“I think about...” He pauses, feeling a growing sense of frustration that once again she's asking him about things that don't matter. “I think about how I'm gonna get past the next level of Fall Out,” he says finally, with a faint smile. “I think about whether I have to go to the shop this morning, or whether I can survive on whatever's in the fridge. Is that enough thinking about the future for you?”
He waits.
Silence.
“Anna?”
“What about more long-term?”
“You're a ghost,” he points out. “Do you even need to think about the future?”
He waits for a reply, but suddenly the bed creaks slightly and he realizes she's getting up.
“Cut me some slack,” he continues. “My aunt Cathy's at death's door, the cancer's eating her up. They reckon she's only got a few more days left, and now she's here in Rippon so it's not like I can block it out. I need to distract myself, not get into deep conversations.”
He waits.
Silence.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asks. When she doesn't reply, he sits up and listens to the sound of her heading toward the door. She's causing the floorboards to creak heavily beneath the carpet, which is always a sign that she wants him to know she's annoyed. Stomping has become one of her favored means of communication since she became a ghost. “Anna, seriously, what's this about? Can you please at least let me see you, if we're going to argue? It's very hard to read your body language when you're invisible.”
He waits.
Silence.
“Are you still here?”
Silence.
“Anna, it's also hard to have a discussion when I don't even know whether or not you're in the room.”
Silence.
“Anna?”
Silence.
“Anna, if -”
Before he can finish, a cup slides off the desk and crashes to the floor, bumping against the carpet.
“I'm not going to argue with you unless I can see you,” Scott continues with a sigh. “Remember last time? I never knew whether you'd stormed out or not, and by the time I realized you were gone, I'd been talking for half an hour. Come on, please, can't we both be mature about this? I mean, it's a pretty weird situation, it's not like a normal argument. I think I'm dealing pretty well with a weird-ass situation.”
He waits.
“Anna?”
He waits again.
“I know you're still here,” he tells her, looking around the room in hope of spotting a faint flickering or perhaps even a shimmering face. “Look, what's the point of arguing like this? I know you can just make yourself appear, and I want to know what's bothering you, but it's hard to be a mind-reader when I can't even see you!”
Getting to his feet, he takes a couple of cautious steps across the room.
“It's not easy dating a ghost,” he continues. “There's no manual, and it's not like I can go online and ask for advice. Maybe I get things wrong sometimes, but you've gotta help me out a little. I don't even know what I'm supposed to have done, for God's -”
Suddenly he sees that his high school yearbook is sliding across the table. When it drops to the floor and opens at a certain page, he sighs as he sees a particular face staring up at him.
“This is because I've been hanging out with Donna Anglesy, isn't it?” he says with a sigh. “Anna, I told you, we were just working on a project for something.” Reaching down, he grabs the book and places it back on the desk. “I specifically tried to calm your fears about that one, okay? Donna's fun, and sure, she's good-looking but -”
Hearing a huff of annoyance over his shoulders, he turns, but of course there's still no sign of Anna.
“She is good-looking,” he continues, “but I'm perfectly capable of recognizing that without wanting to put my hands all over her. Donna and I are just friends, and that's all we'll ever be, and you're really starting to get jealous lately. I'm not going to go running off after her, just because she's got a physical body. Anna, just talk to me, okay?”
He waits, but after a moment he realizes he can hear a faint sniffing sound, almost as if...
“Are you crying?” he asks, taking a step forward.
The sniffing intensifies for a moment, before suddenly his bedroom door opens wide and then slams shut with enough force to rattle the frame.
“Anna!” Running to the door, he pulls it open and looks out into the hallway. “Anna, come back! You're not being fair!”
Realizing that she's stormed out again, he pushes the door shut and goes back over to the bed. Once he's flopped down, he takes a deep breath and tries to get his thoughts together, before grabbing his laptop and bringing up a messaging app. After scrolling through the contacts list, he sees that only one person is online right now.
He hesitates, before clicking on Donna's name and starting to type.
Suddenly, from nowhere, an almighty slap hits the side of his face, startling him enough for him to drop the laptop. Sitting up, he sees the door swing open before slamming yet again, and this time he hears footsteps hurrying away on the other side.
“Anna!” he calls out, be
fore slumping back against the wall next to his bed, in a patch of morning sunlight that's streaming through the window. “This is driving me insane!”
He stares at the ceiling for a moment as he tries to gather his thoughts.
“Who'd have ever thought,” he says out loud, finally, “that dating a ghost would be so difficult?”
Chapter Five
“This way, Mrs. Abernathy,” a cheery voice calls out. “No, dear, this way. You're getting on the minibus, remember? For our day trip.”
“I need matches,” Sam tells the woman in the store. “Just give me loads and put them on the council's account. They're for business purposes anyway. I've got a lot of candles.”
“One box of matches, or two?”
“How many have you got?”
Mrs. Sinclair takes a look under the counter. “There must be forty or fifty here, but -”
“I'll take them all. It'll save me coming back anytime soon.”
Taking the boxes out, Mrs. Sinclair starts counting them, while casting occasional curious glances toward Sam. She knows she shouldn't stare at the knife hilt that's sticking out of Sam's head, and she doesn't want to be rude, and finally she has to look back down at the boxes.
“It's been a while since we've seen you,” she says, trying to make polite conversation. “Been keeping busy at the cemetery, have you?”
“The grass won't cut itself,” Sam mutters.
“I don't think you've been in since we moved.”
“All the stores have moved away from the town square, huh?” Sam replies.
“Well...” At this, Mrs. Sinclair pauses for a moment. “You know how it is, don't you? When Mr. Hale ran the cafe, it was so lovely up there, but now... I mean, under the new ownership it all feels a little... different...”
“Since the Devil took over, you mean?”
“We don't like saying that name around here,” Mrs. Sinclair says quickly, making the sign of the cross against her chest. “I'm sorry, dear, but we're old-fashioned people and the merest thought of that thing living in our midst is enough to strike such fear into us all. Not that we necessarily think he's the actual Devil, of course. It's more that he gives off a certain... vibe.”
“He is the actual Devil,” Sam tells her.
The only reply is a faint, non-committal murmur.
“So why don't you move?” Sam asks.
“Why do you think we shifted the shop down here, all the way at the bottom of the hill?”
“I mean away from Rippon entirely.”
“It's our home, dear,” she continues, “and we keep telling ourselves that this situation can't last forever. I mean, the Devil has to get bored and move on some time, doesn't he? Not that we really think he is the Devil, of course. It's just... Well, you can't be too careful, can you? And whoever he really is, I'm sure he'll tire of bothering us before too long.”
She pauses, as if she's waiting for some encouragement.
“Won't he?” she adds finally.
“Hopefully,” Sam mutters, glancing over her shoulder and watching as a dozen old ladies climb aboard the minibus that's taking them to some big day out away from town. For a moment she feels as if she wants to hop on-board with them, before reminding herself that she can't ever dream of leaving Rippon. Turning, she spots her reflection in a nearby mirror, with the hilt of a knife still poking out of her head. Leaving Rippon would mean dealing with the consequences of that... unfortunate situation.
One thing she knows for certain is that the state of grace will only hold within the limits of Rippon. If she so much as sets a foot beyond the perimeter, she'll die.
“I don't have time for this,” she says after a moment, turning to Mrs. Sinclair, “can you just charge the council for fifty and we'll call it even?”
“Valerie!” a voice calls out in the street. “This way, dear. You're the last one we need, then we can set off!”
Glancing over her shoulder, Sam watches as the minibus gets ready to depart. Part of her is increasingly jealous of the old people, and of the way they can fill their days with trips to bee farms and pottery museums, rather than having to worry about the Devil or the possibility of an impending apocalypse. She likes the idea of a finished life, one that has run more or less according to plan, and she'd give anything to just be boring. Instead, as she turns to watch Mrs. Sinclair still counting matchboxes, she feels as if her own life veers constantly between mundane chores and breathless, terrifying excitement.
“Oh, I lost count,” Mrs. Sinclair mutters, “I'll have to start again. I'm sorry, I -”
“I'll just take five boxes,” Sam tells her, scooping them into her hands before heading to the door. “Don't worry, I don't need any more than that. See you in another six months. Assuming the world hasn't been destroyed, anyway.”
“I beg your -”
“Joke.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Sinclair forces a pained, desperately unconvincing smile. “I'm sorry, dear. It's just that we've all been feeling a little on edge lately.”
Stepping outside, Sam squints in the bright sunlight and watches as the bright red-and-yellow minibus rumbles past on its way toward the bridge. She can see the old people inside, nattering away about their big day out, and again a twinge of jealousy ripples through her chest. What would it be like, she wonders, to get to a ripe old age and just sit back, content that you lived your life properly? When she looks ahead to her own future, however, she sees no such moment of release. Instead, she just sees herself working at the cemetery until flames come roaring out of the ground, or until the Devil plays one trick too many and decides to incinerate the entire town. She feels as if she's just marking time until an apocalypse, and the only question is whether that apocalypse will be merely personal or perhaps... global.
Turning, she starts making her way up the hill. At least living in Rippon has made her much fitter than before, and her calf muscles feel like -
Suddenly she hears a loud bang, followed by a scream. She turns, spotting something burning over by the bridge, but it takes a moment before she realizes that the minibus has burst into flames and is now veering to one side. Before she can react, she sees the minibus crashing into one of the bridge's walls and flipping over, rolling down the embankment and almost hitting the water. Coming to a rest on its roof, however, the minibus continues to burn, with the sound of screams coming from inside.
It takes another half a second for Sam to realize what's happening, but finally she drops the matchboxes and races along the street. Several other people are watching as well, but Sam runs past them all and then down the embankment, getting closer to the minibus as its elderly passengers scream for help. Racing to the bottom of of the embankment, Sam rushes to the side of the bus and then reaches up to grab the minibus's door, only for the metal to instantly burn her hand. Pulling back, she sees her own skin seared onto the handle, and then she turns just in time to see a burning face screaming from the other side of the window.
“Help!” Sam shouts, turning and looking back at the others, who are all watching from the top of the embankment. “Get down here and help!”
Making her way around the side of the minibus, she's about to go to the other side when a sudden pain slashes through her head and sends her stumbling back. Landing hard on the mud, she immediately gets to her feet and tries again, only for the pain to return. This time, when she falls back she realizes that she must be at the threshold of the town, which means she can't go any further without the knife in her head killing her. Wincing slightly, she gets to her feet and heads back along the other side of the burning minibus, but there's no way to get inside and after a moment the entire vehicle starts to slip further down the embankment.
Unable to help, Sam stares in horror as she sees a burning body falling apart in one of the windows. A moment later, the minibus crashes into the river and tilts over again, with some but not all of the flames hissing as they're extinguished by the water. The screams have stopped now, and it's hard for her to beli
eve that anyone could still be alive inside the vehicle.
“You did this,” she stammers, filled with anger as she stares at the flames, and as the air fills with the stench of burning flesh. “This isn't a game!”
***
“Why did you do that?” she shouts a few minutes later, slamming the cafe's door open and marching toward the devil.
“My scone recipe,” he replies, holding his flour-covered hands up for her to see. “I can't seem to -”
“Those were innocent people!” she sneers, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the wall with such force that a nearby cuckoo clock falls to the floor. “What's wrong with you? Wasn't it enough to kill one a night? Did you just see that bus and figure it was too good an opportunity to pass up?”
“Sam -”
“And then you made the bus fall just outside the town limits, so I couldn't do anything!”
“Sam, I -”
“You're despicable!” she spits. “I know I shouldn't be shocked. After all, you're the Devil. I guess I just fooled myself into believing that you might possess one ounce of compassion in your miserable soul!”
He stares at her for a moment.
“Sam,” he says finally, as she continues to hold his collar, “I honestly have no idea what you're talking about.”
“I'm not an idiot,” she continues. “You more or less threatened to do something like this when we talked last night! Are you so pathetically in need of attention and validation that you're willing to burn a coach full of old women? What the hell did any of them ever do to you?”
“I -”
“You burned them to death!” she screams. “I heard them crying out! I saw them die! You murdered them in cold blood, in the middle of the street! What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Well...”
He pauses.
“I mean,” he continues cautiously, “I am the Devil, so there's that. But -”
Before he can finish, she pulls him closer and then slams him back against the wall, harder than ever. Nearby, a second cuckoo clock falls down.
“This ends!” she sneers. “Right now!”
