A Ghost of Fire

by Sam Whittaker

  ***

  When I pulled into the parking lot of the bookstore around half past five I had a hard time finding a space. I drove around three times before I spotted a car pulling out of one. It was toward the back of the lot and my frustration brimmed at the distance I would have to go coupled with the injury which slowed me and made journeys slightly more difficult. But then I shook off all the despair boiling in me. I imagined myself an old man telling the story to a circle of a younger generation of whiny Nicholas children. “Why, once I had to walk an entire bookstore parking lot both ways on foot!” No one would be impressed. I got out and crept my way to the store on my new steel legs, passing rows of cars and trucks and minivans.

  Immediately thunder clapped its titan sound overhead and moments later droplets dashed themselves against my face and shoulders. I was able to endure about thirty seconds of it and then I reached the great awning of the establishment in question. Sheltered from the rain I stopped in front of the doors and heard the downpour fully begin its task of soaking everything in sight. I turned and saw the wall of rain. When I turned back I was reaching for the door when I was confronted with a professionally printed flyer.

  The store was hosting an author that evening for a short talk and a book signing, which explained the full parking lot. To my surprise it was a name I recognized and not some local menace who thought that just because he could string a few sentences together it qualified him to be a ground breaking superstar. To my absolute delight it was the author of a book I was trying to secure for my little problem. The smiling picture of Trent Blacker invited me in for an unexpected but very welcome surprise.

  I walked into the building and was greeted by the low hum of conversation taking place throughout the store. On the raised platform of the café in the back of the place a single six foot long table draped with a floor-length white tablecloth supported a microphone on a short stand and a stack of books. Blacker was nowhere to be seen. Presumably he either hadn’t arrived yet or they were keeping him sequestered away in a staff only area.

  A tall and lanky man in a neat polo shirt and dark slacks approached me. I recognized him from the multiple occasions I visited the store and knew he would be familiar with me also. His name, Roger, was stitched onto the left breast of the shirt. It was followed by the word, “Manager.” He smiled as he drew nearer.

  “Good evening,” he said. “Are you here for the author event?”

  “I am now,” I said cheerfully. “If I knew he was coming I would have made it here earlier to get a better spot.” Roger nodded. I saw his eyes dart to the crutches under my arms and could tell an idea was forming in his head.

  “Well, let me see what I can do about that. The seats are first come, first served but I’ll see if I can hold a place for you up front. Last I looked only a few people have put jackets and stuff down to save spots. You can go ahead and look around and I’ll see what I can do.” He moved off in the direction of numerous folding chairs set up facing the café area. The sympathy felt nice and I began to wonder if I might be able to use the crutches to milk a bit more of it elsewhere.

  Nearby was a display stand supporting multiple copies of three books by Blacker. The one I had looked at when I was there last was apparently his newest release. The other two looked interesting but weren’t what I was looking for. Each of them had a discount sticker advertising thirty-five percent off. I hadn’t planned on buying anything that night but the temptation was too great. I reached out my hand and plucked the forbidden fruit from the tree.

  I went and paid for the book at the counter, getting a bag and a receipt for it.

  But like the fruit it was all too good to be true, looking good but having a bitter center. I was so consumed with my good fortune that I’d completely forgotten the reason I came to the bookstore in the first place. It wouldn’t be until later that I remembered to ask if Katie was around. When I at last remembered and asked after her I would almost wish I hadn’t.

  I milled about the store spending time in the Classic Literature section for a while. I thumbed through an unabridged volume of Hugo’s Lés Miserables. It was another favorite of mine with grand themes and rich characters. I put it back on the shelf, thinking about the conflict between the Convict and the Inspector. I identified with the accused man just trying to make life work while relentlessly pursued by someone that wanted to put a stop to it all.

  Soon I found myself in the General Fiction section. There was much to appreciate here, too, I believed. Sure, there were the usual hacks and half-talents, but unlike many others from the profession of my previous life I didn’t believe all the true masters of the written word were confined to some golden age long past.

  Roger found me and let me know The Author had arrived and that the event would begin soon. Clearly very pleased with himself he also informed me that I had a seat reserved in the front row. I thanked him and set myself in that direction.

  When I found the front row of seats it was immediately apparent that Roger didn’t know my name and that he had a slightly twisted sense of humor. There was a handwritten notice with the words “Crutch Boy” printed on them. I shook my head and chuckled. I would have to kid him about it later.

  People were beginning to take seats behind and beside me. Every seat was taken in short order and several people were standing. The crowd was diverse ranging from the very old and distinguished looking types to the young hipster who looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. I hadn’t heard of the man until a few days earlier and yet he had drawn a better than fair crowd. My expectations were rising with each passing moment.

  Roger took the stage and I saw Blacker standing off to the side with his arms folded looking on interestedly. The store manager took the microphone from the short stand on the table and tapped it a few times. Nothing happened and he looked to the other side of the stage where one of the employees looked at a small PA system with a frazzled expression. A few moments passed while the kid at the PA switched around a few chords. He looked up at Roger and nodded.

  “Thank you for coming tonight everyone. It is our pleasure to welcome a distinguished guest, a recognized author and a snappy dresser.” This drew a polite chuckle from the crowd and confirmed to me who wrote the note reserving the chair in which I sat. The crowd’s response only served to encourage him. I saw him smile, self-satisfied, and he continued.

  “He is the author of three books. His latest, Ridding Ourselves of the Ghost Myth, has made it to the top ten of the New York Times Bestseller’s List. Would you please welcome with me Dr. Trent Blacker?” The audience began to clap politely. Roger replaced the microphone on the stand and joined the crowd’s applause.

  Blacker stepped casually onto the stage and sauntered over to the table where he took a seat behind the microphone. He made a few humble gestures of thanks and waited for the applause to die down before he spoke. He didn’t strike me as the prestigious college professor type. He was only a few years older than I was, he appeared very warm and wore no tweed jacket with elbow patches. I liked the man immediately.

  “Well, thank you, thank you very much. I’m very glad to be here. And I’m glad you’re all here too. Not because I want you to get anything out of it.” He paused and we all waited with bated breath to hear him clarify why he’d said such a thing. He grinned as if he knew something we didn’t. “It just makes me feel like a rock star or something.” We broke out with polite but genuine laughter. If nothing else the man knew how to work a crowd.

  “So, I guess I’m here because you want to hear me talk about why I wrote a book about ghosts. Fair enough. Martin Luther, the renowned sixteenth century Reformer of the Church, said something to the effect that the default mode of people is religion. I would say it’s more like belief in something other than themselves, organized or not. Now coming from a skeptic you might find that strange. But I don’t think skepticism in its purest form must equate something akin to atheism, which is the lack of belief. I agree with Shakespeare’s Hamle
t that there probably are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in our philosophies.

  “But,” he held up a finger, “when it comes to things like ghosts, vampires or werewolves I find myself asking the question, ‘Why’?” He let all this sink in by giving us a few moments. He looked around and met eyes with a few people in the audience, including myself.

  “First,” he continued, “why do we feel compelled to believe in things like that?” The tone of that last word said everything. It wasn’t accusatory or derogatory but was laced with curiosity. It was a genuine quest into a subject many found questionable. “What is the psychological motivation behind it? Or is the motivation not merely intellectual furniture but is it perhaps also born out of experience?” I knew what the answer was for me, anyways. I wondered, then, what he would say if I told him at least part of my own story or if I should just keep my mouth shut and ask him to sign the book. This was an internal debate I held which went on all through Blacker’s talk.

  “Second, why do some people seem prone to have these experiences, sometimes frequently and in different locations while others, like me and a majority of the rest of us, do not? Is it because they have some sort of psychic talent I don’t? Or is it because they’re uneducated?” This drew a guarded laugh from a portion of the crowd. I waited to see if he meant it as an insult to the uneducated or if there was something else he was getting at. I got my answer.

  “No, seriously,” he quickly interjected, “I don’t say that to demean people of less education. I know of people, studied people, who are now considering the possibility that education, specifically a western style education, while enhancing our ability to think in some areas actually hinders or retards some kind of intuitive process in us. I mean, have you ever heard of someone or met someone who was too smart for their own good? You know the kind of person I’m talking about. I mean the person who’s really super smart in a few areas but is completely inept when it comes to the social ins and outs of life that we all take for granted. Have we been educated beyond belief? And if so, what are the implications of that for our ability to connect with the so-called supernatural realm of things?”

  I was completely awestruck with that idea. I’d never thought of such a thing before. I had chosen the field of education because I had assumed to be educated was always preferable to being uneducated. But what if I had been wrong?

  Blacker continued with his talk and we all sat rapt and listened to his every word. When he finished with his prepared speech he opened up a time of question and answer. I only partially paid attention to this. Most of the time I wrestled with what he had said. I didn’t feel it had much bearing on my situation but I knew it was a completely different angle from which I might look at everything I considered important in my life up to that point.

  When Blacker finished up the Q & A Roger stepped back up to the stage and began to form the line for the signing. I intentionally stayed seated, allowing other people to go ahead of me. Roger noticed this and came over and asked if I wanted to jump ahead in line. He said he didn’t think people would mind because of the crutches.

  “Thanks but no thanks,” I told him. I used the excuse that I wanted to give my ankle some more time to rest and that I would jump to the back of the line when there were only a few people left. In reality I wanted to be able to tell him a little bit about what was going on without a ton of people waiting in line behind me getting impatient. Crutches or no crutches, people had places to go.

  A solid hour passed until there were only a few people left. I finally got up and moved to the end of the line. There was a good fifteen minutes from that point until I got up to him. I handed him the copy of the book and he took it, asking who it was for. I told him my name and he scrawled a brief two-line message he must have written hundreds of time and signed the thing. My heart pulsed rapidly and I blurted it out.

  “So I think I’ve got a couple of ghosts in my apartment.”

  “What like pets?” He thought I was joking.

  “Not exactly,” I said hesitantly. He looked up from the book, recognizing from my voice that I was serious. He looked into my eyes, maybe for confirmation, maybe to see if I looked crazy and to decide if he should be worried. He blinked a few times and then spoke.

  “So, tell me about these ghosts. Have you seen them?” He was fishing, that much I could say for sure. But I couldn’t tell exactly what he was after.

  “There’s a little girl,” I started. “I’ve seen her in a few places now. I’ve also heard her laughing in my bathroom and she’s left a message for me on my answering machine. After that I saw her standing in the back of the ambulance that took me to the hospital after pretty bad car accident that only gave me a sprained ankle. Most recently, she handed me my laptop computer in my apartment last night which had a strange kind of puzzle of words and numbers. She looks very young, maybe four or five years old. She’s got burn marks on the side of her face and wears a little white dress with dark streaks of what I think is ash. And out of the two I’ve seen, she’s the pleasant one.”

  Blacker stared at me speechless. He looked around to see if anyone else was around and listening. Then he leaned forward and said in a lower voice, “That’s really detailed, Steve, and more than a little creepy. I’d love to know more. Tell me about the other one.”

  “Him. He’s not so pleasant.” I told him the story about the answering machine message and how after I’d listened a few times to what the little girl had said on the recording it was interrupted by the angry, almost beastly voice. I also told him about my minor journey through the hospital halls which turned briefly into a minor journey through Hell. He looked a little drained of color when I finished and I thought the man before me wasn’t really a skeptic at all but someone who deeply wanted to believe yet was, in truth, simply afraid to for whatever reason.

  “How long has this been happening?”

  “My sense of time’s a little fuzzy after the accident,” I said, “but it’s been going on for about three days or so. Four at the most.”

  Blacker looked at his watch then stood and fished a small tin out of one of his pockets. He opened it up and withdrew a business card from the thing. He wrote an e-mail address on the back and handed it to me.

  “On the back is my personal e-mail address. I don’t give that out to just anybody so don’t make me regret giving it to you. I have to get going so I can’t stay and talk but e-mail me tonight with the times over the next few days we can get together and talk over coffee. I’m staying with friends in town for the next two days. We’ll see if we can work something out.” He stopped and looked me directly in the face. “I don’t know why, but I need to talk with you about this. I’m not one to rely on hunches or feelings but this…” He trailed off, perhaps not sure how to finish what he’d started. He gave it a shot anyway. “…but there’s something about what you said and the way you said it. I simply can’t let this pass. Unfortunately,” he concluded, “I have to go.”

  “Okay,” I said, a little surprised to have gotten such an open response from the man.

  “I really am sorry to cut this short,” he apologized, “but there are a few things I really have to do tonight.”

  “No, that’s fine. Thank you for your time, Mr. Blacker. Thank you very much.”

  “Steve, was it?” He looked at me and I nodded. “Call me Trent.” He extended his hand and I took it. With that he was on his way out the store. I watched him retreat and wondered exactly what had just happened. Roger met him halfway to the door. They spoke briefly, shook hands and then he was gone. Roger turned and saw me standing in the converted café and walked over.

  “Interesting guy, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “You can say that again.” Suddenly I remembered why I had come to the bookstore in the first place. I turned to Roger and said, “Hey, there’s a new girl that works here I talked to the other day. I was hoping to see her here: her name’s Katie.”

  At the mention
of her name Roger’s face turned sad and he looked down.

  “Sorry,” he said. “She was in a terrible car accident. She’s in a coma in the hospital right now. They’re…” he trailed off. “They’re not sure she’ll make it.”

  I was stunned. With that instant knowledge that came to me sometimes I knew she had been in the car next to mine when Price drifted drunkenly into my lane. I ran her off the road where she crashed into something, sending her flying through the windshield. The girl I’d just met, the girl who I’d just started to be intrigued by was now hanging by a thread to life. And it was all because of some drunk rich schmuck who probably wouldn’t care one way or the other about her. Yes, it was because of him…and because of me.

  I rocketed out of there without another word to Roger. I sped through the parking lot back to my car, this time oblivious to the distance and the pouring rain. Lighting flashed overhead in a brilliant show and it was shortly followed by thunderous applause. I was oblivious to it all. I was on a mission.

  ***

  Soon after all that I stood before a bed in the same hospital I was only too eager to leave not long before. I watched as a battered and bruised bookstore employee I had come to think of very fondly in a very short amount of time lay motionless—lifeless—fighting for life. The only sound was the steady beeping of monitors and the shaky breathing of a messed up former schoolteacher who was learning to pray.

  Part II

  Buried Things