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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Fairy Tales & Fantasy
- Subject: Fantasy / Dreams / Wishes
- Published: 11/07/2017
I Talk To Ghosts
I talk to ghosts. Not all the time, thank God! That would drive anyone nuts; but every once in a while, the spirit of a dead individual will travel along some mysterious cosmic highway and somehow find me. At this point, they inevitably ask the same question, “Why is no one responding to me?” That’s when I have to inform them it’s because they’re ghosts.
That’s when their eyes get really big and their faces get even paler and they ask, “Am I dead?” I usually nod and then they inevitably ask, “How did I die?”
“I don’t know,” I tell them, “I wasn’t there.”
This is when they either disappear right away, or remain visible for a little bit while walking in circles and mumbling to themselves. It’s a very traumatic shock for them. Eventually, they also disappear. Sometimes they come back and tell me how they died; other times I never hear from them again. But this time the shock is mine when a thirty-something looking blonde shows up in my new apartment and accuses me of being a thief.
“How can I be a thief,” I tell her, “when this is my apartment?”
“No, it isn’t,” she replies while gesturing around us. “This is my apartment and all these things are mine.”
That’s when I say to her, “You must be the former tenant. The Real Estate person told me the former tenant had died.”
Realization is beginning to dawn on her as she stares wide-eyed at me and says, “What do you mean former tenant? And what do you mean died?”
“She told me, you, the former tenant had died.”
It takes a while for the realization of what I said to settle upon her, but once it does, like with others before her, her face gets paler and she stares at the floor while mumbling, “I’m dead? I’m really dead?”
“Yep!”
“I can’t be,” she mumbles without looking up.
“But you are.” And then she raises her eyes to mine and I can see the total, intense fear of the unknown filling her beautiful blue orbs.
“How . . .” she starts to say, but vanishes before she can finish the sentence.
It’s a feeling of hope and dread that I’m experiencing. Hope that she’ll return, because she’s so good looking, but fear because I have a feeling she’s not going to want to leave. Sure enough, about an hour later, she returns while I’m watching a baseball game on her 32-inch, flat screen TV.
“Could you move a little that way,” I say to her, indicating my left. “You’re blocking my view of the game.” Her image is totally solid; there’s no opaqueness about it.
“Oh!” she replies, glancing behind her as she shuffles over to her right, my left.
“Thanks,” I tell her as I continue to watch the game.
Even though I’m focused on the TV, I can see her out the corner of my eye. She’s remained standing. Eventually, she moves, taking a seat in the lounge chair in the corner. I had no idea a ghost could sit.
“Can I ask you something,” she says to me after some small amount of time has passed.
I look over at her. “Yeah, what?”
“Why did you rent my apartment with all my stuff still in it?”
I turn down the sound on the TV before answering her. “After my grandmother who raised me passed, I inherited most of her stuff. She had some pretty ugly stuff, but your things are kind of neat. I especially like your black leather couch and armchair and that unicorn painting on the wall above the fake fire place.”
“Oh,” she replies with a kind of thoughtful look on her heart-shaped face.
“Now, can I ask you something?” She looks at me and nods. “Did you ever figure out how you died?”
“I was killed in a car crash.”
“How did you find out? Did someone on the other side tell you?”
She looks thoughtful for a second and replies, “I sort of saw a video of the crash.”
“Didn’t that freak you out?”
Once again, she tilts her head. “Not really. I guess because it kind of felt as if I was watching a movie about someone else’s life.” I nod then turn up the sound on the TV again.
She remains quiet for a bit then says to me, “My name is Karen, by the way.”
I feel I have to respond. “My name is Tim.”
Once again, the only sound to fill the room is that of the ball game until Karen asks, “So Tim, what do you do, you know for a job?”
I turn down the sound once again. “Right now, I’m trying to be a screen writer. Until I can get established, I’m a barista.”
She smiles and nods. “So many of you are baristas.”
“Many of whom?”
“So many screen writers.”
“Why, do you know a few?”
“I have; I was the secretary to a producer before I . . . passed.”
I can’t help be excited. “Which one?”
“Jerrie Potts,” she replies.
“That’s the female Jerrie, right?” She nods. For a moment, I feel sad. If only she had still been alive . . .
“So shouldn’t you be working on a script right now?” she says to me.
I feel a twinge. “I should, but I hit a wall, so I’m taking a break.”
“Why, what’s the story about?”
I’m slightly reluctant to spill the beans, so to speak, but after stiffening my resolve, I tell her. “It’s sort of like the movie National Treasure, but in my story, it’s an author looking for a lost manuscript that will change history.”
She twists her mouth and nods. “Doesn’t sound too bad. Why are you stuck?”
“I can’t figure out how to get him to his next location.”
“Why? Where is he now?”
“In Bellevue Hospital in New York City.”
Her eyebrows rise. “He’s a patient!”
Reluctantly, I nod. “He’s had another substance abuse episode.” Once again, she twists her mouth as if she’s thinking.
“Is there any way I can see what you have so far?”
“Why, are you going to tell me what to write?” I’ve always been a little defensive when it comes to suggestions by people who aren’t writers themselves.
She holds up her hands. “Hey, it’s your manuscript, but just to let you know, I was first reader for Jerrie when it came to screen plays.”
That one knocked me back a little. After a moment, I nod. “Okay then, but how do we do this? Can you touch the pages?”
“Probably not, but I can stand next to you and look over your shoulder.”
“Great! I just hope you don’t vanish before we finish.”
“Me too,” she replies, while looking a little worried herself.
After grabbing my screenplay, the both of us move to the kitchen table. As I hand her each page, she scans it and then makes suggestions about what I should or should not do. Yeah, it hurts. Yeah, it bugs the hell out of me, but right away I see that she’s correct.
We continue late into the night with me taking notes so that just in case she does disappear, I’ll still have her input. “Now you see where to go?” she says to me. I nod. “Now go to it!”
“I will, but first, I think I’m going to need some sleep.”
“Okay,” she says and hops up to sit on the kitchen’s countertop. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“God, I hope so!” because if she isn’t . . .
Thankfully, she is still around when I wake up the next morning. After breakfast, we continue until I finish the screenplay. “Now what?” I ask her.
“Now you go see my old boss and show her what you got.”
A plug the size of a bowling ball presses into my stomach. “She’s not going to let me see her, not without a good reference.”
“No problem. Just tell her I recommended you.”
“And that will get me in the door?”
“If it doesn’t, I’ll haunt her until she does see you.”
I chuckle at first, but then get this other frightening feeling in my stomach. “Do you think you could come with me?” I ask hopefully.
She shrugs. “I don’t know, but it couldn’t hurt to try.” So that’s what we do.
To both our amazements, she doesn’t vanish the moment we step out the door and she is able to ride with me to her former boss’ office. After I tell the new girl who I am and what I want, she informs me that this isn’t the way it’s done. “Yeah, I know, but Karen Deblossio sent me to see Jerrie. She said this is the exact type of script Jerrie is looking for.”
As expected, Jerrie Potts is reluctant to meet with me, but once I mention Karen’s name, she thankfully agrees to read the script. After we leave her office, Karen suggests we go get a drink. “You can drink?” I ask surprised.
“No, silly, but you can.” And so we do.
Halfway through my second bottle of beer, my cell phone rings. It’s Jerrie Potts. Not only does she absolutely love my script, she wants to give me a million up front for the rights to produce it. I nearly faint.
They say, God works in strange ways. I’ll definitely agree to that. Not only am I able to see and hear Karen, but for whatever reason, so can Jerrie Potts, which makes us a triple threat when it comes to coming up with audience-pleasing movie scripts . . .
And all because I talk to ghosts!
I Talk To Ghosts(Tom Di Roma)
I Talk To Ghosts
I talk to ghosts. Not all the time, thank God! That would drive anyone nuts; but every once in a while, the spirit of a dead individual will travel along some mysterious cosmic highway and somehow find me. At this point, they inevitably ask the same question, “Why is no one responding to me?” That’s when I have to inform them it’s because they’re ghosts.
That’s when their eyes get really big and their faces get even paler and they ask, “Am I dead?” I usually nod and then they inevitably ask, “How did I die?”
“I don’t know,” I tell them, “I wasn’t there.”
This is when they either disappear right away, or remain visible for a little bit while walking in circles and mumbling to themselves. It’s a very traumatic shock for them. Eventually, they also disappear. Sometimes they come back and tell me how they died; other times I never hear from them again. But this time the shock is mine when a thirty-something looking blonde shows up in my new apartment and accuses me of being a thief.
“How can I be a thief,” I tell her, “when this is my apartment?”
“No, it isn’t,” she replies while gesturing around us. “This is my apartment and all these things are mine.”
That’s when I say to her, “You must be the former tenant. The Real Estate person told me the former tenant had died.”
Realization is beginning to dawn on her as she stares wide-eyed at me and says, “What do you mean former tenant? And what do you mean died?”
“She told me, you, the former tenant had died.”
It takes a while for the realization of what I said to settle upon her, but once it does, like with others before her, her face gets paler and she stares at the floor while mumbling, “I’m dead? I’m really dead?”
“Yep!”
“I can’t be,” she mumbles without looking up.
“But you are.” And then she raises her eyes to mine and I can see the total, intense fear of the unknown filling her beautiful blue orbs.
“How . . .” she starts to say, but vanishes before she can finish the sentence.
It’s a feeling of hope and dread that I’m experiencing. Hope that she’ll return, because she’s so good looking, but fear because I have a feeling she’s not going to want to leave. Sure enough, about an hour later, she returns while I’m watching a baseball game on her 32-inch, flat screen TV.
“Could you move a little that way,” I say to her, indicating my left. “You’re blocking my view of the game.” Her image is totally solid; there’s no opaqueness about it.
“Oh!” she replies, glancing behind her as she shuffles over to her right, my left.
“Thanks,” I tell her as I continue to watch the game.
Even though I’m focused on the TV, I can see her out the corner of my eye. She’s remained standing. Eventually, she moves, taking a seat in the lounge chair in the corner. I had no idea a ghost could sit.
“Can I ask you something,” she says to me after some small amount of time has passed.
I look over at her. “Yeah, what?”
“Why did you rent my apartment with all my stuff still in it?”
I turn down the sound on the TV before answering her. “After my grandmother who raised me passed, I inherited most of her stuff. She had some pretty ugly stuff, but your things are kind of neat. I especially like your black leather couch and armchair and that unicorn painting on the wall above the fake fire place.”
“Oh,” she replies with a kind of thoughtful look on her heart-shaped face.
“Now, can I ask you something?” She looks at me and nods. “Did you ever figure out how you died?”
“I was killed in a car crash.”
“How did you find out? Did someone on the other side tell you?”
She looks thoughtful for a second and replies, “I sort of saw a video of the crash.”
“Didn’t that freak you out?”
Once again, she tilts her head. “Not really. I guess because it kind of felt as if I was watching a movie about someone else’s life.” I nod then turn up the sound on the TV again.
She remains quiet for a bit then says to me, “My name is Karen, by the way.”
I feel I have to respond. “My name is Tim.”
Once again, the only sound to fill the room is that of the ball game until Karen asks, “So Tim, what do you do, you know for a job?”
I turn down the sound once again. “Right now, I’m trying to be a screen writer. Until I can get established, I’m a barista.”
She smiles and nods. “So many of you are baristas.”
“Many of whom?”
“So many screen writers.”
“Why, do you know a few?”
“I have; I was the secretary to a producer before I . . . passed.”
I can’t help be excited. “Which one?”
“Jerrie Potts,” she replies.
“That’s the female Jerrie, right?” She nods. For a moment, I feel sad. If only she had still been alive . . .
“So shouldn’t you be working on a script right now?” she says to me.
I feel a twinge. “I should, but I hit a wall, so I’m taking a break.”
“Why, what’s the story about?”
I’m slightly reluctant to spill the beans, so to speak, but after stiffening my resolve, I tell her. “It’s sort of like the movie National Treasure, but in my story, it’s an author looking for a lost manuscript that will change history.”
She twists her mouth and nods. “Doesn’t sound too bad. Why are you stuck?”
“I can’t figure out how to get him to his next location.”
“Why? Where is he now?”
“In Bellevue Hospital in New York City.”
Her eyebrows rise. “He’s a patient!”
Reluctantly, I nod. “He’s had another substance abuse episode.” Once again, she twists her mouth as if she’s thinking.
“Is there any way I can see what you have so far?”
“Why, are you going to tell me what to write?” I’ve always been a little defensive when it comes to suggestions by people who aren’t writers themselves.
She holds up her hands. “Hey, it’s your manuscript, but just to let you know, I was first reader for Jerrie when it came to screen plays.”
That one knocked me back a little. After a moment, I nod. “Okay then, but how do we do this? Can you touch the pages?”
“Probably not, but I can stand next to you and look over your shoulder.”
“Great! I just hope you don’t vanish before we finish.”
“Me too,” she replies, while looking a little worried herself.
After grabbing my screenplay, the both of us move to the kitchen table. As I hand her each page, she scans it and then makes suggestions about what I should or should not do. Yeah, it hurts. Yeah, it bugs the hell out of me, but right away I see that she’s correct.
We continue late into the night with me taking notes so that just in case she does disappear, I’ll still have her input. “Now you see where to go?” she says to me. I nod. “Now go to it!”
“I will, but first, I think I’m going to need some sleep.”
“Okay,” she says and hops up to sit on the kitchen’s countertop. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“God, I hope so!” because if she isn’t . . .
Thankfully, she is still around when I wake up the next morning. After breakfast, we continue until I finish the screenplay. “Now what?” I ask her.
“Now you go see my old boss and show her what you got.”
A plug the size of a bowling ball presses into my stomach. “She’s not going to let me see her, not without a good reference.”
“No problem. Just tell her I recommended you.”
“And that will get me in the door?”
“If it doesn’t, I’ll haunt her until she does see you.”
I chuckle at first, but then get this other frightening feeling in my stomach. “Do you think you could come with me?” I ask hopefully.
She shrugs. “I don’t know, but it couldn’t hurt to try.” So that’s what we do.
To both our amazements, she doesn’t vanish the moment we step out the door and she is able to ride with me to her former boss’ office. After I tell the new girl who I am and what I want, she informs me that this isn’t the way it’s done. “Yeah, I know, but Karen Deblossio sent me to see Jerrie. She said this is the exact type of script Jerrie is looking for.”
As expected, Jerrie Potts is reluctant to meet with me, but once I mention Karen’s name, she thankfully agrees to read the script. After we leave her office, Karen suggests we go get a drink. “You can drink?” I ask surprised.
“No, silly, but you can.” And so we do.
Halfway through my second bottle of beer, my cell phone rings. It’s Jerrie Potts. Not only does she absolutely love my script, she wants to give me a million up front for the rights to produce it. I nearly faint.
They say, God works in strange ways. I’ll definitely agree to that. Not only am I able to see and hear Karen, but for whatever reason, so can Jerrie Potts, which makes us a triple threat when it comes to coming up with audience-pleasing movie scripts . . .
And all because I talk to ghosts!
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