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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Ghost Stories / Paranormal
- Published: 11/17/2021
Invisible Love
If I take off my pants and drop them on the floor of my room, my dog, Maxwell, will lay on the crumpled material and spend the rest of the night happily snoring away. I’m positive it’s because he loves my smell.
After receiving Max, who was a 3-year-old white Maltese, from a couple leaving our apartment complex to live with her mother (The mother was allergic to dogs.), Max, my roommate, Carol, and I became one big happy family . . . until the day Max was killed.
I’ll never forget the screech as the car hit him. Pierced as if by an invisible sword, I felt devastated, but not as devastated, it seemed, as Tracie, the thirty-something bank teller who had been driving the car that hit Max. Once she realized what she had done, she became inconsolable. I tried calming her by insisting it wasn’t her fault. I had not been holding onto Max’s leash tight enough, which was why he was able to slip out of my grip and run into the street.
But no matter what I said, she wouldn’t stop bawling, until my roommate and I escorted her into our apartment and gave her some aspirin and had her lie down. While she rested, I gathered up Max’s body and, after tearfully wrapping him in an old blanket, took him the next day to the humane society for disposal.
Once Tracie was calm enough to talk, Carol discovered she and our guest had a lot in common. Both loved to cook, and each liked watching the same reality shows. So, it was only natural that, several times a month, Tracie would show up with meals she had prepared and afterwards, sit and watch TV with Carol.
Then one day, she brought with her a 6-month-old Yorkie. She said his name was Rocky. He had brown and black fur, which, when he lay down with his head tucked under, did kind of remind me a little of a small rock with legs and a nub for a tail.
We kept saying she didn’t have to, but she insisted we take him as a replacement for Max. So, we did. It turned out Rocky and Maxwell had at least one thing in common. They both liked to sleep on my pants. Once again, I was positive it was because, like Max, he liked my smell.
But then came the night Rocky refused to enter my room.
Neither Carol nor I could figure out what was wrong with him. He kept growling at the open doorway. Luckily, Tracie arrived at that moment with one of her prepared meals. The instant she saw what Rocky was doing, she explained that he was afraid to go into my room, because Maxwell was there.
“What do you mean Maxwell is there? He’s dead!”
“I know, but his spirit is there.”
I looked at her like she was crazy. That’s when she revealed to us that she was psychic.
“Yeah, sure,” I mumbled, my skepticism as thick as gravy.
“No, seriously,” she insisted. “I got the ability from my mother. She was psychic, too. Not only could she see ghosts, but talk to them, as well.” Now, for sure, I thought she was wacko!
But then, I decided that maybe I was wrong after I watched her call into my seemingly empty bedroom, “Max,” she said quietly, “let Rocky come into the room with you. He’s afraid because he thinks you’re going to hurt him.” It worked! After a few moments, Rocky stopped growling and happily sauntered through the open doorway. Wow!
After that night, Rocky had no more problems with my room . . . or, it seemed, with Max’s ghost—while my interaction with Max’s spirit was slightly more physical. While sitting at my computer, I would sometimes feel as if something furry was rubbing against my pant leg. The first time it happened, I thought it was Rocky, until I looked down and saw no dog. That’s when I decided that maybe it was an invisible Max still trying to show his affection for me and/or for my smell.
When it came to Tracie, she seemed to interact with Max even more than me or Carol, which was fine, as far as I was concerned. That’s because, instead of a ghost, I had a live dog to interact with.
Invisible Love(Tom Di Roma)
Invisible Love
If I take off my pants and drop them on the floor of my room, my dog, Maxwell, will lay on the crumpled material and spend the rest of the night happily snoring away. I’m positive it’s because he loves my smell.
After receiving Max, who was a 3-year-old white Maltese, from a couple leaving our apartment complex to live with her mother (The mother was allergic to dogs.), Max, my roommate, Carol, and I became one big happy family . . . until the day Max was killed.
I’ll never forget the screech as the car hit him. Pierced as if by an invisible sword, I felt devastated, but not as devastated, it seemed, as Tracie, the thirty-something bank teller who had been driving the car that hit Max. Once she realized what she had done, she became inconsolable. I tried calming her by insisting it wasn’t her fault. I had not been holding onto Max’s leash tight enough, which was why he was able to slip out of my grip and run into the street.
But no matter what I said, she wouldn’t stop bawling, until my roommate and I escorted her into our apartment and gave her some aspirin and had her lie down. While she rested, I gathered up Max’s body and, after tearfully wrapping him in an old blanket, took him the next day to the humane society for disposal.
Once Tracie was calm enough to talk, Carol discovered she and our guest had a lot in common. Both loved to cook, and each liked watching the same reality shows. So, it was only natural that, several times a month, Tracie would show up with meals she had prepared and afterwards, sit and watch TV with Carol.
Then one day, she brought with her a 6-month-old Yorkie. She said his name was Rocky. He had brown and black fur, which, when he lay down with his head tucked under, did kind of remind me a little of a small rock with legs and a nub for a tail.
We kept saying she didn’t have to, but she insisted we take him as a replacement for Max. So, we did. It turned out Rocky and Maxwell had at least one thing in common. They both liked to sleep on my pants. Once again, I was positive it was because, like Max, he liked my smell.
But then came the night Rocky refused to enter my room.
Neither Carol nor I could figure out what was wrong with him. He kept growling at the open doorway. Luckily, Tracie arrived at that moment with one of her prepared meals. The instant she saw what Rocky was doing, she explained that he was afraid to go into my room, because Maxwell was there.
“What do you mean Maxwell is there? He’s dead!”
“I know, but his spirit is there.”
I looked at her like she was crazy. That’s when she revealed to us that she was psychic.
“Yeah, sure,” I mumbled, my skepticism as thick as gravy.
“No, seriously,” she insisted. “I got the ability from my mother. She was psychic, too. Not only could she see ghosts, but talk to them, as well.” Now, for sure, I thought she was wacko!
But then, I decided that maybe I was wrong after I watched her call into my seemingly empty bedroom, “Max,” she said quietly, “let Rocky come into the room with you. He’s afraid because he thinks you’re going to hurt him.” It worked! After a few moments, Rocky stopped growling and happily sauntered through the open doorway. Wow!
After that night, Rocky had no more problems with my room . . . or, it seemed, with Max’s ghost—while my interaction with Max’s spirit was slightly more physical. While sitting at my computer, I would sometimes feel as if something furry was rubbing against my pant leg. The first time it happened, I thought it was Rocky, until I looked down and saw no dog. That’s when I decided that maybe it was an invisible Max still trying to show his affection for me and/or for my smell.
When it came to Tracie, she seemed to interact with Max even more than me or Carol, which was fine, as far as I was concerned. That’s because, instead of a ghost, I had a live dog to interact with.
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Mohid
02/04/2022Wanted to write this comment for another story though.
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