Where we Dwell

            Martin died in 1903. He has been a friend of mine for thirty years, ever since I was four. I used to think he was the Boogey Man, but that was before he stopped my neighbor’s elk hound from ripping my leg off. I felt really bad for thinking so badly about him, so I made him a mud pie. My mom and dad thought he was my imaginary friend, but then I turned seven and they thought I had some mental problem. The day before they were going to send me away, Martin caught me in mid air after I had fallen from a tree. My mom screamed and my dad had his face in the mud from his failed catch.

            After that, they thought I had a guardian angel. It wasn’t till I was a teenager and had the use of a computer that I realized that Martin was a ghost. He had apparently killed his wife, son, and himself in the house. When I was seventeen, I asked him why he wasn’t trying to kill us, like in all the horror movies. He said that he was trying to atone for his sins so that he could meet his family. I asked him why he wasn’t in Hell. He asked me to tell him where he was.

            When I turned twenty-five, my parents died in a car accident. It wasn’t really an accident, the driver drove them off the road on purpose because they had cut him off in a rush to get home to catch the new episode of The Cosby Show. My parents loved technology. They had saved up for months so that they could get a cell phone. I remember laughing at them for spending so much money on something that no one had.

            And now I am thirty-four. I still look twenty-five. I mean, I should shouldn’t I? It’s not like we rot like those ghosts in the movie The Frighteners. Yeah, I know about that movie. The humans who live here watched it on tv. I thought it was pretty good, Martin just grumbled. I feel bad for Martin, I don’t think he gets it yet. I mean, I understood as soon as I walked out of my human shell. I understood that we were damned. We were being punished. We had sinned and were never leaving and that this was Hell. I think Martin is in denial, though. Not about not being able to get to Heaven, but not wanting to go. I don’t want to go. I mean, I can’t eat, sleep, drink . . . But I also don’t have to use the restroom, sleep, or get sick. I love it. And I love Martin. As a friend. He is a great guy, he is, but I can’t see myself falling for a guy who still wants to see his wife and son someday.

            But if he would admit to staying here because of me? Well. I think I might be a little bit more enthusiastic about it.