Entitled
You’d think a ghost who gets free room and board could help out around the house once in a while. But Emily floats through the living room reading A Christmas Carol like an entitled specter. She moans a lot, even when we have company. Which my HGTV-loving wife encourages, truth be told, noting that it adds a touch of the past to modern décor. Apparently, Emily sees a ghost psychologist. I have no idea why. Isn’t it better to be above ground than trapped in the confines of a locked, wooden box? What problems could a dead girl possibly have?
Haunts
On second thought, I am being unfair. She didn’t choose to haunt our new five-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath Colonial on Majestic Drive that my grass-is-always-greener-wife insisted we buy with money we don’t possess. (When we sold our previous house, I wanted to downsize, but my shopaholic wife wouldn’t stand for it). Emily used to live in the cemetery here, before developers leveled it to build Harbor Field Estates, our 55 and older community. I helped her search for her headstone once in the woods behind the golf course, though I think we both knew it was futile.
Games
Playing Scrabble with Emily is the highlight of my day. Her vocabulary! The breadth and scope of her linguistic capabilities! Her ectoplasm has elevated her intellect to such an advanced state that I am writing a paper about intelligence and the afterlife for The Journal of Advanced Spectral Mobility. Tuesday last, we were ensconced in the dining nook, me feasting on peanut butter wrapped in ham, Emily pretending to eat, then discreetly depositing her food in a napkin. Suddenly, she thought of the word “cattywampus.” I was about to buss her translucent cheek when my harridan of a wife appeared. Louis, my wife harrumphed. Stop annoying our ghost.
Costumes
What shall I be for Halloween? Emily asks.
A black cat? A princess? A mummy?
Emily grimaces. Those are for children.
Emily is 27 in human years, young enough to be my daughter if I had one.
She types Adult Costumes into the Search Bar of my laptop and a host of inappropriate outfits appear: Red Riding Hood Trollope, Tipsy Elf, Sexy Santa Baby, all with teensy skirts and low-cut tops.
When did the holiday become so unseemly?
This one, Emily says, pointing to The Graveyard Ghost, which features black and white striped slacks, a matching blouse and fright wig. It’s $64, plus tax and shipping.
The girl doesn’t have much of a social life. If there are other ghosts in Harbor Field Estates, neither of us has encountered them.
Memories
Emily was killed in a carriage accident in 1915.
I ask her what life was like back then, but she doesn’t like to talk about it. She had a brother though. And she believes in the afterlife.
As a historian – retired Professor Emeritus at the College – I’m especially curious about the past. I believe History is a living, breathing organism, more than a bunch of dusty books in a library.
What was your brother like? Did anyone you know fight in World War I? Did you ever hear Woodrow Wilson speak?
Emily waves these questions away as if they’re pesky mosquitos.
Life is unfair, she says, fixing me with her huge, sad eyes, black as the cover of my phone.
You’re right, my dear. On this we are in complete agreement.
Strange
My always-on-a-diet wife bought 10 pounds of candy for Halloween although who is Trick or Treating in a community for older adults?
Grandkids, maybe? Emily chimes in.
She has donned her costume and wig and I’ve given her an empty Whole Foods bag in case she wants to collect sweets she can no longer eat.
I’ll bring what I get back home so the two of you can have it.
What a thoughtful girl, says my never-gives-a-compliment wife with a rare smile and it occurs to me that she does appreciate Emily after all, does enjoy her presence in a way she long ago stopped enjoying mine.
Would our neighbors really give a 27-year-old candy? But then I look out the window and watch a parade of costumed adults, accompanying younger relatives.
People are strange.
Melancholy
When Emily still hasn’t returned by 10 o’clock, I set out to find her.
My what-me-worry wife is watching Blue Bloods and nibbling mini-M & Ms. Maybe she made a new friend. She’s allowed to have fun.
But Emily doesn’t seem wired for fun. She’s a melancholy figure. Tragic. Pensive.
I wander the streets of our subdivision, past grand houses identical to mine, with jack o lanterns in the windows and giant skeletons on the lawns that are higher than the rooflines.
I wish I could go back to a simpler time and place. To 1915, when you could ride a unicycle or see a moving picture show with a pianist playing live music. When new things inspired delight, not fear.
I walk and walk, pondering all the mistakes I’ve ever made, a catalog of regrets.
Past Grackle Drive (the streets in the Estates are named for birds), are the woods and there, just off the jogging path is Emily.
No candy bag. No friend.
She’s made quite a large hole in the ground already.
May I help? I ask.
Emily’s sadness is like mist, shrouding the night in tears. I know how awful it feels to be alone and adrift, with no one to talk to, cut off from everyone you ever loved, from a time and place only you remember.
I kneel next to her and scoop up more of the cold October soil. At this rate, it will take all night. My heart stutters and lurches, like a monster who’s lost his way and she pats my hand, as though she knows how much I’ll miss her.
Beth Sherman’s novella-in-flash, How to Get There from Here, will be published in July 2026 by Ad Hoc Fiction. She has had more than 200 stories featured in literary journals, including Ghost Parachute, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly, where she’s a Submissions Editor. Her work appears in Best Microfiction 2024 and 2026 and Best Small Fictions 2025. The author of five mystery novels, she can be reached on social media @bsherm36.