"After Death" - original fiction
For my Creative Writing class, we had to write a short story. I got mine from a surprisingly coherent dream that mixed my grandfather's death with elements of - sigh - the Supernatural/Grey's Anatomy crossover I was working on at the time. It's still original fiction, and I'm happy enough with it to post it here and see what the flist thinks. Even if you think it's crap. I can take it.
She hated ghost movies. Not because they were scary; on the contrary, they weren't scary, because they got everything wrong. She supposed it would be one thing if it were just plain innocent ignorance, but it wasn't like it would be hard to get it right. Seers like herself weren't exactly dime a dozen, but they weren't hard to find, either; if regular folk could manage it, surely movie executives could as well. And if they didn’t want to pay a consultant, they could just pick up a book for the truth: Ghosts - spirits - didn't go around increasing their numbers just because they had died. Death didn't do that to a person, didn't change who they were. A person who had been gentle in life was gentle in death. A dead serial killer might keep killing, but most of the reasons the average person had to kill - revenge, self-defense, money - became irrelevant after death. But people trusted the movies more than they trusted Seers, especially if they'd never met one, so she hated those movies. They made people afraid of spirits, and she had yet to meet one that anyone needed to be afraid of.
Of course, when the death was that of a loved one, that was an entirely different matter altogether. It was not only normal to fear encountering that spirit, it was inevitable. A loved one's spirit making itself known interfered with closure, made it impossible for the living to grieve and move on. And another thing those movies always seemed to forget was that a spirit was inherently a tragic thing. All a spirit really was was a person who couldn't find his way home. It was normal to want to avoid seeing a loved one in that state.
Or so she told herself at her grandfather's funeral, to justify the relief she felt over the fact that she had to go back to school, and wouldn't have to find out for another month whether her grandfather had made it.
**********
She had to come home eventually, though, and when she did, her mother greeted her with that look she had come to recognize a long time ago. It said, You can see ghosts, you have to fix this.
"It's Grandpa, isn't it," she said, not asking, wanting to cut to the chase before her mother could spend half an hour nervously working up to it.
Her mother nodded apologetically. "She says he's there. She can't see him, but she insists. We all thought that, well, before we decide what to do, you could, you know. Go over and have a look. See if he really is there."
She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed hard. "Okay."
**********
She went over that evening, before she could think about it too much. She'd had a feeling about this. When Grandpa had been sick, he'd worried about Grandma. About leaving her alone, to cope with the finances he'd always handled, with property maintenance, with just being in that house, moving around inside it alone for the first time in her life.
"Don't be surprised if you see me again, young lady," he'd said. "Your grandmother's never had to take care of herself before."
She'd reminded him, around the lump in her throat, that her aunt, his daughter, was a financial advisor, that his son had years of practice in maintaining the old house he owned. She'd told him that if he stayed, it might end up being forever. She'd told him Grandma would be okay. But even in the last stages of his illness - especially in those last stages, maybe - his jaw had had that stubborn set that he had passed down to his children and grandchildren.
**********
The first thing she noticed as her grandmother greeted her was that Grandma looked better. Grandpa's illness had taken its toll on her, too, leaving her pale and small and tired. But she had color in her face now, and the way she lifted her chin and smiled spoke of strength instead of defiance.
"I know why you're here, sweetheart, and I know that your parents think I'm fantasizing. They say that if he stayed just for me, I would be able to see him, just because that's how it usually works. But the way I see it, if he's not appearing to me, he has his reasons and I'm not going to push. He didn't always know what was best, but he knew often enough that I don't see why I shouldn't trust him now same as I always did."
"It - does happen that way sometimes." Maybe he thought that if he stayed invisible, he could avoid a scolding for not listening to her and not believing that his family could handle taking on his responsibilities. That wasn't much like him at all, but spirits tended to think a bit differently from the living. Their logic sort of broke down.
The room cooled suddenly; Grandma smiled. "That’s him. I'll just leave you two to talk, shall I?" The brittle smile disappeared, and the look that took its place was the desperate frailty that she had worn before. "Please don't send him away," she whispered.
She just kissed Grandma's forehead and smiled. Those who were born with the ability to help the dead as well as the living had very few choices sometimes. Grandma, knowing this, took a shuddering breath and quickly left the room.
Her own smile vanished as soon as Grandma was gone. She set her jaw and turned to face the spirit, saying, "Grandpa, you know you don't -"
The spirit stood in the doorway to the living room, leaning against the doorjamb in a comfortable way that a new spirit would not have mastered yet. He looked to be in his early forties and was tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair and pronounced five o'clock shadow.
Spirits rarely took on the appearance of the age they had been when they died, it was true. But she had seen pictures of her grandfather in his early forties. Her grandfather in his early forties had had sandy hair and a neat, carefully maintained beard and mustache.
He had been a small man. And she had never seen him lean in a doorway in her life.
She stared. "Who are you?"
"I don't know," he said. The deep, rumbling voice was the only thing about him that resembled her grandfather even a little. "I forgot."
He was an old spirit, then, so old he had forgotten his life - and, since she had never seen him before, apparently so old that he was no longer anchored to any particular family or place. So old that he probably didn't understand what was so wrong about taking over for a newly dead man.
She asked anyway. "Why are you here? This isn't your home."
"She was lonely and afraid. So was I." He looked at her consideringly. "You can't talk me across. You wouldn't be the first to try. I can't go."
"And what, you think that makes you special?" Anger was pointless, she knew, he wouldn't even be capable of understanding why she was angry, but this was her family. "It doesn't make it okay to trick a lonely old lady!" Please don't let Grandma be within earshot of this.
He cocked his head. "Trick her into what?" he asked. The curiosity in his voice sounded genuine. "She was sad before. She's happy now. I take care of her like he did. Some people aren't meant to be alone." Another reflective pause. "I think I'm one of them, too."
"You're letting her think you're him." That this was a losing battle - that he was too long dead to think like the living and that her only power over the dead lay in persuasion, because there was no one simple ritual to send them across like so many of those damned movies claimed - only made her angrier.
The thoughtful look turned to one of surprise. "Of course I am. Knowing I'm not would frighten her. Thinking I am makes her happy. She feels safe. She is safe. I take care of her so she can take care of me."
She looked at him for a long moment. He looked back at her, his eyes warm and his expression disconcertingly friendly. It occurred to her that if he were alive, she would trust that look without a second thought. No, more than that: if this were someone else's grandmother, she would call the woman back in and smile and let the lie remain.
Good people stayed good after death. And half the work of a Seer was convincing people to trust the truth over what they judged to be right. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, forcing herself to accept rationale over anger and believe in what she knew to be true.
"If you do anything to upset her, I will find a way to get rid of you." They both knew it wasn't possible. He smiled - not gloating, but approving.
"I can protect her better than you can," he told her.
That was also the truth. Still, she did not smile back.
She hated ghost movies. Not because they were scary; on the contrary, they weren't scary, because they got everything wrong. She supposed it would be one thing if it were just plain innocent ignorance, but it wasn't like it would be hard to get it right. Seers like herself weren't exactly dime a dozen, but they weren't hard to find, either; if regular folk could manage it, surely movie executives could as well. And if they didn’t want to pay a consultant, they could just pick up a book for the truth: Ghosts - spirits - didn't go around increasing their numbers just because they had died. Death didn't do that to a person, didn't change who they were. A person who had been gentle in life was gentle in death. A dead serial killer might keep killing, but most of the reasons the average person had to kill - revenge, self-defense, money - became irrelevant after death. But people trusted the movies more than they trusted Seers, especially if they'd never met one, so she hated those movies. They made people afraid of spirits, and she had yet to meet one that anyone needed to be afraid of.
Of course, when the death was that of a loved one, that was an entirely different matter altogether. It was not only normal to fear encountering that spirit, it was inevitable. A loved one's spirit making itself known interfered with closure, made it impossible for the living to grieve and move on. And another thing those movies always seemed to forget was that a spirit was inherently a tragic thing. All a spirit really was was a person who couldn't find his way home. It was normal to want to avoid seeing a loved one in that state.
Or so she told herself at her grandfather's funeral, to justify the relief she felt over the fact that she had to go back to school, and wouldn't have to find out for another month whether her grandfather had made it.
**********
She had to come home eventually, though, and when she did, her mother greeted her with that look she had come to recognize a long time ago. It said, You can see ghosts, you have to fix this.
"It's Grandpa, isn't it," she said, not asking, wanting to cut to the chase before her mother could spend half an hour nervously working up to it.
Her mother nodded apologetically. "She says he's there. She can't see him, but she insists. We all thought that, well, before we decide what to do, you could, you know. Go over and have a look. See if he really is there."
She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed hard. "Okay."
**********
She went over that evening, before she could think about it too much. She'd had a feeling about this. When Grandpa had been sick, he'd worried about Grandma. About leaving her alone, to cope with the finances he'd always handled, with property maintenance, with just being in that house, moving around inside it alone for the first time in her life.
"Don't be surprised if you see me again, young lady," he'd said. "Your grandmother's never had to take care of herself before."
She'd reminded him, around the lump in her throat, that her aunt, his daughter, was a financial advisor, that his son had years of practice in maintaining the old house he owned. She'd told him that if he stayed, it might end up being forever. She'd told him Grandma would be okay. But even in the last stages of his illness - especially in those last stages, maybe - his jaw had had that stubborn set that he had passed down to his children and grandchildren.
**********
The first thing she noticed as her grandmother greeted her was that Grandma looked better. Grandpa's illness had taken its toll on her, too, leaving her pale and small and tired. But she had color in her face now, and the way she lifted her chin and smiled spoke of strength instead of defiance.
"I know why you're here, sweetheart, and I know that your parents think I'm fantasizing. They say that if he stayed just for me, I would be able to see him, just because that's how it usually works. But the way I see it, if he's not appearing to me, he has his reasons and I'm not going to push. He didn't always know what was best, but he knew often enough that I don't see why I shouldn't trust him now same as I always did."
"It - does happen that way sometimes." Maybe he thought that if he stayed invisible, he could avoid a scolding for not listening to her and not believing that his family could handle taking on his responsibilities. That wasn't much like him at all, but spirits tended to think a bit differently from the living. Their logic sort of broke down.
The room cooled suddenly; Grandma smiled. "That’s him. I'll just leave you two to talk, shall I?" The brittle smile disappeared, and the look that took its place was the desperate frailty that she had worn before. "Please don't send him away," she whispered.
She just kissed Grandma's forehead and smiled. Those who were born with the ability to help the dead as well as the living had very few choices sometimes. Grandma, knowing this, took a shuddering breath and quickly left the room.
Her own smile vanished as soon as Grandma was gone. She set her jaw and turned to face the spirit, saying, "Grandpa, you know you don't -"
The spirit stood in the doorway to the living room, leaning against the doorjamb in a comfortable way that a new spirit would not have mastered yet. He looked to be in his early forties and was tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair and pronounced five o'clock shadow.
Spirits rarely took on the appearance of the age they had been when they died, it was true. But she had seen pictures of her grandfather in his early forties. Her grandfather in his early forties had had sandy hair and a neat, carefully maintained beard and mustache.
He had been a small man. And she had never seen him lean in a doorway in her life.
She stared. "Who are you?"
"I don't know," he said. The deep, rumbling voice was the only thing about him that resembled her grandfather even a little. "I forgot."
He was an old spirit, then, so old he had forgotten his life - and, since she had never seen him before, apparently so old that he was no longer anchored to any particular family or place. So old that he probably didn't understand what was so wrong about taking over for a newly dead man.
She asked anyway. "Why are you here? This isn't your home."
"She was lonely and afraid. So was I." He looked at her consideringly. "You can't talk me across. You wouldn't be the first to try. I can't go."
"And what, you think that makes you special?" Anger was pointless, she knew, he wouldn't even be capable of understanding why she was angry, but this was her family. "It doesn't make it okay to trick a lonely old lady!" Please don't let Grandma be within earshot of this.
He cocked his head. "Trick her into what?" he asked. The curiosity in his voice sounded genuine. "She was sad before. She's happy now. I take care of her like he did. Some people aren't meant to be alone." Another reflective pause. "I think I'm one of them, too."
"You're letting her think you're him." That this was a losing battle - that he was too long dead to think like the living and that her only power over the dead lay in persuasion, because there was no one simple ritual to send them across like so many of those damned movies claimed - only made her angrier.
The thoughtful look turned to one of surprise. "Of course I am. Knowing I'm not would frighten her. Thinking I am makes her happy. She feels safe. She is safe. I take care of her so she can take care of me."
She looked at him for a long moment. He looked back at her, his eyes warm and his expression disconcertingly friendly. It occurred to her that if he were alive, she would trust that look without a second thought. No, more than that: if this were someone else's grandmother, she would call the woman back in and smile and let the lie remain.
Good people stayed good after death. And half the work of a Seer was convincing people to trust the truth over what they judged to be right. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, forcing herself to accept rationale over anger and believe in what she knew to be true.
"If you do anything to upset her, I will find a way to get rid of you." They both knew it wasn't possible. He smiled - not gloating, but approving.
"I can protect her better than you can," he told her.
That was also the truth. Still, she did not smile back.