In this issue, Robert J. McCarter gives us a stunningly original and wonderful story of a ghost dealing with his addiction. Robert has invented a world where ghosts can write letters to the living. Amazing concept, even more amazing results.

This is his second story in these pages in this world of the ghost typewriter. He’s published seven novels and his short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Saturday Evening Post, Fiction River, Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, and numerous anthologies.

Look for more of Robert’s work at his website, https://robertjmccarter.com/

To: Abigale Durand

From: Harold Durand via Afterlife Communications Incorporated

Date: 4/23/2013

Hey honey. It’s Hal. I’m dead. But, you know that.

I found my way to that ghost typewriter thing we’ve been reading about. SECI chamber is just a stupid name, I know it stands for something that no one can remember, so they should get clever with it, like ghost-writer or ghost-mail or some such thing. I stood in line with a bunch of other ghosts for eight days until I got my turn at it. It’s got instructions and all, but it’s like typing in ultra-slow motion while concentrating hard, and as much as I’d like to entertain you with my stream of consciousness rantings, I best keep it quick.

Here goes:

I’m sorry.

Yeah. That’s probably too quick. Let me try again:

You deserve better than me and, hey, now you get your shot.

Okay, that’s too flip.

Maybe I should just come back to that, warm up a little. Bear with me, I’m not at all good at being dead yet. No one is at first. And dying wasn’t awful. I mean it hurt, like hell, my system didn’t have enough vodka in it to dull the pain of running my car into a telephone pole and being burned to death. Likely not enough vodka in the world for that, though.

I remember the smells: oil, burning plastic, smoke. I could taste blood and was groggy. I couldn’t see straight—and not just from the booze. I heard shouts and the crackling of fire, a siren in the distance. I pushed the airbag out of the way and coughed; the smoke was getting bad. And then…

Shit. I’m not going to tell you that. You don’t want to hear how your suddenly-off-the-wagon, drunk-ass husband died blow by blow, how he couldn’t get out of the car, couldn’t get away from the flames, couldn’t…

Yeah. Sorry. It’s a vivid memory, my most vivid memory at this time. JJ tells me it will eventually fade, that I’ll be able remember the good times if I keep working through this.

So, JJ, yeah. He’s a ghost. He was there at the point the pain became unbearable and then was suddenly gone. He walked right into the flames, extended his hand and said, “I got you, buddy. Come on, it’s okay.”

Yeah. That guy, JJ Lynch, the one writing those crazy ghost memoirs, welcomed me to the afterlife. I feel rather special—that is, when I’m not feeling like a stupid ass for my death by vodka.

And that’s the thing I should probably talk about—me diving off the wagon headlong into the afterlife. It’s probably what you’re wondering about. And I know it can’t make up for me being gone, but maybe talking about this will help both of us.

But that’s the thing. I don’t want to talk about it.

JJ assures me this is the way to go. He’s an experienced ghost, his form crisp and clean, barely transparent, and he walks and doesn’t fly. He even stood in line with me for a day waiting for the SECI chamber until he got called away to deal with something more important than me.

You, see, shame will do you in on this side, just like it does for the living.

I’ve seen the ghosts in the bardo, like we read about in JJ’s book, and it’s…bad. They moan and are amorphous and fairly transparent, trapped in the endless hell of their regret and shame. Yeah, I don’t want to end up like that so here I am, writing about my shame and regret so I don’t have to live an eternity of it.

So let’s talk about that vodka bottle. It was Smirnoff, not even good vodka, but thank god it wasn’t one of those gross flavored ones. But I’m avoiding this again.

Hello, my name is Hal and I’m an alcoholic. Right? We all know that. I just got my two-year pin last month. I even went to a meeting before work. Which was fine, but it felt like I was just going through the motions, another zombie in the basement of a church handing it all over to a higher power. It’s felt like that most days lately. I put on my tie, I go to the office, I talk clients, draft wills, create trusts, and use the same basket of tricks to help the well-off deal with their estates.

I mean, sure, there is some variety, and I’m not defending horrible people that did terrible things, but… hell, you know this too. You’ve heard me complain about it for fifteen years now since I moved over to Estate Planning. Feeds the body, not the soul.

All I’ve got now is a soul. No one needs a lawyer over on this side. I’ve got to figure out how to feed this soul. JJ say this, writing to you, is the way.

I wish I could tell you something really dramatic happened that day. Like I got a call and learned that my best friend had died or Stella dropped dead while making reminder calls for next week’s appointments. But it wasn’t like that. It was the usual. Two initial consults, three signing meetings, and working with Stella the rest of the time getting papers drawn up. All standard. Except for one thing.

I got a call from a freaked-out young man in Colorado saying that his aunt and uncle had just died and that he was the executor on the will and I had drawn the papers up.

Standard as can be. I help people prepare for death. They die. I help the survivors deal with the mess left behind. And if I did my job and my clients did what I told them to, it’s not that bad of a mess.

The kid, his name was Alex, told me their names. It was that nice couple with no kids I told you about a few months ago. They were in their late fifties, in great health, had worked hard, done well with their investments, and were so pleasant. It was clear that they were in love. They wanted to make sure their estate went to their nieces and nephews and a few causes they cared about. I was surprised to hear they both died, but I did my job, walked him through what he needed to do, offered my services if he needed more help. Alex was a mess when we started talking, but had it under control by the end of the call. Before we hung up, I asked him, “If you don’t mind my asking, how did they die?”

And I’m prepared for any answer here. This is idle curiosity. And yes, I did have that spreadsheet of mine where I track ages, causes of death, and analyze the numbers of how my clients die. Weird, yes. I am well aware of your distaste for my little hobby. But it’s something that makes this strange job bearable. Excuse me…It’s something that made it bearable.

Anyway, I had the spreadsheet up on my computer, thinking it’s going to be a doozy, because they both died at the same time. Like a plane crash, car crash, or fire. Something quick and unavoidable.

You know what Alex said? He said, “They stepped out in front of a train holding hands.” His voice was eerily flat; I am sure he was in shock, and then I was too.

So, I said, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Got off the phone and stood staring out the window at downtown Tucson just blinking, my mind running in circles.

And that’s when it hit me. The need to drink. It was like when I broke my arm a few years back and the itches under that cast were driving me nuts. I would shove anything down there to try to relieve the itch. But you know this about my addiction.

I paced back and forth, shouted at Stella when she intercommed for my next appointment. This couple, they were sweet and smart and clearly in love. Why? Why would they do it?

I picked up the phone and called Alex back, tried to keep my voice calm and asked him if he knew why.

He was silent for the longest damn time and I was ready to pull my remaining hair out. “My uncle,” Alex said, “he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer five months ago.”

I froze, staring out the window towards the Santa Catalina Mountains from my fancy high-rise office.

“I have to go, Mr. Durand,” he said.

I mumbled something and then he hung up.

I did the math. They came to me right after his diagnosis. Which helped explain why they were so easy to work with. I had marveled at how quickly and easily they got everything done, putting their estate into perfect order.

And once it was all done they stepped in front of a train. Together. Holding Hands.

Yeah.

I walked out of my office, ignoring Stella and my clients, took the stairs down, thinking some exercise would do me good, and came out right in front of the liquor store.

I didn’t think about it when I decided to take the stairs. Like a lot of downtown Tucson buildings, there is retail on the ground floor of mine. The elevator lets out within sight of the liquor stores, but the stairs open up right across the hall from it. I didn’t think. I walked over and bought my bottle. Drank it fast. Got in my car. Drove too fast with too much in me. Died.

Just one moment. One slip. One mistake. Makes me wonder about that higher power I turned it all over to that morning.

I’m so sorry, my love. This must be awful for you.

At least I don’t have to do anything stupid to prove it’s really me. We read about the ghosts, we read JJ’s memoirs, we believed it was happening.

So now you know what happened to me. This is my shame, that I wasn’t strong enough to say no to the bottle this time.

And I’ve been thinking about what that couple did, picking their place and time, going together. I think they wanted to be ghosts together. I think that is why they did it.

JJ tells me that if you’re a ghost it’s likely that you have unfinished business. Weirdly, I think they are my unfinished business. I did estate planning, for god’s sake, and made good money. You are okay, at least financially, and I can comfort myself in that. As I stood in line for the ghost-post SECI chamber, I talked to many ghosts that didn’t have anything in place when they died and were worried to death—ha ha—for their families.

And I want to go back to that “you deserve better than me” comment early. You do. You should get back out there. You are vital and beautiful and I know my being gone sucks for you. We were lucky to have a love that lasted kids and cancer and several decades, not to mention my addiction.

And I’m not going to haunt you. I do check in from time to time, but I don’t stay long. It’s too dangerous, the regret and shame threatening to suck me down into the bardo-ghost-hell place.

So I’m off to find that couple. If they are actually ghosts, I just have to know if that is why they did it. If so…people are going to freak out so much more than they already are about this “ghosts are real” thing. If people are intentionally ending it like that to avoid a horrible death or to avoid being apart because they know they can be ghosts…

Wow. Hold on tight, because the world is changing.

So long for now, my love. I’ll let you know what I find.

Love,

Hal

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P.S. Sorry. I know you are grieving. I am too. Take any lame attempts at humor as a shield against my own grief.

I hope this helps you. I really do. If you want to message me back, just tack a note up in my workshop. I’ll check there before I try to communication again. If you don’t want to hear from me anymore, I get that.

Please, find a way to happy. I’m trying for a happy afterlife myself. And on the plus side, no vodka for ghosts.