Ghost Unbroken

POV: ANDIE

The baking summer heat of the day had relented, and with the setting sun an easy warmth filled the air. Fairy lights and glowing lanterns hung in wide smiles over the streets, welcoming the slow energy of people who had slipped out into the twilight to enjoy the bars and restaurants.

And as shoulders brushed, and gentle laughter became contagious, the city flowed with the belief that as long as you just came out and joined in, anything could happen.

Through the open window of my fourth floor flat, the relaxed sounds of the stirring streets filtered in.

I leaned back, stretched up my arms, and tilted my neck from side to side. It had been a long day spent marking English papers from my class of sixteen-year-olds. They all needed to be finished before the summer holidays began. But before my brain started to fossilize, I needed to take a break.

I looked at my watch. Two hours until the doors of my favorite café shut. Two hours to sit quietly in my favorite spot, get something to eat and drink, and sit lazily with the book I had been struggling to find time to read.

Pulling on my linen dress and sandals, I let down my wavy brown hair and brushed it out, so it sat a little more smoothly over my shoulders. Painting my lips with cherry gloss and adding a touch of mascara to my lashes, I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed out to the corner of the old, cobbled alleyway, where my favorite café stood waiting for me to walk through its solid green door.

Sitting at the very back with my cinnamon roll and chocolate milkshake, I opened my book. But before I could settle, I noticed a man at the table opposite me.

A thick mop of dark hair, a few days stubbled growth covering his jaw, bear hands that made his coffee cup look like it came from a dolls house as he lifted it to his wide sensual lips, and a glaring frown that seemed to be watching every move I made.

A flush rose to my cheeks as I caught his eye. Looking away his frown deepened and he shuffled uncomfortably, as if his longs legs and wide shouldered body were too big for the meagre wooden table and chair that he sat on.

He was rugged like a lumberjack, handsome like a sportswear model, but at the same time he looked angry, but with a touch of genuine sadness mixed in.

I shook my head of my thoughts. This ruggedly handsome, strong like a lumberjack, mysteriously sad but angry man, was just another passing stranger who happened to be sitting in this cafe at the same exact moment that I was.

Coincidence. Nothing more, nothing less.

I dropped my gaze and took a sip of my milkshake, and a rush of wind suddenly blew into the pages of my book, ruffling them this way and that. I pressed my palm down against the paper, but the wind blew again, across the top of my hand, across my chest, into my hair, stronger, more blustery, impatient to be felt.

But where was the wind coming from? There was no open window, not a soul had passed by my table, and no fans whirled overhead.

Then, in a flash of blinding light, the evening sunbeams that were melting in through the window flared with a burning intensity, and swayed in a strange, unusual way, back and forward, up and down like torchlight searching over the floor.

But the strangest things was, that no one in else in the whole cafe seemed to notice the migrating light, or the fact that it had just come to sudden halt and was now pointing directly over me.

I squinted in discomfort, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw something else, something sitting in the chair next to me.

A shape, a form, an unclear arrangement of muddled lines and disordered, pale colors.

I flinched in fright. My breath hitched in my throat. My eyes grew wide and I leaned back. Holding my book close to my chest I rocked on my chair with such alarm that it almost tipped over.

Frozen and confused, a shiver as cold as ice cascaded down my spine.

The shape that sat on the chair was translucent and it willowed very softly like a thin sheet of moving water. I watched it in a dazed like state, silently gazing at something I could see, but could not fathom, wondering if I was going mad, if the burning beam of sunlight had left patterns in the iris of my eyes, damaged the inner retina and left optical illusions.

The shape kept moving and I imagined it to be like a stream that trickled over rock, clear and pure, for I could see right through it. I could see the countertop of the café; the table with the couple who sat plucking words from the air randomly as if they were struggling for things to talk about; the waitress refilling coffee from her pot, taking orders with her notepad and pencil that she kept in her apron.

The willowing, floating shape continued to move, continued to grow, to form, to become more solid, more real, more distinct.

No one else in the whole coffee shop had flinched, had looked around, had noticed this strange apparition. Except perhaps, the rugged, handsome man.

He was clenching his fists, his body tense, shoulders wide, back straight, eyes alert and watching. He had the look of a policeman patrolling dangerous streets. What did he sense? Danger? Fear? I don’t know. But definitely something.

And it was then that I realized what it was. The softly formed, willowing shape, sitting in the chair right next to me, was a ghost.

“Hello,” the willowing shape said. It had formed into the figure of a young man, and he was tilting his head to one side with exaggerated puppy dog eyes. “You look sad. What is that book you are reading? Did it make you sad?”

I didn’t speak. With my jaw hanging open I looked from the willowing shape to the book still open on the table. One of the pages flapped back and forth in the cold breeze which emanated from his pale, translucent skin.

“Sort of,” I squeaked in a strangled, frightened voice, not sure what to say.

“Shame,” he said. “Such a pity, because it really doesn’t need to be that way.”

The ghost laid his hands on the table, leaned in towards me and grinned. His hands were huge like a farmer’s. His frame was wide and his face overpoweringly large in spite of the fact that it was not completely solid.

His appearance was young, about the same age as me. He was wearing modern, casual clothes; jeans, t-shirt and a black leather jacket. He would have been handsome - if he was alive. Big brown eyes and a wide smile. He was beguiling. Bewitching even. A rebellious, lovable angel, or a devil in disguise?

“Am I imagining you?” I whispered.

“No. I am here. Not completely in body as you can tell, but I am here entirely in spirit.”

“I am sorry,” I suddenly found myself saying. “I am sorry you are....You seem so...so... you are so...“.

I was babbling, I knew I was babbling. I wanted to slap my hand over my mouth and force it to stop making noises, but I felt so drawn to him. “You must have...it must have been....so....” My curiosity had grown quickly, and it was clumsy, like a newborn foal finding its feet.

But I stopped talking when I saw a deep scowl tighten over his face.

With a heavy sigh that sprayed from his lips in a rush of wind, the ghost leaned back from the table. “Ok, ok. Let’s get this sad bit over with. Yes, I did die young and yes, it was very sad. Very, very painfully sad. But let’s not dwell on that. You don’t want to know about all that stuff. You want to know why I am here don’t you? And why no one else in this whole place can see me except you.”

I stared at him. At his nice face, his big eyes, his smooth voice. Then a disturbing image migrated into my mind and all I could focus on were his long fingers drumming on the table.

If he was wearing anything other than the leather jacket and the cool clothes – for example a black cloak and a hood pulled up over his head - he could very easily be mistaken for something other than a friendly ghost.

He could be the Grim Reaper.

I pulled back my chair, scraping it along the floor in a blood curdling screech, loud enough for the whole café to hear.

But still no one looked around.

Still, no one noticed.

I was alone with a ghost, and I had no idea what to do to save myself from whatever cruel fate he was here to deliver.