And a Very Fine Scotch

We're both rather spooked tonight. We'll write a ghost story.

“Do you think,” Ryan said, looking up from his antiquated typewriter, “that simple acknowledgement of ghosts could make them… I don’t know, more real?”

Megan gave a quick glance across the old wooden dining table before returning her attention to the blue glow of her laptop.

“Absolutely,” she said, still staring at the screen.

It was a discussion they had with considerable frequency, despite their mutual preference to avoid the subject. They lived together in an old, moderately sized house that belonged to a great-uncle before he lost his mind and went missing some twenty years prior. It was a strange arrangement which neither of them could quite explain, though they tried. It only seemed right that two writers of such similar minds should congregate. They spent most of their nights like this, sitting across that heavy oak table, he using one of a variety of old typewriters, clacking out pages of poorly edited fiction, she tapping softly and rarely printing. They would sip at fancy drink, often sharing a new discovery or an old treasure. Tonight, both were sampling an ancient bottle of scotch, found in a dusty box behind a set of very old encyclopedias. The label on the bottle was faded and yellowed, and beginning to peel, but the cork was in fine condition, and the liquid so finely aged and delectable that even a wine drinker like Megan could not wrinkle her nose.

“Did you ever read ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’,” he asked, pausing his rapping again.

“Poe, right?”

He nodded, and knew that she would perceive this, though she did not look up from her laptop.

“I wish you’d stop,” she said. “You know it makes me uneasy.”

He knew, of course—He must have. Who could focus in that house, especially at night when the heat of the sun began to dissipate and the old wooden walls began to creak and settle beneath the weight of darkness? Sometimes, it sounded like footfalls through a hallway, or knocking on a wall, or a heavy man shifting his weight in the next room.

One such creak raced its way through the kitchen, directly adjacent to the yellow-papered dining room where they were seated. Ryan shivered visibly and stood.

“I need a blanket,” he said, indicated the tall window behind him. “Its cold on this side of the room.”

She nodded again without looking up. He left, certainly wishing she’d come with him, too embarrassed to ask. She most likely did not relish being left in that room. Neither said anything, feeling too foolish to indulge childish fears.

She could hear him climbing the stairs up to the bedrooms, could hear the old closet door squeak open. She could hear the whole house settling, noting a soft tapping in the kitchen to which she had her back turned. She probably found it unusual that the tapping was so persistent—usually such sounds lasted only a second, but this had been tapping like an impatient foot for at least a half a minute. Then it stopped, and she shivered and hugged herself, looking toward the door through which Ryan had left. Behind her in the kitchen, there was a sudden shattering of glass, and all the lights in the house were extinguished, except the glow of her laptop.

A shout of surprise and terror erupted from upstairs, followed by a heavy thud as though a bushel of potatoes had been dropped.

“Ryan?” She called, her voice wavering, her throat nearly stopped by her pounding heart.

He offered no answer, though she strained her ears for his voice. She heard something then, but it was not from upstairs. It was a very soft tapping, almost inaudible, and not noteworthy except that it was most definitely moving. Through the hall, in through the same door through which Ryan left, and to the center of the room, where it made a slow deliberate line toward her. An observer would have seen Megan’s eyes go wide, though the blue of her laptop screen would have hidden the sudden paleness. Quickly, she turned the computer around and shone the screen toward the noise. Eyes illuminated yellow and a long yowl filled the room.

She sneezed violently, an immediate reaction to the presence of dander. Her eyes were only squeezed shut for that second, but when she looked up, the cat was gone, and the lights were on, yellow and soft and slightly wavering—it was very old wiring, after all.

She breathed a sigh of relief and looked around for the cat. There were wet footprints on the table. She pondered this a second before remembering Ryan, and noticing that his untidy stack of papers had been scattered, thrown about the floor. His typewriter was gone, and so was his drink. The bottle was gone too.

She ran upstairs, searched the three cavernous bedrooms. In his room, she found his favorite quilt crumpled on the floor, but no sign of him.

She returned downstairs, unsure of what to think. Her feet carried her to the kitchen, where his crystal tumbler was shattered on the floor, the old liquor splashed across the rough wood.

She left the house then, running, wide eyed and fumbling with her cell phone, calling a friend to come pick her up from that old place.

Ryan was never found.

The Other Side