Saturday, October 30, 1999.
You're not sure how you let your roommate Sanjay talk you into helping him host a Halloween party. Parties are well and good for him, he's got what seems like hundreds of friends. A new girlfriend every other week, and somehow he stays friends with the old ones, not just "let's hook up if we're single again," but actually *friends*. And you...well, you started using this LiveJournal thing and you've got almost twenty people on your "friends" list there, and you know half of them "IRL"; that's something, right?
So sure, a party's great for him. But you could have slipped out and gone to the coffee shop down the street and read a book until it was over. Instead, somehow, you're here, clicking on a bunch of MP3s to cue them up in WinAmp on your roommate's computer. Passive-aggressively favoring music from the mid '80s over the early '90s stuff that Sanjay, a few years younger than you, grew up with. Ignoring the guy in a toga who's already drunk and yelling at you to put "1999" in the mix.
*We get it*, you think. *Party like it's 1999.* It's a great song, you've always loved everything by Prince, in high school the *Purple Rain* soundtrack spoke to your very soul, but c'mon, enough. Also: a toga? Are there lazier Halloween costumes?
After adding one last Duran Duran track and deciding the list is long enough for you to let it run for a while, you look around. Who are all these people, anyway? There's a [[group of strangers in the kitchen->kitchen]], [[more strangers by the jello shots->jello-shots]], and [[even more strangers on the couch->couch]].
(set: $been_to_front_door to false)(set: $been_to_kitchen to false)(set: $been_to_couch to false)(set: $been_to_jello to false)(set: $been_to_kitchen to true)The kitchen is full of more people you don't know, dressed in clichés: fortune teller, cat, sexy cat, person from *The Matrix*, sexy fortune teller, another person from *The Matrix*, fortune teller with cat ears, a half-hearted attempt at a mummy costume.
Needless to say, you're not impressed, and mostly it all just makes you realize you're going to be cleaning up fake fur and torn-off toilet paper all day tomorrow. Also, the sexy cat is drinking punch out of the [[gravy boat]] your mother sent you when you moved in. You have no idea why she sent you one, you never need it, but still: that's your gravy boat. You've got to find somewhere, anywhere else to be.
There's [[someone on the couch->couch]] whose costume at least looks more interesting, and a bunch of [[people clustered near the jello shots->jello-shots]] who...well, they sound like they're having fun, at least. $been_to_front_door[As your roommate reminded you, [[the back porch->back porch]] is full of lousy beer, and probably people as well. ](if: $been_to_kitchen and $been_to_jello and $been_to_couch)[Or you could try to sneak out$been_to_front_door[ [[the front door->the front door again]] again](else:)[ [[the front door]]].](set: $been_to_jello to true)How does your roommate know these people? And how does anyone get this drunk? For a moment you pause to wonder if there's a connection, before realizing you really don't care and would rather not think about it. Plenty of time to think about it tomorrow, you tell yourself bitterly, while you're cleaning up. The good news is that you won't have to throw away many jello shots(click: "The good news")[; the bad news is you may be cleaning them up anyway, just in a different form. You shudder].
You steel your nerves, trying to make the best of the situation. A couple of women in matching but unidentifiable costumes are talking about the terrible parking situation on this street. You don't have anything to add—you don't even have [[a car]]. You try someone else. "Hi," you say to a Raggedy Ann doll with incongruously dark hair. "I'm Perry. I live here."
"Whoo!" she answers, and grabs another jello shot.
So much for conversation. You could see whether things are any better [[in the kitchen->kitchen]]$been_to_front_door[,] or [[by the couch->couch]]$been_to_front_door[, or [[with the beer on the back porch->back porch]]].(if: $been_to_kitchen and $been_to_jello and $been_to_couch)[ Or you could try to sneak out$been_to_front_door[ [[the front door->the front door again]] again](else:)[ [[the front door]]].]You turn and go back into your apartment without even waiting for a response from Andy. You push past people who are too drunk to notice, step over someone sitting in front of the closed bathroom door, and enter your bedroom. Even though he was behind you, Andy (link: "is already sitting on the bed")[(link: "seems to be sitting on the bed, but right now you can't believe anything you see")[*is sitting on the bed*, damn it]]. You close the door.
"What," you start, and realize you don't even have a way to finish your sentence. Andy no longer looks apologetic; instead, he's smiling, that familiar beatific smile that he uses instead of a smirk. You try again with "How"—and again, you stop short when you realize you have nowhere to go.
"Where? Who?" suggests Andy, and it's all you can do not to scream. Even so, you can hear your voice start to rise as you ask, "What is going *on*?"
"I don't know what you mean," Andy says.
That tone. That innocent, playing-dumb tone of his. It can be grating at the best of times; right now, it triggers the floodgates. "When did you get here? Why didn't I see you come in? *Why did my hand go through you?* Are you a gh—."
And just as suddenly as it triggered, the flood of words catches in your throat. *Ghost*. Is Andy a ghost. It's the only thing that makes sense, and it doesn't make sense, either, and its implications overwhelm you. You sink onto the bed next to your friend.
"I told Kari this was my costume," he says, his tone light, and then his voice softens, all traces of mockery gone. "Yeah. I know. It's a lot to take in, isn't it. Believe me, it's no easier for me. But go ahead. Say it."
You take a deep breath.
(link: "\"Is this a trick?\"")[(set: $bed2 to "trick")(goto: "bedroom 2")]
(link: "\"Are you a ghost?\"")[(set: $bed2 to "ghost")(goto: "bedroom 2")]
(link: "\"Are you...dead?\"")[(set: $bed2 to "dead")(goto: "bedroom 2")]
(if: $bed2 is "trick")["A trick? How would this be a trick? Do you think I can—" Andy pauses. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to get worked up. I'm still trying to understand it too."]\
(if: $bed2 is "ghost")[Andy doesn't answer for a moment. Finally, he says, "Maybe. I guess so. 'Ghost' sounds right? I guess that's what this is."]\
(if: $bed2 is "dead")[Andy doesn't answer for a moment. Finally, he says, "Yes. I'm not really sure about most of this, but, yeah. I'm pretty sure I'm...yeah."]
You take this in. "OK. OK. Start from the beginning? Tell me what you know?"
Andy nods. "I wasn't going to come to the party, you know. Seemed like a waste of time. But I guess I thought, all right, might as well show up and say hi or something, I don't know why I thought that, it's..." He shakes his head. "Anyway. So I was driving over here. And then I was...just...here."
Again, without thinking about it, you look out your window, though you can't see the street from your bedroom either. "You drove here."
"No," Andy corrects you. "I *was driving* here. Then I was here. I think...maybe my car is still out there." He takes a deep breath. "Maybe *I'm* still out there. I think maybe something happened to me."
For a few seconds, [[the room is silent->bedroom 3]].(set: $been_to_couch to true)You edge past some guys talking about football and make it to the futon that serves you as a couch. The air here is full of inane conversation and the smell of bad domestic beer. A couple of people are discussing [[the framed poster]] on the wall; meanwhile, on the couch, a man in a (link: "vampire costume")[pretty good vampire costume, you have to admit,] is [[leaning close->vampire and victim]] to a woman with multicolored hair and fishnets. You're not sure what she's supposed to be, though "victim of a vampire" is starting to look pretty likely.
You don't really want to interrupt them. You're not positive you could interrupt them if you tried. May as well retreat to the [[crowd in the kitchen->kitchen]], or the [[crowd around the jello shots->jello-shots]]$been_to_front_door[, or the [[presumed crowd (and unfortunate beer) on the back porch->back porch]]].(if: $been_to_kitchen and $been_to_jello and $been_to_couch)[ Or you could try to sneak out$been_to_front_door[ [[the front door->the front door again]] again](else:)[ [[the front door]]].]You make it past Sanjay's friends and to the back porch. Honestly, it's one of your favorite things about this place. Your apartment's appliances are ancient, its walls are thin (as you know *far* too well), it's up two flights of stairs, and you'd hate the color of the walls if they weren't so beige-gray as to resist all emotion.
But the porch! The porch is far more spacious than the average apartment porch in the area, and it overlooks a small park instead of the street, which means it's generally pretty quiet. You spend most of your weekends out here, and many of your weeknights as well.
Tonight, it turns out, it has one more sterling attribute: this is where your handful of friends ended up. Honestly, you didn't expect them to come at all and you pretty much figured they'd already left, but it turns out they came back here to get away from the crowd. (link: "Melissa and Kari")[{[[Melissa]]} and [[Kari]], who explained when they came in that they're dressed as "particle man" and "triangle man" and you decided not to ask for more information,] have claimed the two patio chairs. (link: "Paul")[{[[Paul]]}, who didn't bother to dress up and explained "I'm a serial killer, we look like everyone else,"] is sitting on the wooden floor, his back against the railing.
When you come out, they're arguing about Jar-Jar Binks. It's pretty much the same argument they've been having for the last five months, so you don't feel at all bad about interrupting it. "There you are," you say. "I thought you'd left. Paul, is that comfortable?"
Paul shrugs. "I was sitting on the cooler for a while, but I kept having to get up whenever someone came out to get a beer. This is fine."
You stand next to Paul, hands behind you on the railing. "Thanks for coming out, guys. I really needed this."
Melissa raises a Solo cup, which looks like it's full of ice water. "No prob. Why d'you even let Sanjay talk you into this stuff?"
[[You relax.->friends]]You've made it to the front door and you're reaching for your jacket—it's almost November, the weather report raised the possibility of snow—when suddenly, somehow, Sanjay is right there. You hadn't seen your roommate in a while; honestly, you assumed he'd taken someone to his bedroom. And yet, as if he has a sixth sense, he's blocking your way.
"Per," he says. You hate that he calls you "Per," your name is "Perry" and you didn't particularly need it shortened, but you've given up on that battle. "Per. You said you were gonna help me host, man. You bailing? Now?"
You mumble something about running out of beer, but he cuts you off. "Plenty of Bud and Bud Light on the back porch, dude!"
"No," you try again, "I meant *beer*, not—"
He's not interested. Putting a (link-reveal: "hand on your shoulder")[, which you also hate and have also given up trying to fight], he steers you back into the apartment.
(link-goto: "Turn around", (history:)'s last)
(set: $been_to_front_door to true)You don't know how he does it, but Sanjay is right there again, shaking his head. When Sartre wrote "Hell is other people," he must have had a roommate like Sanjay.
(link-goto: "Turn around", (history:)'s last)It really is much better out here, with people you know. Kari, who works as a programmer, starts talking about her company's preparations for Y2K, and while you don't understand most of what she says, it's miles ahead of the conversations inside. Occasionally snippets of a shouted conversation come from the kitchen, usually when someone comes out to get a beer:
|indent>["How come you and Jack broke up, anyway? You were such a cute couple!"]
|indent>["Aw, you gotta watch *The Sopranos*, it's *so good*..."]
|indent>["I've got, like, *so* much more energy since I stopped eating carbs, y'know?"]
Each one underscores how nice it is not to be inside. Over the course of half an hour, the conversation drifts, from [[Kari's work]] to [[her awful boss]] to Paul's [[semi-awful advisor]], and then to his [[graduate classes]], which leads Melissa to mention acupuncture classes, because she wants to get licensed so she can help expand the offerings at [[her yoga studio]]. Kari smiles indulgently; Andy snickers; Paul fails to hide his eye-roll. "What," says Melissa, a hint of challenge in her voice. "What's wrong with acupuncture?"
You're trying to think of a way to head off the argument when you realize that someone snickered. You turn to look at the door. Sure enough, Andy is leaning against the far wall. "Hey," you say, just as Paul starts to rise to Melissa's bait. "Andy. How long have you been there?"
Andy shrugs. "A few minutes. Long enough to hear too much about topology."
Paul raises a hand to his chest. "Too much? There's no such thing as too much topology!"
Melissa picks a cube of ice out of her cup and throws it at Paul, who starts to explain why the rotation of a cube through space is particularly interesting, and you tune them out and look back at [[Andy]]."I mean, it's a startup, of course the hours are terrible, but at least there's a pool table."
[[Back to the conversation->friends]]"I swear he keeps trying to look down my blouse during meetings. It's the worst."
[[Back to the conversation->friends]] "She spends more time at conferences than she does in the department! Once I start my thesis..."
[[Back to the conversation->friends]]Math. Lots of advanced math. You're almost tempted to slip back inside to listen to Little Red Riding Hood talk about her juice cleanse. Almost.
[[Back to the conversation->friends]]"The owner wants me to work the front desk more, but I like leading classes!"
You actually met Melissa at the studio, when you thought you might enjoy yoga. You were wrong. But Melissa was working the front desk and was reading a Diana Wynne Jones book, and you commented on it, and the two of you ended up talking for an hour after the studio closed. Eventually she said she needed to go apartment-hunting, and you mentioned that your friend Kari needed a new roomate. So at least something good came of the yoga experiment.
[[Back to the conversation->friends]]While you didn't hold out much hope that any of your friends would show up, you really didn't expect Andy. Maybe that's why he's been on your mind so much tonight? He's become friends with Melissa and Kari and Paul, too, but he avoids large gatherings even more than you do, so you mostly see him for a weekly (link-reveal: "chess match")[, which he always wins], and occasional coffee.
You've known him since fifth grade, longer than anyone else you're still in touch with. Actually you were in kindergarten together, but it wasn't until fifth grade that you became friends, mostly by sitting together at lunch. He had started to develop his wry humor and fundamental smartassery by then, and your best friend from fourth grade moved to another state over the summer, so you were both pretty much on your own. It only took a month for you to be on your own together.
It wasn't always easy. You tend to talk a lot, while Andy developed a repertoire of sardonic smiles and raised eyebrows to stand in for responses. Sometimes it could be (link-reveal: "aggravating")[; you got mad at him over nothing in eighth grade and the two of you spent a month not speaking to each other, until one day he sat down across from you at lunch again and you started complaining about the meatloaf and everything was back to normal].
By high school the two of you were hanging out with three, sometimes four other people. You spent your time on weekends in each other's basements, playing video games, talking about girls you weren't ever going to ask out, renting movies. But everyone else was just kind of there, a matter of convenience, and when you all went off to different colleges, Andy was the only one you stayed in touch with. You were thrilled that he moved here after he graduated.
Even for Andy, he's being particularly quiet tonight. He's wearing black, which someone could mistake for a Halloween thing if they didn't know that pretty much everything he wears is black. It means he blends into the shadow of the house even more than he might otherwise, though his fair hair and pale skin shine faintly in the light coming from the kitchen.
You push yourself away from the railing and [[go over to him.->andy 2]]"Vertexes," says Paul, mostly to himself. "Actually, vertices." Kari ignores him.
[[Back to the conversation->andy 2]]"Hey, Perry, is there any Sam Adams left? In the fridge? It's all Bud and Bud Light out here."
"I can check. If not, we've probably still got some of that pumpkin ale you brought over a couple of weeks ago." You turn to Andy. "Sure I can't get you anything? I'm going inside anyway..."
But [[as you're turning->reveal]]as you're turning to Andy
(live: 3s)[(stop:)(transition: "dissolve")[someone pushes the door open]]
(live: 6s)[(stop:)(transition: "dissolve")[and you lose your balance]]
(live: 9s)[(stop:)(transition: "dissolve")[and you reach out without thinking]]
(live: 12s)[(stop:)(transition: "dissolve")[and you're going to hit Andy]]
(live: 15s)[(stop:)(transition: "dissolve")[but instead you're braced on the wall]]
(live: 18s)[(stop:)(transition: "dissolve")[and your hand]] (live: 19s)[(stop:)(transition: "dissolve")[went]] (live: 20s)[(stop:)(transition: "dissolve")[through him]]
(live: 21s)[(stop:)(transition: "dissolve")[{
[[and then]]
}]]And then time seems to resume, and the guy coming through the door goes to the cooler and grabs a beer without even looking at you, and Andy has moved a couple of feet to the left so that your hand is on the wall next to him, and no one seems to have noticed, *but you know what happened*.
Andy looks genuinely apologetic. You glare at him.
[["My bedroom. Now."->into the bedroom]]It's been over twenty years, and you never told anyone.
(link: "Not the next day.")+(transition: "dissolve")[Not the next day, when the news reported that Andrew Aschen was found dead in his car by the side of the road.
(link: "Not later that week.")+(transition: "dissolve")[Not later that week, when your friends started posting about it on LiveJournal, saying it must have happened on the way home from your party, and your mother called to see if you'd heard, and the autopsy reported that he had died from an aneurysm.
(link: "Not the next week.")+(transition: "dissolve")[Not the next week, when you flew home to the town where you and Andy grew up together, and you went to the funeral, and watched his parents sobbing through the minister's eulogy, and you stayed with your mother for a few days and she kept asking if you were OK.
(link: "Not several years later.")+(transition: "dissolve")[Not several years later, at your tenth high school reunion, where there was a large poster with Andy's senior picture on an easel with a wreath and flowers and a hand-lettered "In Memoriam" sign, and classmates who wouldn't have spoken to Andy back in high school would pause as they went past it and reminisce about him.
(link: "Not over the next few decades.")+(transition: "dissolve")[Not over the next few decades, as you fell in love, and then out of love, and then in love again. Not to your girlfriend, later your fiancée, later your wife. Not to any of three successive therapists. Not to Paul, who dropped off of LiveJournal when he took a professorship in Canada and who recently friended you on Facebook; not to Melissa and Kari, who you see regularly when your son and their son have playdates. Not to anyone.
[[Not ever.]]
]]]]]Not ever.
(live: 3s)[(stop:)(transition: "dissolve")[But you never, ever stop thinking about (link: "it.")+(transition: "dissolve")+(transition-time: 4s)[him.
[[Credits]]]]]Author: Lance Nathan (tahnan@suberic.net)
Cover photo: (link-repeat: "\"Ghost\"")[(gotourl: "https://www.flickr.com/photos/whita/2990740804/in/photolist-5yhk3C-JzcqXB-NnGksi-69DSF-2hDuyu7-rjf2D-oWB1Bf-8GDecT-77PCYC-334iz8-2hAob19-PKXsCx-77NSSq-7aBwkT-Nyx1Zq-NhfHfJ-MtpPXv-2hpfy7f-N3u5Ue-zm7ZbM-2cyjJxB-2hv5Fu4-Au3WDR-YFaJzJ-2iCLZTT-2hAva64-Atz88c-ZS4mjS-dpJgXv-dpJgQv-zxDqsg-aE3D6A-Ndz1nD-2hvu4Zc-CTxhvh-2hBY9TU-A1fCzU-2hCP3W5-2hCwLUZ-2hpKnhF-N65DrN-2awWyjL-NGvazG-ZR39rC-2hCPvyj-ZLyeVn-5xVYZY-gD6Swz-MtUVkW-5xVYhQ/")], by Whit Andrews ((link-repeat: "CC BY 2.0")[(gotourl: "https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/")])
Test readers: Becca Moskowitz, Marc Moskowitz, Michelle Nathan, Doug Orleans; and I cannot thank them enough.
Made with Twine, in Harlowe, on (link-repeat: "twinery.org")[(gotourl: "https://twinery.org/")], and I am *hugely* grateful to everyone behind these projects for making it so easy to dive in and write a story.
[[Author's Note]] (contains spoilers) • [[Back to the start->Title Page]]"No!" You're surprised to hear your voice come out so loud. Andy flinches. "No, that doesn't...that doesn't make sense! None of this makes sense!"
"You're telling me," murmurs Andy.
"Why would you come *here*? I mean, if you...if you were a...why wouldn't you show up to, like, your parents?"
Andy looks up at you; you hadn't even realized you'd jumped up and started pacing. "My parents? My parents and I talk on the phone every two months. Ever since junior year when I told them I was an atheist. I don't think I...we..."
"All right, OK, that's another thing. You're an *atheist*. How can you be *here*, if you don't even believe in, in, in whatever this is?"
"I don't have answers, Perry. Maybe you're hallucinating and I'm fine and I'll call you on Wednesday to make sure we're meeting up to play chess. Maybe this happens all the time, to everyone who dies, and we just don't realize it. Maybe...."
He stops. Andy, looking at the carpet in your bedroom, at a loss for words. Andy, sitting still, waiting. Andy—and this is surprising, almost more surprising than everything that came before—Andy looking *vulnerable*.
You stop pacing. "All right," you say, quietly. "It doesn't matter how, or why, I guess. Now we...I guess we go back to the porch, and we tell everyone—"
"No." Andy stands up. "No, don't, don't tell anyone else. I don't want it to get weird—fine, weird*er*. I think it's just this one night, and...let's just pretend everything's normal?"
[["Normal?"->bedroom 4]]You're yelling again. From [[outside your door]], you hear someone yell back, "Hey, you OK in there?", but they don't follow up at all.
"Please," says Andy. "If I'm right, if all I'm getting is a few more hours, I just want...a normal night. One last night with friends. OK?"
You close your eyes. A deep breath; another; a third. "Fine," you say at last. "One last night with friends. Everything's normal."
You open your eyes, and Andy is smiling. A real smile, a genuine smile, something you don't get from him very often. "Everything's normal." He looks around. "Wow. If I'd known that all I had to do to get into your bedroom was die, I would have done it *years* ago."
"Wait—what?" you ask, but Andy is already standing at the door, arms crossed. "C'mon," he says, "you first. I can't open it, remember?"
Pretending everything's normal is clearly not going to be easy, but you open the door and Andy steps through ahead of you, threading his way through Sanjay's friends more easily than you do. And if he passes through an arm here, a loose bit of costume there, well, no one's sober enough to notice.
As you pass Sanjay's computer, you hear "Hungry Like the Wolf"—that last song you put on the playlist, you realize. Well, the hell with it; the party's too loud for anyone to realize when the music stops, and if Sanjay cares, he can deal with it himself.
[[You head back out to the porch.->after the bedroom]]It startles you, a little. For a moment you'd forgotten that there was a world outside this room.
[[Back to the conversation->bedroom 4]]You resume your position against the railing; Andy resumes his against the wall. "Hey, you're back," says Paul. "No luck with the Sam Adams?"
"Huh? Oh, no, sorry, I—"
"Don't worry about it, I can go look. Save my seat." He heads (link-reveal: "into the kitchen")[, where you hear someone yell "Hey, watch it!" and Paul saying "Sorry!" and something falling over].
You glance at Andy. *Normal*. Turning back to Melissa and Kari, you ask, "So, uh, what'd we miss?"
"Some math. Also Paul's terrible taste in music."
"Hey," Paul says as he returns with a bottle. "There's nothing wrong with my taste in music. Ah, hell, does one of you have a bottle opener? I thought these were twist-off."
Kari tosses him her keys. "You *like* that stupid 'A little bit of Monica' song!"
"I kind of like it, too," Andy interjects.
"Are you *kidding*? It's overplayed, it's inane, it's..."
You sit back and listen. The music discussion mostly involves Kari and Paul insulting each other's taste; then the conversation turns to television, at which point Andy gets more involved and Kari excitedly says something about a fear demon and Andy does something with his hands and Melissa laughs...and you just watch, quietly.
*Normal.* You want to join the conversation. You want to say something about...something. About (link-reveal: "television")[, but it just feels too mundane, too irrelevant]. About (link-reveal: "death and the afterlife")[, but that's *too* real right now, too raw]. About (link-reveal: "Andy")[, but you promised you wouldn't]. In the end you just lean back. Watching. [[Listening.]]Around two in the morning, Melissa looks at her watch. "Oh, jeez," she says, "I've got a noon class at the studio. C'mon, Kari, we should get going."
They stand, and Paul gets up as well. "Guess I ought to head out, too. Hey, Andy, did you say you drove? Can I get a ride from you?"
You look at Andy, not sure how to cover this one, but he gives an easy shrug. "I wasn't going to leave quite yet," he says. "Perry needs to find a couple of books I lent him, and I want to know what he thought of them."
Paul groans dramatically. "What, you can't ask him tomorrow? Fiiine. I can walk, it's only like fifteen minutes."
"The exercise will do you good," says Melissa, as you head back into the apartment. Sanjay's friends have cleared out, other than Dracula and dyed-hair-and-fishnets, who have curled up together on the couch and fallen asleep. Budweiser cans and Solo cups are scattered everywhere, and there's more than one puddle on the floor half-heartedly mopped up with bits of mummy. You sigh.
Paul grabs his coat, which is still on a coat hook by the door, but somehow with your gravy boat hung under it. He holds the door for Kari and Melissa, and just before it closes behind him, he catches it and leans back in. "Hey, Perry?" He holds up his wrist, watch facing you. "Happy Halloween." And then the door closes and [[you and Andy are alone.->Envoi]]You turn back to Andy, who is standing in the middle of the living room. "So," you say, looking around, hoping to find something, some anchor, something that can prolong the moment. "Is this...it? What happens now?"
Andy shrugs. "I don't know. But I think I have to go soon too."
You can't meet his eyes. "Will I see you again?"
"Not according to me, you won't. Still an atheist. But, like, I don't know, maybe I hope I'm wrong."
Now you do look up at him, and his wry smile matches yours. "This *is* an evening of miracles."
"Hey, no fair," he says, crossing his arms. "I can't throw anything at you."
"Yeah, look," you say, and then stop. After a moment, you offer, "Did you have an OK time tonight?"
The smile is still wry; is it also genuine? "The best. Everything I could have wanted. And...and also, I get to say this, which I didn't think I'd...so, yeah..."
Suddenly everything in the room demands your attention. You look at the couple on the couch, the cups on the floor, Sanjay's movie posters on the wall, your bookcase, anything but Andy.
"I'm just glad I get to say this before I go: goodbye, Perry."
"Goodbye, And—" But when you look up, [[he's gone.->Epilogue]]You study Kari thoughtfully.
Five feet tall, straight dark hair that frames her face, eyeglasses from the 1950s. You've known her since college, when you bonded in the back row of an intro to psych lecture freshman year.
You've always felt a little guilty being friends with Kari, because she's so much *cooler* than you are. Sometimes you worry that she doesn't realize how cool she is, and one day she'll have a sudden epiphany about it and you'll never hear from her again. But she's also unabashedly dorky, prone to excited opinions about the same superhero comics you grew up reading. So maybe you're safe after all.
[[Back to the conversation->back porch]]You can't really remember how you met Paul. A friend of a friend, maybe; perhaps you knew one of his classmates, or you ran into him at a book signing, or a farmer's market.
What makes this odd in Paul's case is that he generally makes a strong impression. He's over six foot six, with short-cropped red hair and a goatee that he insists is part of the requirements for his graduate program. Sometimes he seems misassembled, like someone attached his arms at the wrong angle or maybe swapped his legs when they were putting him together: any time you're walking together he trips over invisible bumps in the sidewalk or bangs into lampposts as he goes past.
On the other hand, he's somehow very comfortable to know, like an awkwardly-shaped puzzle piece that nevertheless fits perfectly.
[[Back to the conversation->back porch]]You had an English teacher in high school who loved the word *sprezzatura*, the careful art of looking artless. She'd apply it to all kinds of writing, poetry, sometimes moments in movies you'd watch in class, pointing out the careful construction that put deeper meaning into what might otherwise seem like a casual description, an offhand rhyme, a moment's smile. And she would have used it to describe Melissa.
Her thick hair is tied back, as always, in a ponytail that's just loose enough for a few strands to hang free, and she sits on chairs with her legs crossed into the lotus position as if that's how everyone sits on chairs. Her laugh is bubbly in a way that should feel fake but never, ever is. Everything about Melissa feels not merely natural and graceful but *intentionally* natural and graceful, a carefully choreographed dance to suggest carefree delight.
You know better. In truth, Melissa's elegance and composure comes from a genuinely carefree nature, and not the other way around. *Turasprezza*, you think of it, sometimes.
[[Back to the conversation->back porch]]"Hey," you say quietly. "Thanks for coming." He shrugs in response, as he often does, but at least he's smiling. You continue, "Can I get you something? There's...well, there's Budweiser...."
"Oh, terrific," Andy says. "No thanks. Anyway, I drove."
You glance reflexively towards the front of the house, even though you can't see the street from the back porch. You're surprised he was able to find parking, given what the women inside were saying. "I could get you water?"
Andy shrugs again. "I'm OK."
"—science behind acupuncture is *way* more interesting than the movement of a cube's [[vortexes]]," says Kari. "So we might as well hear why—hey, Andy, you decided not to dress up?"
"Lemme guess," says Melissa. "You're a serial killer, you look like everyone else."
"Hey! That's *my* costume!"
"Maybe he's a ninja," offers Kari.
Andy smiles. "I'm a ghost. We look like everyone else."
"*Still* basically mine," says Paul. [["Hey, Perry—"->pre-reveal]]*Andy's getting what he wants,* you think. *This is as normal as it gets.* Other than the fact that...other than that, it's just another night of hanging out, really. Background noise from inside that you can easily tune out. Cool autumn air, occasionally disturbed by a burst of cold wind that makes Melissa pull her sweater tighter around her shoulders. The acrid scent of cheap beer from a Budweiser you opened and quickly set aside. And more than anything, a constant flow of conversation, light, meaningless, forgettable, and somehow the most real thing there is.
"Hey," you say during a pause. "Why do you think Halloween is such a big night for partying, anyway?"
The pause lengthens. "Advertising?" suggests Melissa.
"Costumes are fun, maybe," says Paul.
"Says the man who isn't even wearing one."
"Fun for *some* people, then."
You look at a spot on the wall, not making eye contact with anyone. "I wondered if it was something left over from its origins. You know, ghouls and...fear of the darkness, or whatever. Something more, what, primal, I guess."
"You know," says Paul, "it's probably just a college thing. Because, look, no one's throwing a huge Labor Day party, and you've got all of September and October when frats have to come up with excuses and themes, but then there's this first holiday where the theme just writes itself."
Kari nods. "I'd buy that. And then everyone's gone for Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Years, and after that...they don't have Presidents Day parties, do they?"
"Valentines, usually," says Melissa. "Easter? Maybe they should do Easter."
"Surprised they don't do Mardi Gras," Kari answers, and then they're talking about whether frats could hold large parties on a Tuesday night, and your attempt to nudge to the conversation is gone. You don't look at Andy. You don't want to know if he's looking at you. Instead, you go back to [[listening quietly->Farewell]].**Self-Indulgent Author's Note**
|indent>[*If you don't like
The world you're living in,
Take a look around;
At least you got friends.
...
We're all excited
But we don't know why;
Maybe it's 'cause
We're all gonna die.*
|indent>[Prince and the Revolution, "Let's Go Crazy"]]
This is the first piece of interactive fiction I've ever written. I grew up on Infocom parser games, and I like games with meaningful choices and branching paths, but this is what I wrote. Go figure.
This is not a true story, though it has some kernels of truth. Parts of it have been kicking around in my head for decades, ever since I lost a high school friend during our college years, and I hated *so much* that I never had a chance to say goodbye. Other parts have been there since I nearly went through a guardrail while driving on a rainy highway. But I've never seen a ghost, I've never tried yoga, no one has ever been at a party at my house and been so high they drank out of my mother's gravy boat. (It was the creamer from a coffee set.)
Anyway, thanks for reading. Feedback is totally welcome.
|indent>[—Lance]
[[Back to the credits->Credits]]|title>[Electric word, "life"]
by Lance Nathan
<img src="http://www.suberic.net/~tahnan/ghost.jpg">
Content warning: (link: "only minor spoilers behind this link")[death/grieving (no violence); very mild spookiness]
[[Start the story->Intro]] • [[Credits]]"I never drink...wine," he's saying to her.
"What *do* you drink, then?"
"Tequila, mostly." He runs a finger along her cheek. "But right now the most intoxicating thing at this party is you."
She pulls his hand away, saying "Oh, please, that's just cheesy," but she also doesn't let go of it. That's about as much as you can take of them.
[[Time to stop eavesdropping.->couch]]You edge closer to hear what they're saying, but to your disappointment they're talking about *Hamlet*, which the poster advertises, and not the poster itself.
You designed this poster for your high school's production, your senior year. You never had any real interest in theater, but a friend who was running props had seen the sketches of castles that you'd done while bored in history class, and she really liked them and asked the director if she could ask you to make a poster.
You accepted, and almost immediately regretted it. Everything you tried felt trite: a castle at a distance in the fog; a closeup of ramparts with a ghost; a hand holding a skull. A week before you had to give them a design to send to the printers, you told your friend Andy that you were going to give up.
"Nah, you can't give up," he told you.
"Watch me," you shot back. "What, I can't give up because I promised?"
"No, you can't give up because they need your artwork. It's really good."
This made you pause. "Are you being serious?"
"Yeah. Look, maybe you're overthinking it. Close your eyes. Think about what has to be on the poster. Start with the title. 'Hamlet.' What are you seeing? Capital letters? Black on white? White on black?"
His voice was almost hypnotic. "Silver," you said, and you really could picture it. "Silver, with...the H is the parapet of the castle."
"What about the other letters?"
"The L is another tower. Between them...the hole in the A is a castle window. There's a ghost on the H..." and by that point you were feeling around in your backpack for pen and paper, too caught up in it to remember you could open your eyes.
It came out great. *Really* great. You ended up forgoing the silver and using charcoal, with sharp letters fading into mist, a rusted helmet leaning against the t, several ravens perched on the "William Shakespeare's" at the top. You worked your signature into the mist in the bottom right, and as a subtle thanks to Andy, you put a small "AA" in the mist in the bottom left, where no one would notice it.
You don't really draw much any more, but this is one of the best things you ever did, which is why you keep it framed. And why you were hoping the people gesturing at it were talking about the art, but no, it's something about themes of power and chaos. Whatever; you ended up not even going to see that production.
[[That's enough of them.->couch]]It wasn't just a gravy boat that your mother sent; it was a whole set of old dishware. Which is kind of funny, because the dishware was the least interesting part of your mother's kitchen.
In seventh grade, your friend Andy had come over after school one day, so you could hang out and do homework together at your kitchen table. Andy's pencil broke, and you waved at the cabinets and said "I think there's a pencil sharpener in one of the drawers." Andy went to look, and you heard him say "Whoa! What *is* all this?"
"Huh?" You looked up. "Not that drawer, the one by the phone."
"No, but, this stuff..." He pulled out a yellow plastic device, a shallow cup with slits in the sides on a short handle. "What is this thing?"
"Egg separator," you say, getting up and going over. It was just your mom's gadget drawer. Andy was usually pretty aloof; you'd never seen him this interested in anything. "You know, to separate eggs."
"Why would you separate eggs?"
"Got me." You tried to remember your mom using it. "Baking? Anyway, this is just, you know, cooking stuff."
Andy kept staring as if he'd found a treasure map. "My mom doesn't have any of these things."
"Oh. Huh. I mean, it's all just—like, this is for slicing and coring apples, that's—careful, it's sharp at the edges, it's I think a melon baller? Juicer..."
The two of you spent half an hour exploring your mom's kitchen, starting with the gadgets and moving on to the larger cabinet with the salad spinner and the stand mixer, the spice cabinet with things like "mace" and "cardamom" that you were never really sure what they were used for, but that Andy had never seen before.
So. All that cooking stuff, and all your mother sent you was dishware. Including a gravy boat. Maybe you should have taken more of an interest back then; at least you'd know now how to make gravy.
[[Anyway, enough about your mother's kitchen.->kitchen]]You don't really need a car around here, and you can usually get rides from friends when you do. It's sort of a nice reversal from high school, when you were usually the one giving rides.
This one time not long after you got your license, you were going to drive your friend Andy home after school and ended up waiting in the parking lot for twenty minutes after the last bell rang, just sitting on the hood and watching leaves fall. When he finally showed up, he opened the passenger door without saying anything, got in, and slammed it shut.
You'd seen Andy's bad moods before, so you didn't say anything either, you just got in and started driving. After a couple of minutes of silence, Andy said, quietly, "Screw 'im."
"Mmm." You knew better than to ask. If he was ready to talk, he'd tell you. In this case, it took a few more minutes of silent driving; you glanced at the radio a couple of times but thought better of it.
"I mean, it was one comment." Only a few seconds' wait this time, and then: "Really boring trig lecture, and Barnwell's drawing something on the board, and he says, 'Can anyone tell me the sine of this angle?'"
You also had Mr. Barnwell for trig, at a different time. He was pretty boring. Cautiously, you prompted, "And you said...?"
Andy stared out his window. "Scorpio."
You snorted, and Andy turned to you. "Right? One comment. And Barnwell decides he needs to keep me after class, and he gives me this *long* lecture about sarcasm, and it's going to get me in trouble some day, and I needed to learn blah blah blah. Finally he's like, 'All right, you can go,' and I ran to my locker and grabbed my stuff."
You thought this over until the next stoplight, when you said, "To be fair, I mean, you *can* be kind of sarcastic—"
"Whatever!" Andy yelled. "So what? It's not like I don't know that, but, like, too late now. Not gonna change it any time soon."
The silence stretched to the next stoplight, and then the next. You were about half a mile from Andy's house, and you hated to leave him like this. Sure, Mr. Barnwell had had a point, but his lectures were *really* boring.
"To be fair," you began, and Andy's scowl started to deepen. You locked your eyes on the road. "To be fair, 'Scorpio' *is* really funny."
You got the soft giggle you were hoping for. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."
You smiled. "It is."
At any rate, that was years ago; you don't drive much at all now. Which means you're not going to have much to add to a conversation about parking.
[[Might as well look around for someone else to talk to.->jello-shots]]