The Last Handful of Clover - Book 1: The Hereafter

1.05 The Night

June 5, 9:35 pm

Richard never believed in ghosts. Even being one, his mind struggled to deny his own existence, like he was just a misplaced shadow in a painting, or an afterimage that lingered in the eye from staring at the sun too long.

Still collapsed against his own immovable front door, Richard stared as Michelle and Keith ascended the stairs. He watched as they turned the corner and disappeared into the bedroom he had shared with his lover for more than a decade.

Although he wanted to deny it, he knew he was dead. He knew he was a ghost, but he had no idea yet what that meant, or what came next. Panic lurked, like a giant gorilla behind his back, just out of sight, arms upraised, waiting for him to lose his guard so it could smash him into the ground. He had fought social anxiety and panic attacks all his life—that much he remembered. But this felt so much different. Back when he was alive, a panic attack was terrifying but brief, and he never feared he'd lose his mind because of one. But this terror was so great that he was sure if the gorilla brought down his fists, it would destroy his mind completely.

Carefully, he used some techniques he had learned in therapy for his anxiety disorder to calm the gorilla. To his surprise, the deep breathing helped, as if his ghostly body's adrenalin and serotonin were slipping back into balance. And the gorilla took first one step back, and then another.

What felt like ten minutes later, he no longer feared he would lose his mind in the maelstrom of grief and loss. His world was still a nightmare. But for now, it was a bearable nightmare.

Michelle appeared at the top of the stairs, and he watched her descend. Halfway down, she stopped, took a deep breath, and stared over the railing, down and into the living room. For long moments she stood on the stairs, her face stormy and troubled. Until finally she descended and went into the dining room at the back of the house.

He remembered Michelle now. She was Keith's best friend and had known him far longer than Richard had. Their history went back to college, and even to high school, where they had been just a year apart. Richard tried to fill in some of the details, but his memories still seemed indistinct, unformed, and confusing.

He remembered more now, but far from everything. He remembered his name. He remembered Keith, and Michelle, and... Pil. That would be Michelle's husband. But his memory was strange. His life felt like a novel, lightly skimmed. He could remember emotions and feelings, but the events between them were hazy and indistinct. His life stretched out behind him like the line on a stock market chart, with all its ups and downs, highs and lows. Events and memories hung on that line like Christmas ornaments, and more were being added all the time. But there were still many empty spaces along the line—major gaps where the emotion existed—but he had no events or specific memories.

And then the line just... ended. He had no memory of anything at the end.

I can't remember the day I died.

How did it happen? Why all the blood?

With some effort he reconstructed the week of his death, and a long string of ornaments appeared on the line. The only gap that remained was the night he died. The night he abandoned the man he loved, through no choice of his own. Just like...

A name came to him, but the ornament remained elusive.

Just like I did with Justin...

Something in that name, and the memories that lay behind it, was too painful, and he pushed it away in a panic. He took a deep breath and stared at his hands, until they stopped shaking.

So what happens now?

He cradled his hand, which Michelle had kicked as she went up the stairs earlier. The pain had subsided, but it still ached. Pushing himself to his feet, he looked up the stairs, and with his heightened hearing, he could make out the sound of his lover, breathing in the bed they shared. Afraid, but driven, Richard climbed the stairs.