The Last Handful of Clover - Book 1: The Hereafter

1.47 The Tug

June 6, 4:15 pm

Richard lay sprawled in the hallway of his house for long minutes, listening to the grandfather clock tick in the living room.

It took some time for his body to fully recover. Long after he heard Big Bird pull away from the curb, he could still feel the burning as his bones continued to knit themselves back together, as torn muscle pulled back into place, and as rent skin mended itself like the seal on a zipper bag. Once he had the strength, he brought a hand before his face and made a fist.

Everything appeared to be back in place now, and the whole-body agony had receded to a dull throb.

He used the table in the hall to help him climb shakily to his feet and looked around the empty entranceway.

Everything looked so much like he remembered it. And yet that didn't bring him comfort. He staggered into the kitchen, carefully avoiding the festival of gore in the living room as he rushed by. All the dining room chairs were pulled up close to the table, so he could find no easy place to sit. And there was no way he was going back into the living room. Finally, he satisfied himself by going into the kitchen and sitting on the counter. His feet dangled above the floor, and the sound of the faucet dripping was like a small drum, tapping annoyingly against the stainless steel every thirty seconds.

I have to fix that, Richard thought.

Then he realized, I'll never fix anything in this house, ever again.

He could imagine Keith walking in on this scene, and the look he'd get. "Get your ass off the counter," Keith would say with a smirk. "God knows where it's been!" The thought of it made him smile, and he closed his eyes to try and retain the image.

Slowly, his mind was drawn back to what had happened on his way back to the house. It seemed dreamlike now, but he could remember running. He had been going like a bat-out-of-hell down 7th East, desperate to get back home—to get back to Keith. He remembered passing Trolley Square, and the Whole Foods where he used to get that artisan cheese Keith loved. A few blocks later, he was zooming around the occasional pedestrians and dodging cars as he tore through intersections. He was just nearing the Avenues, and then...

Then I had heard a voice.

He remembered it now. It had been a high pitched, almost adolescent voice, and it was screaming the words "stop running!" He didn't know if the voice had been screaming at him, but it had a desperate quality to it that had caused him to screech to a halt. He remembered looking back and noticing that he was on South Temple.

And I remember a boy.

Yes, he remembered! It was a boy with a straw hat. It had to be the same boy with the straw hat that he had seen in Liberty Park. But as the boy neared him, he could have sworn that he actually looked at him. And not only looked at him, but really saw him!

He pictured the boy raising his arm, and then he remembered something else. Something the boy had said, just before he winked out. What was it? Something about being... "reset?"

"I was standing in the middle of the goddamn street," Richard said aloud, remembering now the sign for South Temple. He put his face in his hands and moaned. "Dammit, I must have been... Must have been hit... Oh, Jesus Christ... Does being a ghost make you stupid?" He leaned his head back against the kitchen cabinets, disgusted with himself.

But with the departure of his pain, his mind now felt uncommonly clear. And he knew that what had just happened to him was important, and that he needed to understand it. He had experienced something vital about being a ghost. This world was full of mysteries and this one seemed critical.