Ghost of You

“Tom?” Mrs. Listing's voice floated through the hall, fading away. I looked up from stroking Sarah's hair. “Could you come down here, please?”

Sarah rubbed her right eye and hopped down from the bed, stretching out. I reached down and tickled her, her giggles erupting from her small form. She reached her hand up and I took it, letting her lead me down the hall to the stairs. I held her hand tightly as, one by one, we made our way down each step. I was afraid of letting her fall.

Down on the first floor Mrs. Listing stood, looking confused, biting her bottom lip. She pointed her salon-done nails at a mess laying on the floor. I eyed it closely. It only took me a second to realize...

“My guitar!” I said, dropping Sarah's hand and staring at the wooden acoustic guitar propped up by what looked like a white gym bag. “Where did that come from?”

I looked to the pale Mrs. Listing, her eyes frighteningly wide. “I was hoping you would tell me,” she whispered. I raised an eyebrow at her. “I heard the doorbell ring and when I went to answer it, there was no one around. No one walking down the street, no one in sight. Just this, lying on the stoop.”

I searched Mrs. Listing's eyes, looking for the hint of a lie. But, I knew she wasn't lying. I dropped down to my knees, pushing away the guitar. As I reached for the silver zipper on the bag, I realized my hands were shaking. Slowly, I unzipped the bag and flipped it upside down, dumping the contents onto the floor of the living room.

A pile of clothes, shoes, and my large, black notebook that I usually filled with songs, fell from the bag, scattering across the living room floor. I quickly began to dig through the mess, searching for a note, an explanation, but came across empty. If these were here, that meant...

“Mom,” I gasped.

I grabbed my white tennis shoes from the rest of the clothing, throwing them over my bare feet.

“Tom, what're you doing?” Mrs. Listing asked fearfully.

“I'm going home!” I cried, clumsily tying the laces of my sneakers and standing up quickly, darting for the door.

“Tom. Tom, stop! Drew!” Mrs. Listing called for her husband.

But by then, I was already out the door.



My heart pounded crazily in my chest as I sucked air in my nose. My right foot hurt, and I could tell a blister was forming. I then wished I had been intelligent and put socks on. I could hear the revving of an angry engine following closely behind me, and I knew it was Mr. Listing.

And then it hit me.

The smell of smoke burned through my nose, pushing against my eyes, making them water. The wind blew the smell around me as I tried to take another deep breath.

The lights made my vision swim. Police cars. Fire trucks. An ambulance. All cluttering the street around my house. My house. My neighbor, Miss Stephan, stood outside on her plush, green lawn, pink curlers decorating her hair, with her floral silk robe wrapped thinly around her torso. Her hand formed a barrier above her eyes to block out the sun. She turned, hearing me run up behind her.

“Tom!” she cried, as I threw myself into her arms. She smelled of lilies. “Thank God,” she hissed, “that you're alright. I was afraid you were inside!”

“Tom?” Mr. Listing called, his feet thumping on the lawn behind me as he came to a stop. He watched my smoking house and placed his hand on my back, rubbing it gently. “Good God,” he whispered.

“Let's go sit,” Miss Stephan said cautiously, never peeling her eyes away from Mr. Listing, “where it's not as smokey.”

Miss Stephan wrapped her arm delicately around my waist as Mr. Listing stopped at the curb, pulling off his long-sleeved suit top, leaving him in his undershirt. He put his top on the grass, pointing to it.

“Please,” he said to Miss Stephan.

She nodded her head and plopped down on the shirt, taking me down with her. I began to cough, smoke filling my lungs. My head was pounding and leaving me dizzy. Miss Stephan pulled me closer to her chest, the smell of her perfume mixing with the smell of the smoke.

“What's happened?” Mr. Listing asked, sitting next to us on the grass and rubbing my right shoulder gently.

“No one knows,” Miss Stephan said, wrapping her arm tighter around me. “One minute, the street is nice and quiet, and the next, BAM, the house goes up in flames. No one understands it, either. There was no one around to do such a thing. The police have been keeping a good watch on the house, too. I hope they catch whoever did this heinous crime!”

I gripped tightly to Miss Stephan, a sob aching in my throat. She leaned down, rubbing my side with her free hand. “Just breathe,” she whispered into my ear.



The fire slowly died down hour after hour, and at around five o'clock, the fire chief declared it safe for the residents of the surrounding houses to go back inside their homes. Miss Stephan led Mr. Listing and I inside her house. It smelled of coconuts.

I plopped down at the rounded table, letting my head rest against the chilly wood. Miss Stephan put the kettle on for coffee, pointing the bathroom out for Mr. Listing. Miss Stephan's cat, Bonjoe, an orange tabby cat, rubbed up against my leg, purring happily. Miss Stephan leaned under the table and scooped Bonjoe into her arms, resting into the chair next to me.

“Tom?” Her voice was soft as it rested in my ears.

I peered up and studied her. Miss Stephan was a modern-height woman, with ginger-colored hair and tired, brown eyes. She was skinny, and always seemed to be sizing someone up.

“What're you thinking about?”

I sat up completely, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “I don't know. There's so many thoughts in my head, I can't single only one out.”

Miss Stephan nodded her head slowly. “I understand. Happens to only the best,” she said, winking at me.

I gave a small grin as Mr. Listing retreated back from the bathroom, shoving his cellphone down inside the pocket of his pants. Bonjoe eyed Mr. Listing, licking his lips.

“Well, Tom, are you ready to go?” Mr. Listing asked, watching Miss Stephan from the corner of his eye.

“Is there a problem with him staying here?” Miss Stephan asked, her voice threatening.

“Actually yes, there is. My wife is getting dinner ready, and I would like to be home for it. Good day, Miss...”

“Stephan. Miss Stephan,” she snapped at him, then turned to me. “Come visit me when you have some time on your hands. Just don't bring Mr. Fuddy Duddy over here, yeah?”

I smiled at her and nodded my head, pulling the chair out and standing up. Miss Stephan followed us to the front room, opening the door for us. Bonjoe jumped down from her arms, going to curl up on the couch.

“Nice to meet you,” she snarled at Mr. Listing. “Mr...”

“Listing. Mr. Listing,” he said, a fake smile plastered across his face.

Miss Stephan nodded her head. “Mr. Listing. Goodbye, Tom.” She threw her arms around me and kissed my head.

I followed Mr. Listing from the house, stopping at the curb to look back. The smoke from my... from what used to be my, house, licked the sky, extending high into the clouds. The fire fighters splashed the water from the hose over the remaining flames.

I climbed inside the car as Mr. Listing started up the engine, backing away from the mess of police cars.

And through the smoke, I saw his smokey form emerge.