Posted on by Lydia Ink

Now and Again

Envy is one of the 7 deadly sins.  I’m not dead yet.  It sneaks up on a soul, envy, like the hiss of snake through grass. 

Her hair was long and shiny and her legs shapely.  She wasn’t on my arm or laughing at my jokes.  Sure, I envied the guy but only at a distance.  Maybe I could have shaken the green-eyed monster off, but I had to see her every day walk out with him.  

“Hi, how are you?” Her voice chirpy as she shuffled through her mail.

“Okay, how are you?”  Me the regular guy who wore plaid shirts and worked construction.  The guy she hung out with wore suits that glistened and white shirts so bright they appeared to glow.  One night as they went out arm in arm.  I imagined his conservative tie with a snorting pig on it and a bulbous tie pin.  Fact is he didn’t wear tie pins. 

They were an item for about a month, maybe a month and a half,  then the cops were knocking on my door. 

“Did you know her?”

“We said hello in the mail room.”

“See her often there?”

“She lived on the floor above me.  I saw her around.”

“So, you were near neighbors.”

“Yeah, her and her boyfriend.”

“Anybody you know?”

“No.  Some slick guy in expensive suits.”

“She was a looker.”

“So are lots of women.”

The murder made the papers and of course my fellow tenants were up in arms and worried about their kids and apartment safe dogs.  It was too bad, and I had to squelch my grandmother’s voice in my head, “girls like that deserve what they get?”

I went to work the next day and the next and thought about her nearly constantly.  The next week I was invited out for a beer with the guys and was glad to go.  I walked into my apartment and realized I hadn’t thought of her for several hours.  In a month I thought of her occasionally. 

I woke up one night with a gentle tapping on my bedroom door and she stood there looking at me all worried.

“How did you get in?”

“Through your window.”

“I live on the 8th floor.”

“I came in through your window.”

She stepped toward my bed and I as up and out and pressing myself against the wall. 

“Get out!” I shouted and she stopped.  She was dressed how I remember her the last night I saw her alive; her slinky pink dress looked stained and her hair a mess. 

“I was nice to you, I invited you in,” she whined.

I was careful and I did get away with it in a sense, problem is I see her now and again. 

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Harvey

Three little old ladies came up to me after my mother’s funeral holding a basket.  “This is Harvey,” the strongest one said.

I was a little confused because my Dad’s name was Harvey.  I looked into the basket not knowing what to expect and found a shaking, whining wet nosed little dog.  

“We’d keep him, you understand, because he was such a dear thing to your mother but I have a cat and these other ladies already have dogs.  They only allow us one pet at the retirement center.”

I nodded dumbly because I didn’t know Mom had a dog.  I wasn’t fond of animals for the simple fact they were time consumers, but what was I to do?  I missed my mother, so I took the basket choked back some tears and said thank you.  The women disbursed quickly and without so much as here’s a bag of dog treats for your trip. 

I took the long way home.  Mom lived in Lancing and I live in Grand Rapids.  A straight northwest drive and I’m home in a few hours but I couldn’t face the house, the small yard, the struggling fruit trees and the gray walls of my home.  I needed to see and hear Lake Huron and contemplate the water along the beach of the fresh water monster. 

The first couple of nights were tough thinking of my mom next to my dad in their graves.  Harvey seemed to feel the same way.  He ate very little and never whined or barked to go out. He squatted as if on command and seemed disinterested in the entire process.  It wasn’t until I made it to the straights of Mackinaw that both Harvey and I perked up.  I parked my car west of Cheboygan, looked out at the straights and sighed.  Looking over at the basket, Harvey had his paws up on the edge and his tail was wagging.  

“Hey, you coming back to life?”  I looked out the windshield again, wondering if I was missing something. “Looks the same to me, but let’s go have a look.”

I put the lead on Harvey and he took off toward the beach immediately.  I let him go where he wanted, fascinated that his tail was wagging without abashment.  I smiled.  

“You need to make sure he doesn’t get mites from the sand.”

Harvey and I both stopped.  I turned to face the person who wanted to rain on our little parade and jumped back.  An adolescent girl, long straight hair, large chocolate brown eyes was standing almost against me.  

“Whoa!  I didn’t hear you coming.”

“It’s the sand.  Make sure won’t you?  Make sure he doesn’t get sand mites.”

“Yeah sure.”  I noticed that she didn’t kneel or try to pet Harvey and he didn’t approach her.  The dog stood as if petrified.  I edged closer to my now shaking canine and I think it was at that moment Harvey loved me.  Head down and abject, he gingerly came close to me and nearly curled around my ankle.  I picked him up and held him close.  

“Thanks again.”  I turned and walked away from the strange girl without putting Harvey down.  I walked straight ahead toward the crashing lake. “I suppose if I look back she won’t be there.”  Harvey rewarded me with a small snuffle.  I heaved in a large breath of fresh air, turned and sure enough the girl was gone.  I felt my shoulders sink, tension left me.  I looked down at the black-eyed dog tucked protectively under my arm.  “Whew, glad she left.  What a killjoy.”  Turning back to the water, I was again nose-to-nose with the somber girl.

“You will make sure, won’t you?”

Harvey barked a sharp angry bark that I had yet to hear out of the little dog.  I turned on my heel, dog tucked under my arm, and ran.  I did not look back.  My hands shook as I tried to push the button to unlock and start my car, all the while Harvey barked.  I sensed the girl coming closer while Harvey’s barking became more frenzied.  I shoved the dog in the car, kept my head down and jumped in.  I slammed the door and locked it. 

Do not think I bothered to look around.  I blessed automatic start, put the car in reverse and didn’t look behind me; I drove away.  Harvey however barked his ever-living head nearly off as we drove out of the parking lot and he didn’t stop until I was well on my way to Mackinaw City  “Is she gone, boy?” I asked with all the sincerity of a frightened man.  The dog said nothing but looked up at me with what I thought was devout love or pity.  

I had planned on staying just outside of Cheboygan, but we drove into Mackinaw City instead.  I found a busy-looking hotel near to the beach and walked in with my dog tucked into his basket.  I had no intention of leaving him alone.  

“Do you accept pets?”

“Sure do.  What’s his name?”

“Harvey.”

“How do Harvey!  Welcome to Mackinaw City.”  The hotel clerk looked at me out of the tops of his eyes while he ran my credit card.  “You here to shop the late summer sales?”

“No, just wanting to see some coast line.  I’m from Grand Rapids, just needed to get away.”

The clerk nodded and handed back my card.  “The dog run is at the west exit.  We just ask that you clean up after your dog.  Do you need a wake up call or anything?”  

I looked down at Harvey, “No, I think we will sleep in.”

“Make sure he doesn’t get mites.  Sand mites are a dog’s bane around here.”

I froze and I think Harvey stiffened too.  I looked hard at the man and he looked uncomfortable.  “We keep some spray or something like that in the gift shop, just over there.  I think it’s still open.”

I relaxed a little.  “Okay, thanks.”  I backed away and Harvey sensing my tension let out a small warning bark.  I shushed him and headed for the west exit.  “Hang on buddy,” I said, “Let’s take a walk and then we will check out the gift shop.”  

The straits were calm and Harvey and I sat and watched a long boat glide east toward Huron. “Well, boy, should we get inside and see about some food?” Without a fuss, the dog jumped into his basket and looked up at me and then beyond me.  Harvey lifted his upper lip, and the hair rose along his back and the scruff of his neck.  I shot out of my seat like a rocket and turned to see what was behind me.  

“Please, please make sure he doesn’t get sand mites.  Sand mites are bad for the dog.”  

I leaned over and grabbed the basket and dog.  “Who the hell are you and why are you following me!”

The girl stood there without blinking and stared at Harvey.  “If he’s too much for you, I’ll take care of him.”

“I want you to get away from me and my dog.  Do you want me to call the police?”  I looked down, fumbling for my phone.  I looked back up and the girl had disappeared.  Harvey was looking at me from his basket, his little legs trembling.  

“It’s okay, boy.”  I turned back to the hotel and walked into the lobby.  A girl in bangles and flashy clothes was pulling down steel gratings, closing the gift shop. 

“Wait!  Oh please wait.  I think my dog has sand mites.”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” said the gum chewing adolescent, her bright red hair highlighted by a streak of aqua blue flashed like lightening under the phosphorescent lights.  She turned an unsympathetic face toward me, glanced down into Harvey’s basket and her blue eyes went wide and her mouth puckered into an oh.  “What a sweetie,” said the hardened young weirdo.  “Oh, how long have you had him?”

I glanced at Harvey and he at me and I knew we were a team.  “Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve only had him for a few days.  He belonged to my mother… she passed away.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks.  Well, anyway, I’m not too sure about dogs and… well, I want nothing to, you know, happen to him.”  Harvey put his little chin on the edge of the basket and looked at the girl.  

“Well, we’ve got some special spray for dogs.  So many people bring their dogs for the sun, beach and water, not realizing there are sand mites.  I’ve seen dogs in terrible shape in just a day or two.  Here following me.”  The girl was switching the lights back on and pulling out sprays, ointments, dog treats, the works.  “You know we even have these little coats for dogs that might help protect him.”  I bought whatever she told me to.  I handed her my credit card without blinking, thinking I was buying good luck charms.

“I can’t thank you enough for opening up again…” Harvey sat up and wagged his tail, giving the girl his best good-dog salute.  I think his little chest expanded about half an inch.  

“Oh, for such a cutie as that, I’ll open up again.  Besides, maybe that ghost will stop bothering you.”

“Excuse me?”

“The ghost–the creepy girl that keeps after you about your dog.”

“How the hell…”

“I saw her follow you in earlier.  She seems real anxious about the dog.  He belonged to your mother?”

“Yeah,”

“Where did she get him?”

“I have no idea.”

The cashier looked hard at Harvey and the dog looked right back at her.  “Well, he isn’t giving anything up and he seems to like you.  I hope she leaves you alone.”

“Me too.”

“You get all sorts of ghost around here.  The old sailors they pretty much leave everyone alone but the tragic young things who thought the straits were just like any other freshwater lake are always the ones to become anxious and haunt the most unsuspecting tourist.”

“I’m not a tourist, I’m from Grand Rapids.”

The girl shrugged and turned out the lights.  

Harvey slept all night tucked up close to me, smelling of anti-pest spray.    There was no one standing over us in the morning.  

Posted on by Lydia Ink

I See In All

The angry fair better than all the others. The weak and frightened cling to me which is a mistake but I’m too busy to worry about a person’s mistakes.   To see the soft weeping, the gratitude for my time while listening and understanding is sometimes comical, most of the time annoying; yes I have a schedule to keep.  People, except the angry, don’t see it coming, the price they pay for believing without faith but with naivete. It is their self-absorption I need which keeps me craving the terror that at the end I see in all.

I regret none of my interactions with those of whom I have shared the gloom of tombs, dark empty spaces, sounds of voices from beyond the grave and the sudden awareness of being two in the room. Ghosts are subtle, and after years of exposing their secret places, I must conclude they are nothing to encourage, nothing to hope for and nothing for the living to live pursuing.  The living don’t listen. I keep all that good advice to myself.

I see the young writers making heroes of those that exist beyond the grave. The more modern and exalted flimflam showmen flutter to the call that the dead have some vague romantic goal to reunite with the ones they love. The dead are just that, and if there is any ambition in them, it is to have more join in the aching spiritual icebox they inhabit.  But far be it from me to stop the processing of bait that so lure the young to their living, haunting, fate.

So, there we have the dead but it is the living that is the greatest heartache of all (not to me, mind you). They become involved in seeking their fairytale within the realms of the supernatural; especially those who crave touch most of all.  Ironic. I’ve seen them find it and it’s a revelation, let me tell you.

I met a young man once, his eyes a deep, dark, blue, I’ll never forget the depth of emotion those orbs conveyed.  He became angry with me at the end of his story. He was the hero, the gallant who would save his beloved from the shadowland of death; she dogs him to this day.  The white face, the terror of expression, not full on but out of the corner of his eye and when he least expects it.  Imagine that life.

Too there was the young girl with deep black eyes who thinks to this day that I bewitched her.  She was a thrill seeker and thought the power of hidden knowledge was a boon to her existence.  She lives in an asylum now.

But the interesting ones are the angry ones.  Those who come to me with questions of the supernatural; the reluctant students who seek me out rather than a good priest.  They can’t explain floating lights, slamming doors and cold spots so they want me to give them some reassurance (or peace which is comical).

It’s obvious to me that those who crave the unknown to quash the loneliness of existence live shallow little lives and those who have seen something they cannot explain (the angry) wish for memories of the urbane but one-dimensional type to reclaim their lonely little lives. Such quests never end well. Reversals. Pictures that fly not drop from the walls. Sudden fear. Sleeplessness. Tears. Some will escape, others, who confide in me, don’t.

I draw large crowds, you know, of all sorts. I am not bragging, just well known, in a secret whispered sort of way. I am surrounded by actors and directors and glamorous dancers of every type. Inevitably someone will ask me if I believe in ghosts.   I’m comforted by the beautiful crowd’s reaction because it is the same as those within the supermarket or the brown shoe beauties I meet in some obscure bookstore. Their eyes become large and luminous but after the hubbub of my first ‘yes,’ I follow those who walk away angry.

The angry, are the failures who overstep a living person’s boundary. The Byronic hero who insist in making the good in life evil and hang on to the concept of thinking evil is good. The practice is philosophical in the 21st century and wonderfully hypocritical as well.

Ah the joy of crying foul when told no and crying foul when you’re miserable after grabbing whatever it is in life that begs satisfaction.  Those types are always angry, yet they struggle less when my eyes turn red and explain that justice has nothing to do with me.  Yes, the angry fall easily at my feet determined to see the best in me.  The best in me is deception, but the angry always hope for pity.  It’s evil, I know.