Този разказ според мен се получи, и ми се иска да го пратя някъде за публикация. Знам, че тук има доста хора, които владеят английския на ниво в пъти по-високо от моето, и ще свършат също толкова добра работа в откриването на тъпи грешки колкото нейтив спийкърите, без да ми се смеят... много.
Ако някой отдели време да му метне око, ще го черпя хагис.
Oh, the Horror
‘Ghosts don’t exist,’ I said.
‘I’d beg to differ,’ said the ghost.
How we got here: I’d just moved into the flat. I was sitting on a folding chair with my feet on a pile of boxes, examining what the previous owner had left: a fork, a pair of dirty socks, and his ghost. He was looking at me from above, wringing hands. I don’t know why the real estate agency failed to mention it among other things: ‘One bedroom, a balcony, a ghost, close to the train station.’
‘You forgot your socks,’ I said to break the ice.
‘Sorry,’ said the ghost.
We didn’t start on good terms. They say the first impression is important: my first impression was him screaming ‘Boo!’ at my face, and his first impression was me trying to knock his head off with a folding chair.
‘I really don’t believe in ghosts,’ I said in a while. ‘I’m not one of these horoscope-reading UFO-contacting tarot-occult-runic girls. I’d walk underneath a ladder, and I have plans for 2013.’
‘Yeah, but ghosts are real. I swear on my grave.’ He smiled a pale smile. He wasn’t transparent; he looked like a person who suffers from insomnia. He had an unhealthy, yet appealing look to him: the wide-eyed stare, the messy hair, the anxious gestures.
‘Prove it,’ I said. ‘Prove that you’re a ghost.’
‘Well, the folding chair passed through my head.’
‘You can be a magician. I once saw David Copperfield performing a similar trick.’
‘What do you expect me to do?’
‘Something ghostly. Disappear into thin air!’
‘I can’t do this.’
‘See?’ I triumphed.
‘Come on!’ he said. ‘You have a ghost in your flat. Aren’t you scared?’
‘No, because I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘You can’t simply ignore me.’
‘Observe,’ I said, and turned on my laptop. I could feel him peeking into the screen over my shoulder. He stood silent for no more than five seconds.
‘Why don’t you say something about me on Facebook?’ he asked.
‘I already updated my status twice today: when I found the fork, and then the socks,’ I said. ‘I can’t announce every minor change in my life.’
‘I’m not a minor change, I’m a terrifying paranormal phenomenon! Please be scared?’
‘No.’
‘Be scared, or I’ll start knocking stuff down!’
‘You can’t, you’re disembodied.’
‘Damn, you’re good.’
Awkward silence. Then: ‘Don’t you want to hear my story?’
I hesitated. Spending Friday night talking to a ghost was complete insanity, but still, it was better than spending Friday night eating ice-cream and playing Tetris. The ghost was, at least, in some very general sense of the term, a man. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Why not?’
‘I used to be a serial killer,’ he said. ‘I think it was because dad abandoned us when I was a child. I once killed a baby with my bare hands. The blood…’
‘What was your signature?’ I put him on the spot.
‘Oh, I was,’ he started stammering, ‘well, I used to… Blood. Lots of blood.’
‘Your signature was lots of blood?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No, I’m not!’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Yes, I am,’ he confessed. ‘I just thought you’d be scared if a serial killer is living with you.’
‘You’re not living with me,’ I said. ‘You have to go.’
‘I haunt here. I can’t simply go.’
I tried to remember everything I’d learned about ghosts with my major source being ‘Ghost Busters’. ‘Well, I don’t have a nuclear accelerator that fires proton stream,’ I said, ‘and I’m pretty sure I won’t find one in the supermarket.’
He seemed perplexed. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘No, I have unfinished work. I have to finish it, and then I’ll go.’
‘I see. What’s your unfinished work?’
‘I’m a terrorist,’ he said casually. ‘I left a bomb at the airport, and I’ll haunt here until it explodes, and kills hundreds of people. Mothers crying over the bodies of their dead children. Limbs and blood…’
‘You almost got me this time,’ I interrupted him.
‘Really?’
‘No. Tell me the truth.’
He sighed. ‘I have to scare you.’
‘You have to scare me?’
‘Or anybody. I have to scare somebody. It should be easy for a ghost, right? It’s so unfair that of all the people, I chanced on a sceptic.’
I almost apologised for being a sensible person. ‘Not that I’m a great authority on ghosts,’ I said instead, ‘but isn’t this a bit unusual unfinished work?’
‘I guess,’ he shrugged, and said nothing more. I tried to not be nosy. We both spend a few seconds inspecting the ceiling. It was white, and utterly unremarkable, and I was in fact a nosy person. I was a journalist - it was in my job description.
‘Well?’ I asked. ‘How come that’s what you have to do?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said, still staring at the ceiling.
‘Come on, I listened to your made-up horror stories. Now I want the truth.’
‘If you must know,’ he said, ‘making up horror stories was my job.’
‘You were a writer?’
‘Yeah. They even hired me to write a script for a TV series once, but it never came to air.’
‘Why?’
‘Not scary enough.’
‘I think I see the problem,’ I said.
‘I’ve never been good at scaring people,’ he admitted. ‘A major flaw for a horror writer and, as it turns out, for a ghost.’
‘You’re not so bad,’ I tried to cheer him up. ‘I’m not easily scared. It’s not you, it’s me.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘I’m sure somewhere out there, there’s a person you can scare the pants off of.’
‘Maybe, but you can’t just bring random people to our flat for me to scare them.’
I didn’t remark on the fact that he’d referred to my flat as ‘our’. ‘This will be weird,’ I said. ‘No, I think you have to write a really scary story.’
He looked at me like I told him to grow a third eye. ‘I can’t, he said. ‘I’ve been trying to do this my whole life.’
‘Yes, but you’ve never had me before,’ I grinned. ‘I’m the best editor in the history of humankind.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Fond of exaggerating, aren’t you?’
‘Not as much as you think. I’m damn good,’ I said. ‘And I think I can get you published post mortem.’
‘Where?’
‘The local newspaper. I work there.’
‘Nice!’
‘No, it’s incredibly dull. I write stories about people famous only according to their mothers, and my editor,’ I said. ‘However, start thinking of a plot right now!’
‘Ja, mein Führer!’ he said. He was unconsciously biting his lower lip while he was thinking. I waited with fingers over the keyboard.
‘What about a story about spiders?’ he asked at last.
‘Well, you’re going to scare only people with arachnophobia,’ I said.
‘Yes, but it’ll be easy. Phobias are irrational. I just have to describe a giant hairy spider in order to scare them.’
‘You’re writing for a narrow range of readers,’ I said. ‘There might not be a single person with arachnophobia among them.’
‘Well, then we’ll add a clown,’ he said.
‘With a moustache?’ I suggested. ‘Always found them creepy.’
‘Yes, with a moustache, and a snake.’
‘Where did he take it from?’
‘Is it important? The snake trainer from the circus asked him to take care of it.’
‘Fine. They’re in a lift.’
‘Nice, we covered the claustrophobics. Heights?’
‘Well, it’s one of the lifts with transparent cabins, outside the building.’
‘So, a giant spider, and a clown with a moustache and a snake, are in a transparent lift,’ he summarised, ‘when the clown says “I bet this lift is full of germs!”’
‘And the spider replies, ‘Dude, if this isn’t a socially awkward situation, let a lightning hit me!”’
He burst out laughing. ‘We surely can scare a literary critic with this,’ he said.
‘We’ve just hit bottom,’ I agreed. ‘I used to be really good at writing, I swear.’
‘Yeah, I saw how good you are. A moustache horror, seriously?’
‘Oh, shut up with your germs! You’re talking to a future British Press Awards laureate.’
He suddenly got serious. ‘They won’t nominate you for a story in the local newspaper,’ he said.
‘I won’t stay on this job forever,’ I said. ‘I’m much more interested in international affairs. In fact, I’ve started a book on the impact of…’
I couldn’t finish the sentence. I hit me. A wave of panic swept over me.
‘Of what?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t worked on my project in years,’ I said numbly.
‘Well, you’ve been busy at work I guess.’
‘I wanted to travel the world, and always be on the spot, and what I’m doing instead? I’m stuck in a dead end job, writing shit…’ I fell on my knees, and rummaged the box labelled ‘Kitchen’. I took the newspaper page I’d wrapped my glasses in, and started reading: ‘The whole town gathered today to see Michael Smith’s (42) attempt to break the Guinness World Record for fitting the largest number of straws into one’s mouth.’
‘It’s rather funny,’ said the ghost.
‘But it’s not important! What if I never finish my book?’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘There’ll be two ghosts in the flat!’ I buried my face into my hands. ‘I can’t become a ghost. I have an afterlife to live!’
‘On the positive side, we can spend the eternity making up talentless horror stories,’ he said. I looked up, and saw that he was trying to tap me on the shoulder, but his hand was passing through me.
I laughed. ‘It’s not funny,’ I said then. ‘It’s scary.’
‘So, do something!’
‘I can’t quit my job on a whim, and start travelling the world.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, big steps like this require careful planning, list of pros and cons, moving depression… I still haven’t got out of my last moving depression!’
‘I spent my life making lists of pros and cons,’ said the ghost. ‘They’re overrated. Pros: you won’t stay trapped in this flat forever. Cons: you’ll have to leave me here, and – let’s face it – the foreign ghosts just can’t replace me.’
‘I heard they fulfil wishes.’
‘I can do this too! What’s your wish?’
‘I crave crackers,’ I said.
‘No, that’s not your wish!’ he said. ‘Your wish is to write your boss and tell him you quit!’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes, it is. Write, woman!’
I stuck out my tongue at him, but started a new e-mail to my boss nonetheless.
‘Dear son of a bitch…’ the ghost dictated.
‘Isn’t this a bit too much?’ I asked while typing. ‘He’s not so bad.’
‘Don’t kill my enthusiasm! Continue: your newspaper is the biggest shithole a journalist can ever be in, and I quit.’
‘I’ll add a smiley face in the end,’ I said. ‘It’s always more annoying with a smiley face.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he nodded. ‘Send!’
‘Are you sure this…’
‘Send!’
I hit the ‘Send’ button, and there was no turning back. I’d have to go to the office to pick up my stuff, and face my boss. The thought didn’t fill me with terror, not yet - I was happy.
‘Congratulations, you’re unemployed!’ said the ghost. I smiled. It was one of those ear to ear, completely gone out of control smiles that you can’t make smaller and socially acceptable however hard you try.
‘Shall we open champagne?’ I asked.
‘I can’t drink,’ the ghost reminded me, ‘I’m disembodied.’
‘And I don’t have champagne,’ I shrugged, still smiling. He was smiling too.
‘Do you notice anything different about me?’ he asked.
‘You…’ I looked at him, and saw it. Or rather, saw through it. ‘You’re getting transparent!’
‘Yeah!’ He raised a hand before his eyes. ‘Like an outside lift!’
‘This was indeed an original comparison,’ I said. ‘But why?’
‘I must’ve truly scared you!’
‘What, when?’
‘When you realised you’ll turn into a ghost if you leave your work unfinished.’
‘Awesome!’ I said, trying hard to be happy for him. I’d started thinking of him as part of the flat – I’d imagined that wherever I travel, I’ll always have a home to go back to, with one bedroom, a balcony, and a ghost. It was irrational, and terribly selfish. Yet, I couldn’t help it.
‘It was nice to meet you,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘No ghost will ever replace you, fulfilling wishes of not.’
‘You know that’s not true,’ he said. ‘These bastards can build a palace in a single night!’
I chuckled. ‘Are you religious?’ I asked.
‘Agnostic,’ he said. ‘I hope there’s life after death.’
‘There surely is.’ I felt the urge to hug him, but remembered he was disembodied.
‘The shower head need cleaning,’ he said.
‘I’ll deal with it.’
‘Well, see you on the other side then’ he said, and disappeared into thin air. I stood in the empty flat, with my hand into the air, waving goodbye.
‘Ghosts don’t exist,’ I said.
There was silence.
