Ghost Story

 The beginnings of a ghost story.

1,500 words





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Owen had a theory that Nate was raised by wolves.

It started as a mocking comment about Nate’s blunt mannerisms or his reading comprehension or how he would pick up on social cues a few minutes too late. But over time Owen realized that he had absolutely no evidence to contradict his theory. Concerning, when he stopped to think about it.

Today’s evidence that he was raised by wolves came in the form of a text message summons that said simply, “Clarke’s.” I’m here and you should obviously be here too, and I know you’ve read this and you’re coming, went unsaid. Owen rolled his eyes and didn’t respond. It would serve Nate right to ignore it completely.

Instead, he pulled on his shoes, grabbed a hoodie, and walked down 53rd street to shoulder open the door to Clarke’s ten minutes later.

It was an airy, open kind of place with heating vents and spinning fans set into the high ceiling. The dinner preferred maroon booths over chairs and laughed in the face of anyone who thought that booths had to be situated against a wall. Over-sized, black and white photos of Hyde Park history decorated the walls, sparking a small light of pride in Owen’s chest that he would never admit was there.

He slumped into the booth across from Nate, who didn’t bother to look up from fishing a lemon slice out of his water with a spoon. Owen narrowed his eyes at the undoctored cup of coffee that already sat waiting for him.

“If you ordered for me, I’m going to kick you.”

Nate looked up and blinked at him. “Your kicks don’t hurt.”

Owen kicked him and fished his phone out of his pocket, placing it face down on top of Nate’s, which sat next to the condiment tote. By tradition, whoever reached for their phone first had to pay for lunch, and also by tradition, neither of them ever gave into temptation and they ended up paying their own way. Owen grabbed the sugar to pour it into his coffee.

“What’s the big deal? You always get the same thing.”

“Because you always order for me before I can order anything different.”

“You always take too long to get here. I’m hungry. I’m not waiting for you.”

“And what if I didn’t show up?”

“Exactly. What if you didn’t show up? I’d be sitting here waiting forever, dying of starvation.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Nate shrugged and dislodged the little bowl of creamer packets from between the ketchup and the Tabasco to slide it in Owen’s direction. “How do you know if you’ve broken a rib?”

Owen paused in the act of stirring his coffee. “You broke a rib?”

“I just told you, I don’t know. That’s why I asked how you tell.”

“You tell by going to the doctor.”

Nate made a face.

“How did you break a rib?”

“There’s no point going to a doctor. If I broke a rib, they wouldn’t do anything but wrap it and I can do that myself.”

Owen wasn’t sure that was true. “I think if you’re able to wrap it yourself, it’s a good sign you haven’t broken a rib.”

“Ah. Cool.” Nate took the creamer bowl away again, shoving it back in the clutter of condiments.

“That’s it? We’re seriously done talking about this now?”

“Do you want to talk about it more?”

“As fascinating as your bones are-”

“Want to see it?” Nate reached for the hem of his shirt. “There’s this gross bruise.”

“No! Who would want to look at your gross bruise?”

Nate grinned, apparently deciding that he’d won this round. Nate’s grin was a wide, cackling thing that showed off his canines. It fit far too easily into his round face, with his unkempt brown hair and his shoulders constantly tensed to leap up and tackle something. It was a feral, manic thing, often accompanied by foolhardy plans and wild punches and trips to the emergency room.

Owen’s phone dinged with a new text message. He made no move to pick it up.

“Have you been in my apartment lately?”

Nate thought. “I was there... Tuesday?”

Yeah. Owen knew that. Nate had been there when Owen got home from work, sitting in the middle of the living room floor, playing the Playstation.

“Did you see anything weird while you were there?”

“Hey, the Playstation was working fine when I left.”

He would have to check his game systems for glitches, cheeto dust, foreign hardware attached to the back, and dents in the shape of a foot.

“Aside from that?”

“Like what?”

Owen hesitated. “Like did you move any of my books?”

“I didn’t read any of your books.”

“Well, not necessarily reading them.”

“What? Just movin’ ‘em around?”

Owen shrugged. “Moving them around. Stacking them in a chest high column in the bathroom. You know. Whatever.”

“I didn’t take any of them. Maybe Dash did.”

“Maybe. What about my silverware?”

“Dude, what about your silverware?” Nate’s phone dinged. He didn’t even blink.

“Did you move it?”

“You lost your silverware?”

“No--”

“Someone stole your silverware? Why would anyone steal your silverware? They don’t match, and they’re not silver, and only one has a snow globe in the handle.”

“Just--Did you move any of them? Like onto the table?”

Nate considered.

“...Move them to make a shape?” Owen prompted.

“I might have had a pudding cup,” Owen said with a nod, his eyes focused behind Owen’s head. “I might have used a spoon.”

“I hope you used a spoon.”

“Can’t remember. Maybe.”

“So you didn’t use all my forks to make a circle on the table?”

Nate’s “Nah” came out distracted with the arrival of their food. He sat up straighter to give the waitress room. She was pretty, with a self assured sway to her walk as she balanced their plates, her hair in a hundred braids held back in one thick ponytail, wearing a well loved apron holding a half dozen pens. Nate grinned at her and she smiled back, probably thinking he was flirting instead of just wolfishly excited to be served pancakes.

As soon as she left, he plucked a slice of bacon off Owen’s plate and took a bite from it, even though he had his own side of bacon on his own plate. It was ritual. As if Owen should feel honored that Nate liked him enough to eat his food. Like a sign of trust or something.

Owen made no move to start on his food (as always: two scrambled eggs, an English muffin, and now three slices of bacon.) He watched Nate spread butter on his pancakes, waiting for him to show some sign of guilt, some too quick denial or some quickly averted glance, both of which were responses only normal people had to prank pulling. Owen waited for a smirk to spread across Nate's face, for the excitement to bubble up out of him, because he could never keep a secret for very long, especially if it was something he was especially proud of.

Nate drowned his pancakes in syrup.

Owen sighed and unrolled his silverware from the paper napkin holding them. This obviously wasn’t Nate’s doing. “Weird stuff’s been happening in my apartment.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Things are getting moved around and stuff.”

“Maybe you just forgot where you put them.”

“I thought that at first. Like maybe I did wash only one dish. Or maybe I did take all my socks out of the drawer and put them on top of the dresser. Or maybe I’m just going through toothpaste faster than I thought. But then I woke up and my shoelaces were tied together in this big braid. And all the pop bottles from the trash were stacked in a pyramid. Stuff like that.”

Nate stopped eating for a second to stare at him, his expression unreadable. “You saying your apartment’s haunted?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s awesome! You have a ghost! Do you think they died in your apartment?”

“No one died in my apartment.”

“You don’t know. It’s an old building. You gonna help them cross over or avenge their death or something?”

“No.”

“Maybe they have a message you need to deliver.”

“There’s no such thing as--”

Both their phones chimed, this time in a different tone that sounded like a goose honking, signaling a text from Dash. They both reached for their phones.

“Where are you guys?”

Nate grinned and typed, his message popping up on Owen’s phone before he could finish his own response. “Clarke’s. Get here. O’s house is haunted!”

Owen rolled his eyes.

“I bet Dash knows how to have a séance,” Nate said.

She probably did.

“Or we could have an exorcism. I bet there are instructions online.”

The phones honked again. “Will bring scented candles. Be there in 5. Order 4 me.”

Owen sighed.  This could not end well. Nate grinned as he replace his phone face down on the table and flagged down the waitress, barely swallowing a huge mouthful of hash browns before ordering a stack of chocolate chip pancakes and another cup of coffee.