The Ghost

There he stood as always, outside her door, waiting for her to come out. They had somehow gotten the myths crossed. It was not vampires who had to ask permission to enter a house. It was people like him. Unfortunately people had to know he was there in order to proffer an invitation. 

His thoughts turned to the first moment he saw her, standing there in shock, wearing that beautiful crimson cocktail dress. She looked at him fearlessly as he lay there, drenched in the scarlet of the pool of blood that was tainting the white snow of that deep winter evening. As he saw her, he thought not of his own life ebbing away, but could only wonder how she could be so beautiful in that dress, obviously on her way to a festive occasion, with no man there to take her arm. He remembered how he got up effortlessly and in no pain, clean and unharmed, and walked toward her. She continued to stare not in horror, but in fascination.  As he approached and stood before her he heard the sounds of people clamoring behind him. He turned around to see a crowd of people gathered together on a blanket of blood-stained snow. Turning again toward her, he said, “I think I am dying.” 

To this she responded with a comforting smile, “you look fine to me.” Then she turned and continued walking to wherever she was going. 

“Wait!” he shouted, but she continued walking, completely oblivious to his existence. 

Now it was not quite a month later, and he was standing at her door, as always, waiting for her to come out. He had been following her around, learning everything he could. Walking through walls, walking through people, trying to talk to her. Several times in the past weeks he had felt the familiar tug of the black void which was to be his death, but each time the call of death beckoned him, his connection to her kept him alive, or at least in this state that resembled a sort of life. He had read about this. People kept from the coldness of death by an unbreakable connection to the living. He wondered if he was affecting her in some way at all. If so, it had to be in a way that he was not aware of, for every attempt to talk to her had been in vain. He had spoken, he had screamed, he had cried to her, but she did not react at all. It was like he was nothing. Invisible. Phantasmal. 

As he stood there waiting, headlights from a car illuminated the house. A door opened. There were footsteps. Suddenly a man passed right through him and stood at the door with a pizza in his hand. The man rang the doorbell, and in a few seconds the door swung open and she was there, smiling and merry, the vibrant waves of her flowing brown hair cascaded over her shoulders. He heard laughter coming from inside the house over the tones of beautiful country music sung by a young woman. Giggling, she handed some money to the pizza boy and told him to keep the change. As she plucked the pizza, he lunged right through the pizza boy and reached out for her hand, pleading, “let me in!” 

His hand passed right through hers, and she slammed the door shut not even knowing he was there. 

So he stood there as always, outside her door, waiting for her to come out. 

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