by Rachel M. Hollis
I’d never believed in ghosts, at least not the translucent, floating kind. But there he was on a Tuesday morning, folding my shirts in the laundry room.
The instant he saw me, he disappeared, clothes dropping to the floor. It surprised me that he could hold solid objects, but what do I know about ghosts?
The next time, he was at the sink, washing a plate and fork I’d ignored for days. Seeing me, he vanished, dishware clattering on the tile counter.
I started hiding in my room. Not because I was scared—he seemed harmless. I just wanted the chores done. I’d stay in bed all afternoon and come out to freshly mopped floors.
When he started cooking for me, I wondered if I was taking advantage. He fled any time I entered the room but still, I felt like I owed him something. That night, before dinner, I set out an extra plate.
When I came downstairs, the whole house smelled like roasted chicken. Potatoes and rosemary. Onions sautéed in butter. Standing at the stove in full form, he smiled—a little self-conscious—and said nothing.
We sat down together, napkins on our laps. He sliced the chicken with the steadiness of someone who’d done this before, in another kitchen, for someone who wasn’t me.
When he set a piece on my plate, my throat tightened. No one had cooked for me in a long time. Not since the house went quiet for good.
I took a bite. He watched my face, hopeful.
“It’s perfect,” I said.
The overhead light flickered, warm and dim. Then he was gone.
Maybe we were both haunted.
Maybe I was his ghost, too.
Rachel M. Hollis lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, child, and a deeply unmotivated dog. Her work appears in River Teeth’s Beautiful Things, Necessary Fiction, Gone Lawn, Blink-Ink and elsewhere.
Emerge Literary Journal 