Charlee Sanderson

Ghostly Accommodations

 

 

As hard to believe as this tale may be, you must believe every word as truth. Ghost sightings have become as much of a staple in my life as my dark roast coffee. Let me assure you, cousin, grief has not buried my sanity, and I am sober; of course, by the time all of this – whatever this may be – is through, I may find myself residing amongst the deranged begging for alcohol. That must be why I am writing this, to prove that ghosts really do exist. So please, give me a chance to explain thoroughly before you decide to call whomever is responsible for involuntary commitment. I know by all rationality that Lena Mueller is dead. How could I not, when I see her walk through doors. But I can no longer continue pretending that only the living resides in my apartment complex. If you thought having a living person stand over as you type is annoying, you should try typing an email about a ghost as she glares at you.

 

It took me a while to figure out, but I now know that I should be doing something to help her. Yes, I know. It should have been obvious, but the problem is I’m not sure what I can do to help. It would be beneficial if she would talk to me. Staring is just too damn passive aggressive. Yep. We didn’t get around to going out on a date while she was alive, but now that she is dead, we are in a dysfunctional relationship that needs to end. Now. She looks better than me.

 

She looks like her old living self, whereas I look worse than a decomposing corpse. My complexion has acquired a greyish undertone. I guess the good news is it complements the dark, puffy moons encircling my eyes. Worse yet – well, most noticeable – my hair and beard – oh yeah, I now have a beard – feel they ought to mimic Einstein’s style. Strangers are starting to ask me if I am all right. It’s freaky. It’s more unnatural than having a ghost in my life so I am going to become a detective and a writer (don’t worry I have no desire to publish these ramblings) and solve her murder. I think that is what she wants me to do, but I could be wrong.

 

I will chronicle the mystery that is Lena Mueller to the best of my comprehension, and with the biggest heap of luck, I will stumble upon the truth. It should be interesting for you to read this. You know that I have never been one for mysteries. Speculation is beyond my brain’s capability. I can’t even say I’m observant. Nonetheless, I am going to force myself to spontaneously develop a Sherlock mentality.

 

So as events unfold, and truths reveal themselves, I will add them to this email as soon as I can. I will write no secondhand information, unless it’s the police information that came from Lena’s younger brother, Lucas. When it comes to the firsthand experiences, I will try my best to record them as closely as possible to how they occurred, but biases do have a horrible way of slipping in and altering the truth. You should use your own judgement while reading what follows.

 

Her murder occurred nearby at the manmade Champlin Nature Preserve, a mockery to nature with its asphalt trail, scrawny oak trees, and shallow, square lake deprived of fish, turtles, and whatever else nature deems necessary. This is not a unanimous opinion, which Lena’s family and I are grateful for; otherwise, two joggers wouldn’t have spotted Lena floating face down in the lake.

 

Later – in the morgue – the medical examiner observed the invariable signs of drowning: foam issuing from the mouth and nostrils, lake water in the lungs and stomach, and coagulation within the tissues and not the veins. But between her chafed abdomen and the bruises on her neck and lower back, a medical degree wasn’t a requirement to determine that she hadn’t drown by accident. Lena – an introvert who always worried about hurting anyone’s feelings – didn’t deserve to be murdered like this. She didn’t deserve to die.

 

A few days after her funeral I experienced a short-lived relief. Lena came home looking safe and sound. I sprinted down the hall after her while I frantically screamed her name. She ignored me. My clingy neighbor ignored me. Even my ‘normal’ neighbors ignored me. No one even bothered to acknowledge the man screaming a dead woman’s name, and I am certain I screamed her name. But Lena kept going and walked through her apartment door. And I’m guessing with what people call ‘tunnel vision,’ I attempted to follow her through her door.

 

Reality hit me, hard. Lena had died, and she had come back to haunt me while I am within the confines of this apartment. Why? Only she knows, and she still isn’t talking. Her – Miss. Lena Has-An-Unending-Voice-Only-In-My-Presence Mueller – isn’t saying a word. Damn stubborn woman. I want the old sweet, timorously delicate recluse until she has gotten to know you then becomes a talker, a relentless talker that causes you to think of any excuse to escape her presence. But you feel guilty for thinking so because she is such a sweet, timorously delicate recluse. Oh, that may explain why she only haunts this complex. And I do know how she began a recluse. But there is something else I am forgetting.

 

I must remember the answer soon or you will be driving down to find an asylum for me. If that happens, please find one without a Lecter. Can you ask doctors if they have already committed a cannibal, or is that considered privileged information? I need to find the answer! That’s too scary of a scenario to consider. I am going to take a sleeping pill with a chaser of beer. Not a wise combo, but I need to sleep. A night of deep sleep – no matter how – will be good for me. If I die, make sure people know it was an accident. Also, you are my favorite relative.

 

I believe last night I started hallucinating or had a premonition about the past. I opened my eyes and saw Lena’s calming eyes staring down into mine. Her hand crept slowly over to cup my cheek. I wasn’t afraid. Strangely, my breathing had slowed and deepened. I felt so at ease that I wrapped my arms around her waist and dug my face into her shoulder. She whispered into my ear, “Emmett.” It felt like a cold breeze sweeping over my bed, and it managed to take her away. My pulse raced. The preserve had materialized outside my bedroom door. I had to go stare down into the lake. To avoid an uneasy feeling. Someone was behind me.

 

The water was fire on my bulging frightened eyes. Fingertips dug into the back of my neck. My head tried to tilt backwards and failed. Scratching and peeling, pressing water down did nothing. My lungs were incapable of expanding. My throat muscles spasmed, coiled up and down, barricading my esophagus. Water is everywhere. Inside and out.

 

I woke abruptly, grabbing hold of my chest. Tears clouded my eyes. Suddenly, a memory of an odd conversation I had with Lena became vivid and relevant. I remembered!

 

I rushed to see my friend, Detective Peyton ‘Bix’ Bixby. I didn’t know if she was on the case, but it didn’t matter. I had to see her! She would listen!

 

“Bix! I have to talk to you about Lena! It’s important!” The words flew out of me breathlessly, almost incoherently.

 

“All right. Give me a second. Do me a favor and stay away from the coffee?” The former came out perfunctory. The latter was more of a command than a request.

 

“Lena avoided the water. She couldn’t even stand the sight of that fake looking lake.”

 

In her normal demeanor – authoritative confidence – she says, “Settle down and have a chair.” She pointed to the old chair paralleling the end of her desk that had held too many criminals’ and witnesses’ asses to be comfortable. “I’ll tell you what I can just let me finish this damn report; otherwise, my captain will make me look worse than you do, if that’s possible.”

 

“Damn, Emmett, when’s the last time you slept? And what’s with your hair?” Detective Ira Reiser, Bix’s partner – work spouse (wife) – interrupted and sat down at his desk that was across yet touching Peyton’s.

 

“Not now Ira! Lena is – I mean was – afraid of water!”

 

“Calm down. Let me get you some coffee then you can tell us all about it.”

 

“Have a chair, Ira. He has enough jitters. Now Emmett, without yelling – with that indoor voice your mother told you to use but you seem to have forgotten how to use – are you sure she was afraid of water?”

 

“Yes! She –”

 

“Without yelling. You are upsetting the criminals.”

 

Towards the back of the room I heard, “I’ve never committed a crime in my life.”

 

“Sure. That’s why we’ve known each other for ten years, and, once again, you are not under arrest.” (If you haven’t figured out, detectives use sarcasm to deal with the stress. Better than police brutality.)

 

“What!” I glanced around the station. I had a lot of eyes on me. “Sorry!” I said to the cops and the criminals (alleged criminals and I guess witnesses).

 

“Uh-huh. Do you remember anything else?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Did she mention Laurence Colbert?”

 

“The stalking coworker? Yeah. That was why she was a recluse. He caused her to file a complaint with HR who then told her that sometimes people can be overly sensitive and misinterpret actions like a handshake for something more.  I swear, she really didn’t want to file a complaint, but she was scared of him. All I knew to tell her was find another job, which she did. That’s all she did. One close to home to help her feel safe. For a while, she did. Then he started showing up around our neighborhood. She said, he went from being a typical sexist egotistical lawyer with a jaundiced mind and gangrened heart to being the president of Norman Bates’s fan club. Didn’t he have an alibi?”

 

“Sort of. Either way, there is no evidence. Only motive.”

 

“I wish she got a better watch dog. Ashby was only a puppy. I told her she should have gotten one fully grown.”

 

They looked at each other till Bix finally asked, “Ashby?”

 

“Yeah. That’s the name of her puppy. She bought him the day she was killed.”

 

“And his name was Ashby?”

 

“Yes? All dog names are odd. So what?”

 

“You didn’t mention his name before.”

 

“She wasn’t sure she was going to keep the name even though she got a bone-shaped nametag made at some pet store. What is the big deal? It’s not the killer’s name.”

 

“Colbert has a German Shepard named Ashby.”

 

“That son-of-a-bitch kept her dog!”

 

“Along with the tag and collar. We thought the dog fled during the attack, but it seems we were wrong.”

 

“Why are two still here? I know you don’t prefer I go shoot him?”

 

I don’t know if she will ever receive justice. All I can do is hope that she can find a way to rest soundly. I don’t want her here, not like this. I haven’t seen her yet today, but I’m going to try to be optimistic she is in a better place. One of us must be.

 

After you receive this, call me. Immediately. Please. I want to come for a visit – if you don’t mind. I am in desperate need a change of scenery. I’m finally alone, like I thought I want, and I’m miserable. Lena Mueller is gone. Possibly forever.

 

 

Charlee Sanderson is an aspiring writer currently working at her university's writing center as a writing consultant. Bienvenue au Danse, Charlee.