Candace
Geist
Free Writing
So
I told you last time that I talk with ghosts in my old house? And do you remember what you wrote on the top
of that paper before you returned it to me?
You have a very impressive
imagination, Candace! Well, maybe I
do (and maybe I don’t), but I really have
talked with the ghosts in our house—lots of times.
So
you’re probably thinking, Well, if that’s true,
why
doesn’t she prove it by recording one of them on her phone?
Duh.
You
think I haven’t thought of that? I tried
it once, and when I looked at my cell afterwards, it was totally dead. Battery fried. And have you ever tried to get a new battery
out of a dad who doesn’t want you to have a smart phone in the first
place? Let’s just say that it took
awhile.
So
what I’ve been doing lately? Trying to
memorize the ghost conversations, then, later, writing them all down as fast as
I can. Oh, and I found out, too, that I couldn’t
write the ghost conversations in the
house. First time I did it, I woke
up the next day, and the pages were blank.
Started doing them somewhere else, and that worked.
Anyway,
here’s one from just last weekend. I’ve
written it in the form of a skit to make it easier to follow because as you
know I’m not too good with quotes. I
just can’t figure out where to put
all these dumb scratch marks in English.
Who cares? (BTW: “G” = Ghost; “M”
= Me) The ghost’s voice did not sound
all spooky and creepy like you hear in the movies. It was more like … like … like an adult’s
voice (somewhere between man and woman), and adult that is very deeply sad. I was alone in my bedroom when it all started
…
G: Why
are you still here?
M:
Shouldn’t I be?
G: This
is my house [pause] … our house. No one else belongs here.
M: Who
are you?
G: I’m …
I’m … [voice trails off; I wait] … I forget things now—every day. Though “day” and “night” are terms that don’t
mean anything to me anymore.
M: Why
not?
G:
Because I’m never awake, never asleep.
I’m somewhere in between, all the time.
M: That
must be awful. [long pause]
G:
Yes. I hadn’t thought of it that way,
but “awful” it is. Like being everything
and nothing at the same time. [Pause.] Who are you?
M: I’m
Candy.
G: I
always liked candy.
M: I’ve
heard that joke about a ga-jillion times in my life and I’m only 13.
G:
13. [pause] What does that mean?
M:
Thirteen years. I’m thirteen years
old. [pause] I’ve lived for thirteen years.
G: I
think I knew what that meant. Once. A year … the number thirteen. Measurements no longer mean anything, anyway.
M [after
long pause]: Why are you still here?
G: Where
else would I be?
M:
Heaven. Or, you know … ? [long pause]
G:
Heaven. What is that?
M: I
don’t know. A nice place for … well, for
dead people. Just good ones,
though. [Pause.] I used to believe in it.
G: And …
?
M: When
my mom died last year? Only in her
forties. Breast cancer. Anyway, when that happened, I sort of stopped
believing that good things happen. I
wasn’t like a lot of other kids. I loved
my mom. And I liked her too. I liked being with her. [Pause]
Do you remember your mother?
G: I’m
not sure I know what a mother is.
M:
That’s awful.
G:
Yes. Many things are awful. Forgetting, though? I’m starting to like forgetting. As each
memory goes away, I feel myself getting—I don’t know—lighter? As if I’m fading away or something. [pause]
Can you see me?
M: I
don’t think so. Where are you?
G: I
don’t know. Where is one of the things I’ve been forgetting lately, too. Forgetting what it means.
M: I
wish I could see you.
G: I can
see you. You look … sad? Is that the word?
M:
That’s the word.
G:
Because of your … mother?
M:
Yes. [pause]
G: What
was her name?
M:
Mom. I mean … Gloria.
G:
Gloria. Gloria. It sounds familiar. I think … [G’s voice fades away]
M: Are
you there? Are you there? … Please …
Well,
what do you think, Mr. Stratford? Could
I have made that all up? Am I
crazy? hearing things? What?
I think I need help …
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