The Ghost
Oliver is driving back from his parents’ house in the countryside, where they spend the summers. The old cottage needs constant upkeep, and Oliver has been helping his father with small repairs on weekends. His father’s heart hasn’t been well lately, so Oliver takes on most of the heavy work to spare him.
Today, he fixed the fence, carried buckets of water from the pump—first for the vegetable patch, then for the bath—and made a quick trip to the shop with his mum. After dinner, he gathers his things to leave.
“Oliver, it’s nearly dark. Stay the night and drive back in the morning,” his mother urges.
But he had promised Emily he’d return tonight. As he’s about to leave, he calls her, and she, too, suggests he stay.
“You don’t miss me?” Oliver teases, pretending to be offended.
“Of course I do. I’ll be waiting,” Emily laughs.
“Then I’ll be home soon,” he replies cheerfully.
The sun has long set, leaving only the cool, eerie glow of twilight. The roads are quiet. Behind the wheel, Oliver realises just how tired he is. The occasional late-night car flashes past, headlights blinding him for a moment. Just outside the city, his eyes slip shut for a brief second…
“Emily, I’m back!” Oliver calls out as he steps through the front door.
No answer. He checks the kitchen—Emily stands at the stove, stirring something in a pan, humming softly to herself. He recognises the tune, an old pop song. The rich smell of roasted meat fills the air. Oliver hasn’t felt this light in ages, as if his exhaustion never existed. Like waking from a deep, revitalising sleep. Or perhaps that’s what happened. He doesn’t remember the drive home. It’s as if time simply skipped.
“Em,” he calls again.
His wife doesn’t react.
“Must have her headphones in,” he thinks, stepping closer—but there are none.
He leans in, whispering, “Missed you. And I’m starving.”
Emily pauses, as if listening to something.
“There you go,” Oliver grins, relieved. “Thought you’d gone deaf on me.”
The next instant, Emily slams a lid on the pan, turns off the stove, and spins around—Oliver barely dodges out of the way.
“Emily, what’s wrong? Why are you ignoring me? I’m home! Look at me!” he shouts.
She acts as though he isn’t there. Her phone rings. She brushes past him—so close he feels the whisper of air against his skin—and answers.
An unknown number. She hesitates, then picks up.
“Yes, speaking,” she says. A pause. Then her phone slips from her fingers. She collapses onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.
“Em, what’s happened? Is it Dad? His heart?” But Emily sobs, oblivious.
Oliver crouches, reaching for her—then recoils. His fingers pass through her arms like mist. He stares at his hands in horror. Emily lifts her head, swollen eyes scanning the room.
“Ollie?” she whispers.
“I’m right here,” he says, relieved she’s seen him—but her gaze slides past, unseeing.
“No, it can’t be,” she murmurs. Then, with a broken wail, “Ollie…”
She snatches up the phone, dialling with shaking fingers, mis-pressing numbers.
“Come on, come on—” She lifts it to her ear.
Oliver reflexively pats his jeans pocket—no phone. No ringtone.
“Must’ve dropped it in the car,” he thinks.
Emily redials.
“Margaret, it’s me. No, Oliver’s not back yet. The police just called—” She inhales sharply. “He was in an accident near the city. No, Margaret, he’s—he’s gone.”
Her voice cracks. The phone slips from her grip. She crumples, howling like a wounded animal.
“Is she talking about me? Did I crash? Am I dead?” Oliver refuses to believe it. He’s right here, standing in his own house, talking to her. Then why doesn’t she see him? Why doesn’t he remember the drive? The stairs? Unlocking the door? It’s as if he blacked out. Or his body moved on autopilot. His stomach twists. “I *am* dead.”
Oddly, he isn’t frightened. Just numb.
“Ollie, how can this be? How do I go on?” Emily sobs into the sofa.
He reaches out—to comfort her, to stroke her back—but his hand hovers, useless. He stands over her, racking his brain for ghost stories. Only a film with Patrick Swayze comes to mind.
“So this is how it happens. And I thought it was just fiction. How long do I have? Where are the guides? Shouldn’t someone explain this?”
Time slips strangely. One moment, it’s night—the next, morning. Emily is gone. He doesn’t recall where he’s been. Then, an irresistible pull yanks him away.
Blink.
A cold, tiled room. A metal table. A body under a sheet. Oliver steps closer—his own broken, bloodied face stares back. His mother weeps into a handkerchief. His father grips her waist, holding her up. Emily stands apart, tears streaking her cheeks.
Later, outside the mortuary, his parents climb into a taxi. His mother murmurs, “Emily, won’t you come with us? It’s easier together.”
Emily shakes her head.
As the car pulls away, his mother says, “You know, Oliver and Emily never had children. We helped buy that flat—it’s in his name alone. If she wants to move back with her mother…”
“Margaret, Christ, not now,” his father snaps.
“But think of it. Peter will graduate soon. He’ll marry one day. Emily has nothing now. If only they’d had a child—” She breaks off, dissolving into fresh tears.
Oliver exhales. “Mum. Really?”
The taxi disappears. He returns to Emily, walking unsteadily beside her on the long trek home.
She sits motionless on the sofa, untouched dinner congealing on the counter.
“Listen,” Oliver says, “open the blue folder. There’s life insurance—three hundred thousand. Enough for a small flat.”
Emily rises, retrieves the folder, but doesn’t open it.
“A year ago, the deputy director drowned. Left a widow, three kids. The insurance saved them. So I signed up too. Never told you.”
“Ollie,” she whispers. “I should’ve had your baby. There’d be a piece of you left.”
“Who knew, love? We thought we had time.” He keeps talking until exhaustion drags her into sleep.
At the funeral, friends and colleagues gather. Kind words, pity for a life cut short. Oliver watches from the graveside, numb as they lower his body into the earth.
Emily glances up—for a split second, their eyes meet. But no. She looks through him.
As the group disperses, chatting about their own lives, Emily lingers, arms limp at her sides.
Oliver doesn’t follow. Something holds him by the grave.
Then—a shift. A vibration in the air. Light, distant but radiant, calls to him. He doesn’t resist.
Peace embraces him. He knows, without doubt, he’s longed for this. The love awaiting him outshines all he leaves behind.
