Newly minted keys jangled in Sarge’s hands as he unlocked the front door. Its hinges creaked as he pushed his way inside his childhood home. Dust swirled in the rays of the late afternoon sun, painting his mother’s décor in golden light. He passed his fingers over the small statues of cats on the small entryway table and glanced at the pictures spanning his family’s generations dotting the walls of the stairwell. He set his dark green pack on the floor and slipped another backpack off his shoulder. The ache in his back and neck eased; the pain served as a bitter reminder that his early twenties had passed decades ago, and his body no longer relished the physical punishment of labor.
Retirement would be good. He breathed deep, letting the characteristic woody smell rouse his nostalgia for a moment before heaving his bags off the floor and up the stairs. The second-to-last step creaked as it always did. Such a bittersweet thing to be back home. He crossed the hallway to the master bedroom. By now, his sister had packed away or gotten rid of most of their mother’s belongings. Only the four-post bedframe, a new mattress in its plastic wrapping, and a set of new folded sheets remained. His bag thumped on the hardwood floor and he set to making the bed. Decades of military service shone through in the crisp corners and clean lines of his work. He fluffed a pillow. The second step creaked.
He hadn’t heard the front door open. He peeked around the corner of his room to the steps. He ventured into the hallway on the balls of his feet and searched the house. He was alone. It must have been the wood settling after so much time of not being used. He resumed putting his clothes away and storing his belongings.
After dinner, he set the dirty dishes in the sink and turned on the faucet. Nothing happened. He raised a brow, and his mustache tickled his nose as he scrunched his lips. He shut the water off and tried again. Nothing. He sighed and reached for the spigot. The water sprayed out, ricocheted off the curve of a spoon, and sprayed out of the sink. He sputtered and guarded his face from the onslaught as he fumbled to close the faucet, but it kept spraying water. He ducked under the sink, found the main shut-off valve, twisted it; the water finally stopped. He wiped his face and mustache, used a paper towel to dry his glasses, then tossed the dishes in the machine. He would deal with it later. He went upstairs to change out of his wet clothes and then went outside for some therapeutic gardening.
By the time evening rolled around, the smell of trimmed grass and sweat from weeding and pruning had lifted his mood. He ate a small snack and made another attempt at washing the dishes—this time without any drama. Seemed the pipes might have just needed a bit to unclog. He ambled upstairs and started the shower. Once it had warmed, he stepped into the stream and relished in how it soothed his aching muscles. He lathered himself with soap and moved under it to rinse. The water went cold, and he shrieked as the icy rivulets stung his skin. He hopped out of the shower, slipped, yelped, and barely managed to catch himself on the counter. Fuming, he shut off the water.
Laughter echoed from the hallway.
His stomach lurched and his spine tingled. He whipped a towel around his waist, searched for a weapon, but came up empty. His gun was in the bedroom. What could he use? The toilet tank cover. He lifted the ceramic lid off and raised it to his shoulder. With a deep breath, he leaped into the hallway and yelled, brandishing his new weapon.
Empty.
“I must be more tired than I thought,” he said to himself, shaking his head. He replaced the cover, finished toweling off, and went to bed. In the morning he would call a plumber and that would be the end of his problems.
***
Loud knocking startled Sarge from his sleep the following morning. He grumbled a curse and slid out of his bed. He shuffled to his closet to pick out a robe. Another loud pounding echoed from downstairs.
“I’m coming! Have you no patience?” He thumped down the stairs and ripped the door open. “What—Oh no.”
“Yes, it’s me. Don’t look so upset about it, little brother.” The woman with wild curly black hair streaked with silver, several necklaces with multitudes of stones, earrings of mismatched styles, a balance bracelet, and all manner of bangles made of jade and who knows what else pushed her way past him. He sneezed at the overpowering scent of tea tree oil and peppermint as she passed by him. Her billowing ankle-length skirt swished as she powered into the kitchen and set down a hemp bag full of food—most of it organic, and none of it anything he wanted nor needed in his kitchen.
Sarge rubbed his temples, then closed the door. He went back to the kitchen and knew better than to stop her. It would be easier to just throw it all out or donate it after she left.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “You retire from the military, move into our mother’s home after not seeing me for twenty years, and you expect me not to welcome you home? You really have forgotten your heart, haven’t you?”
Sarge pinched his nose. “No, I haven’t. I only arrived yesterday, and you know I need time to—” The stair creaked again.
“What was that?” she asked.
“Nothing, just the house getting used to having people in it again. How did you even know I was here?”
“Oh, I come by the house regularly to renew its aura. I drove by last night and saw your car.” She slammed and opened cabinets as she talked. The stair creaked again. She stopped and squinted. “You know. The energy here feels strange. I thought it was because you had shown up, but now I’m not so sure.”
Sarge sighed. “No. It’s not strange. Houses don’t have energy; please stop. I don’t want you to—” She shushed him. She closed her eyes, grasped one of the necklaces with a huge crystal and hummed. “You’re being ridiculous. This is completely unnecessary.” She spun in a slow circle as she lifted the gem up, continuing her chant. Sarge threw his hands up. “Why do I even try?”
“I need to do a full examination.” She ran out of the house before Sarge could stop her. He flopped backward on his chair and whispered a prayer begging for strength and fortitude. She bounded back in the room holding a wooden box. She lifted a bundle of sage and a butane lighter, ignited the plant, then blew out the flames.
“Is this really necessary?” Sarge asked.
“Shh. Let me work.”
“This is not work, you’re— oh forget it.” Sarge set to organizing the rest of the groceries. “What is the point of cauliflower rice? Just make rice!”
If all he had to endure to get her out of his house was the stench of sage and her incoherent mumbling, then so be it. He’d suffered worse, though not by much. A shriek broke her chant, followed by rapid thumps as she hurried down the stairs. She ran up to him, pressed her face right to his nose and squinted at him.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” He asked as he pulled away.
“Hm. I was seeing if you brought them. But… no, it seems you are clean.”
“Clean?”
“Yes. You have ghosts.” She licked her fingers, waved her hand in the air, then licked them again. “Yes. Two ghosts.”
Sarge blinked at her. “Okay. You’re done. Goodbye, thank you for the horrendous groceries, and for stopping by.” Sarge dumped the rest of the contents of her bag, handed it to her, then ushered her out the door.
“Mark my words, brother! It’s only going to get worse!” she yelled as he slammed the door.
He breathed a sigh of relief. He grabbed an apple and went to sit down. The leg of the chair snapped. He smacked his arm on the table and landed on his rear with a loud thump. How on Earth… It was an old chair, bound to break, and he had gained weight since his youth. Add it to the list of things to update. The stair creaked again. He picked himself up with a groan and grimace, rubbing his backside as he stood. He kicked the remnants of the chair out of the way, sat in a different one, and sneezed. Did his sister bathe in tea tree oil? He slid his laptop from the backpack next to table and set to work finding a plumber. Midway through his research, the internet cut out.
“Why does nothing work in this ancient house?” he groaned.
He slammed his fist on the table, rose, slipped on a puddle and growled as he stomped up the stairs. He checked the connection on the router and reset it. He went back downstairs and unlocked the laptop. A video blasted lewd sounds from the speakers. He slammed the laptop closed, but the sounds kept playing. He opened the laptop again and tried to close the window, but it didn’t respond. The video kept playing and, desperate, he yanked the battery out of the laptop. Giggles rolled in from all around. Eyes wide, Sarge whipped his head about in search of their origin. Did he bang his head when he fell? Seconds after he heard it, the laughter stopped. A headache crawled out from the back of his skull and crept over his scalp.
“Why did she have to come here,” he moaned. He lifted himself up and decided the best way to spend the rest of the night was by scouting a new running route. He dressed himself and went outside to clear his mind.
***
Sarge threw the door open and stopped to check his Fitbit. A decent time for a new route. He flicked his shoes off, and his chest heaved as he peeled off his sweaty clothes and threw them in the laundry hamper in the bathroom. His hand stopped on the faucet knob. This was silly. It was just plumbing, there was no such thing as ghosts. He wrenched the shower on and didn’t wait for the water to warm. In less than thirty seconds he was done and out. The rest of the day went by without incident. He managed his finances, checked his stock portfolio, and ate a peaceful dinner. Night came and with heavy eyelids, he set his phone on the bedside table and slid himself between his sheets. Just as he was about to cross the bridge from waking to dreaming, music blared from his phone at full volume.
He screamed, scrambled out of bed, snatched his pistol from the desk, and shot his phone. He panted, stared at the smoking bullet hole in the middle of the shattered screen. Maniacal, cackling laughter bounced off the walls. He aimed his gun at a wall, then the next, trying to pinpoint the source.
“To hell with this.” He ran out of his room.
Something yanked the rug out from under him and he landed on his stomach. Not waiting to catch his breath, he scrambled up, gasping for air, and sprinted down the stairs. Pictures flew off the walls as he passed them. Laughter hounded him as he ran. He opened the front door, slammed it, and dove into his car. The tires screeched and the engine roared as he tore into the street.
Next thing he knew, he was pounding on his sister’s door. She opened it and took in his pajamas, disheveled hair, wild eyes, and heaving breath.
“I told you,” she said, and moved aside to let him in.
“Yes. Okay, maybe you were right. How do I get rid of them?”
“It’s very simple. Tea?” She motioned to the small table in her kitchen. Surrealist paintings, sculptures of genitalia, crystal formations, woven mandalas, books on mysticism, and dream catchers adorned every inch of her living space.
Sarge sneezed. “No. Just, tell me what to do.” He pushed a stack of magazines off a chair and sat down. “My god, have you ever heard of cleaning?”
“These crystals are for cleansing, yes,” she said as she pointed to an array of rocks on the sink.
“Oh for— I don’t have time for this. How do I get rid of it?”
“Them. You have two ghosts, and as I mentioned, the solution is two-fold. First you must force them to show themselves”
“How am I—”
“You’re a smart man. I’m sure you’ll think of something. Once they have been exposed, then you must complete their unfinished business.”
Sarge sighed. He rubbed his eyes. “Do you have a blanket that doesn’t reek of essential oils?”
His sister blinked. “Why wouldn’t I anoint my blankets with soothing scents to help me sleep?”
“Forget it. I’ll just sleep in my car.”
“Such a traditionalist. Fine, but before you go, take this,” she said and handed him a bag with several green crystals. “Peridot. For protection.”
Sarge thought better of rejecting the gift and put the bag in his pocket. It wasn’t worth the fight, and he needed to sleep. He thanked her, went back to his car, grabbed a jacket from his trunk, and spent an uncomfortable night in the front seat.
***
Still in his pajamas, Sarge pushed the door to his house open. He frowned at shattered pieces of glass strewn all over the floor. These ghosts need to be gone.
“How do I get them to show themselves?” he wondered aloud as he closed the door. He scanned the kitchen, the hallway leading to the living room, the stairway, and considered the events. Water splashing him in the face, turning the hot water off in the shower, blasting pornography on his laptop, startling him with loud music…
“They’re teenagers!”
He had an idea. If they really were young, then he needed to do something that youths hate. Easy. He barked a laugh, then took his clothes completely off. He started cleaning the mess completely nude. He cooked in the buff, turned on talk radio with full volume, danced and sang old songs. At one point the radio crackled and shut off, so he started doing Yoga in the living room.
“Ok, old man, we’ve had enough, please put some clothes on!” A wispy figure materialized in front of him. The young, boyish features grimaced and looked away while Sarge bolted upright. A girl the same age as the boy appeared next to him.
“Do you really have to do that naked?” she asked with her face puckered up.
“I can’t believe my sister was right,” Sarge whispered.
“Clothes, please?!” The ghosts pleaded in unison.
Sarge folded his arms. “Not until I get some answers. Why are you still here? Why my house?”
“Ugh, fine,” the girl said.
“We were on our way to pull off our senior prank,” the boy said. “It was going to be one for the history books!”
“Yeah, too bad a drunk driver killed us right outside this house that night,” the girl said. She leaned against the boy and crossed her arms.
“That’s it? You wanted to pull off a prank? If I do it for you, will you leave my house?”
The boy’s eyes widened, and the girl fidgeted with her school uniform.
“You, old man, would go to a high school and set off stink bombs in the ventilation system?”
Sarge sighed and dropped his hands. How simple-minded. A stink bomb would not even be worthy of a footnote, but it made his task simple. “I was a soldier. I did many secret missions, and dropping stink bombs in an air vent would be an easy task.”
The boy leaped for joy, and the girl let out a whoop.
“I’ve seen our payload hidden in your yard,” the girl said. “It must have been thrown from the car when we got hit.”
“Alright, that’s a good place to start.” Sarge headed outside and the youths complained about his clothing once again.
He dressed himself and set about combing through the shrubbery near the street. He found a small box hidden in a bush and went back inside. He held up the box, and the teens leaped for joy. Luckily, their school was a short drive away, and it was the same one he attended as a boy. He parked on the street and watched students come and go at the end of the day. Parents greeted their children, friends laughed together, and he realized that he missed that feeling. A couple walked by hand in hand and a half-smile crept up his face as he remembered his first girlfriend. He wondered where she was now.
Once all the students had and staff had gone, he went to a window with a broken latch that he had often used himself as a teen—counting it a silver lining of poor public education budgets—and snuck into the main building. He set the stink bombs on top of the grate on the floor, grabbed a handful of tissues from the teacher’s desk, and stomped on the glass containers to release their foul smell. The door to the hallway opened and, as he walked down the hall, he noticed a display case with clippings of a news story and wilting flower wreaths. A tribute to the two students that died. An engraved plaque on the bottom of the case read:
Voted Prom King and Queen, we honor the memory of our two seniors.
Attached to the plaque was a photo of the two youths standing side by side wearing crowns, surrounded by paper chains, confetti, and balloons. Their bright smiles and awkward posing sent a lance of sadness through Sarge’s chest. This prank was not their final task.
When he arrived at home, he sat at his table and waited. The second hand on his wristwatch ticked. He made himself a light dinner, then stood at the sink. He turned the faucet on and dodged the stream of water that bounced off his plate.
“I know you’re still here,” he said. The ghosts appeared behind him and he sat back down at his table. “I completed the prank, but I didn’t think you would really go.” The boy sat down as well and the girl stood behind him resting her hands on his shoulders. “You two were voted Prom King and Queen, weren’t you?”
The girl beamed. “We were. It was such a wonderful night.”
The boy leaned back and rested his head on her forearm. “It really was. We had so much fun. I wish—” he stopped himself and sat up straight.
“I think I know what’s really happening here,” Sarge said. He stood up and set a kettle to boil. “Tell me, were you more than friends before you died?”
“What?” the boy said. “Oh, no we were always just friends. Ever since we were children. We grew up with each other.” The girl bit her lip.
“Hmm. You know, there is a benefit to being old,” Sarge said. “You learn a lot of things, lose a lot of people.” His voice softened. “Leave many things left unsaid.” The boy cracked his knuckles, and the girl pulled at the ends of her hair, flipping it around and twisting it in her fingers. “My sister told me ages ago that words have energy. And like energy, they cannot be destroyed, only transferred. She also said energy can be both healing and destructive. As such, the words you hold have the potential to be both. Choosing which ones you keep and which ones you share is a very important skill. I didn’t believe her then.” The kettle whistled. He shut off the stove and poured a measure of steaming water into a mug. “Nor did I understand what she was saying. At the time, our mother was sick, and I was still deployed.” He pulled a lemon slice out of the refrigerator, squeezed in the juice, and plopped the fruit into his hot water. He sighed as he eased himself back into his chair.
“What are you getting at?” the boy asked.
“I believe the words you’re keeping within yourselves are keeping you here.”
The girl opened her mouth to speak but halted short of saying anything. The boy’s leg bounced as his jaw worked side to side. Sarge sipped his water. The boy stood up, his body passing through the seat.
“Ever since freshman year, after that summer I came back from camp… I saw you again and I knew that you were special. That I didn’t want to spend another summer without you. I didn’t say anything because I was afraid it would ruin our friendship if you didn’t feel the same way. Now, I’m afraid that if I say something, we won’t go on together to whatever is next. But I can’t hold it in. I have loved you my entire life. I loved you as my best friend when we were children, and I loved you as something more for years. I—”
The girl grasped his hands and rested her forehead on his chest. “I have wanted us to be more than friends for as long as I can remember. You were kind when others chose to be cruel. The summer you left was the summer I realized you were my rock. Even when we grew up, and we ran in different circles, you remained my closest ally. When you asked me to be your Prom date, I thought you were finally going to ask me to be your girlfriend… But even when you didn’t, I was happy to go with you anyway.”
“Well, will you be my girlfriend now?” he asked.
She smiled and wrapped her arms around him. “Yes.”
“I love you,” he whispered, and kissed the top of her head.
A pinpoint of light shone over the two, and even as they dissipated into particles of shimmering blue dust, they never let go of their eternal embrace.
Sarge finished his drink. A heavy pull weighed on his chest and labored his breath. He stood, went to the phone hanging on the wall, and dialed his sister.
“Are they gone?” she asked in greeting.
“Yes, they’re gone. Do you remember what you told me about words and energy?”
“Of course, why do you think I always tell you the truth?”
“Well, I realized I have been holding on to words I should share. I’m glad you’re my sister, and I’m grateful you came over yesterday. Not just for the ghosts.”
“I love you too, baby brother.”
Silence hung in the air as tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He cleared his throat. “Also, I think it best to stay on your good side. The last thing I need is for my mystic sister to haunt me.”
His sister cackled.