Manifest

Until today I never touched the dead. Never thought about, never wanted to. This morning I was making microwaveable sausage biscuits, when a girl appeared and took my hand. She felt cold. She lead me away from the microwave, upstairs, and out into the street.

An older gentleman peered at me—and her. “Anne, you look so beautiful,” he told her. “I love you.”

“I love you too, William,” she replied. She touched his cheek. He seemed to jump at the chill of her. “This man has a very special gift. Help him however you can.” She turned to me. “William has a gift too. Not like yours, but he can help you. Emmy sends her regards.”

After she spoke, she let go of my hand, and disappeared.

“Thank you for letting me see her again.” William held out his hand, and I shook it.

“I had no idea I could do that,” I told him.

“Since it’s my wife’s wishes,” he said. “I’m going to help us both out. I think we can change the world together, my friend.”

I didn’t know what to say. All I could think about was her mention of Emmy. Why hasn’t she come to see me personally?

“We’ll discuss it over dinner tomorrow.” He shook my hand again, and walked to his car.

I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.

 (Photo by octaviolopez)

Rest In Peace

I’ve been inactive for a while, I know. I had been busy with Emmy, and became extremely distracted. To tell you to honest truth, I forgot about this journal.

Emmy and I were doing great. I never met anyone so compatible with myself—and vice versa. I’ll skip all the intimate details, and get to the part where I realized nothing lasts forever.

Five days ago, I got up and rang Emmy’s cell. She didn’t answer—no big deal. I tried again about an hour later, same thing. I began to feel a bad vibe in the pit of my stomach. I kept trying as I drove over to her house.

The ghost that had been haunting Emmy’s house was of no threat, and didn’t talk much. I met him when Emmy finally invited me over on our second date. While she was occupied in the bathroom, I tried to talk to this fellow, and he did not speak much. His name was “Fred,” the only answer I got out of him. I did not speak about any of this to Emmy, of course.

Fred stood on Emmy’s front porch as if he was expecting me. He looked remorseful.

“She’s dead,” he told me. His eyes were melancholy.

I rushed into the house. She was on the floor in a pool of blood.

“Burglar,” Fred quietly spoke.

I called 911, and gave a description based on what Fred had told me the man looked like.

When the police arrived, I was surprised that they did not suspect me. They had actually picked up a man for breaking and entering, moments prior to my call, matching the description I gave.

Her funeral was soon after. No one was there except for me and her mother. She talked about Emmy’s father. “Fred was his name,” she said. “He cared so much for her. I’m happy he isn’t around to see his daughter in this casket. It would break his heart.”

He wasn’t at the funeral, but if she only knew what he did see. He watched helplessly and couldn’t do anything about it. Perhaps, out of panic, he didn’t think to come to me for help.

The image of her laying there still haunts me. I’ve cried my tears, and starting writing again. Perhaps it will help me move on. I still have an echo of that awful vibe in my stomach. Perhaps Emmy will find her way to me like the others do.

I’m waiting for her visit.

(picture by mr-twingo)