This Is Not A Ghost Story By JD Phillips

Welcome to another edition of October Stories, I am so happy to be doing this and sharing it with everyone. Today, is a short story by JD Phillips!

This Is Not A Ghost Story

By JD Phillips

You didn't realize the space was already occupied when you moved in. I get that. It isn't your fault the human body and brain are designed to trick you into accepting a false sense of reality. You know – the reality where truth is a thing reduced to what you can see, touch, taste, feel or smell in a tangible way that meshes with everything you've been taught should make sense. It leaves little need to look beyond the obvious. No need to question if the assumption nearest the surface makes for the best answer. No desire to release what passes as logic even if that logic creates solutions bordering on asinine.

I can forgive you, then, for waltzing in here with your carefully packed boxes and overstuffed bags of shite. I can even overlook the way you carelessly shove things about and hang pictures on the walls and replace curtains and the like as if you actually own the place. You're a spirit stuck inside a meat suit designed to keep you from seeing and learning too much too soon and, as I said before, I get it. Human minds can only handle so much and a soul can't grow without some sense of struggle involved.

Ignorance isn't only bliss, it's necessary in that way. A good thing. A thing I can't fault you for as you shudder away from my touch and resign to track down the source of the cold draft you didn't notice during open house once you get better settled in. You don't yet realize I'm here. You don't know you've just rudely turned your back on me. You haven't a clue you happen to be rolling your hideous paisley rug out over the very place my last body fell as you hum a cheerful little tune under your breath.

It's all right. I forgive you because you don't know. How can you? You've managed to go through life without any eye-opening encounters with my kind – partly due to the ignorance and blind trust in the surface world but also by luck. You've been a lucky bird, so far able to laugh away those shadows and bumps in the night. Lucky enough to still believe said shadows and bumps only come round during the night.

You don't yet know and so I simply watch as you hunt and pick through your boxes and bags in an effort to make this place feel more like your own. You've got plans for bigger changes, sure. Measurements were taken days ago. Paint ordered. Furniture purchased for delivery. In this moment, though, you're focused on the little things. Books and clothes, trinkets and toiletries – you work steadily to put each and every item in place.

You occasionally stop and glance over your shoulder when you feel my gaze upon you. You laugh it off as "new place jitters" and play a CD in a small metallic purple boombox to feel less alone. It does and doesn't help – after all part of the problem is the fact you already feel you aren't alone – and annoys the Christ out of me. I've heard music undergo a number of changes and styles over the years but it's never been as bad as this artificial pop tart shite currently polluting the airwaves. Manipulated. Soulless. Nothing but noise.

Interrupting the song is as easy as sticking my fingers into the heart of the boom box. Current interrupted. Wires inhibited. Duty impeded. The song bleeps and bloops in a series of flat tones and static before the CD begins simply spinning empty. You turn to look at the boombox, annoyed rather than frightened, and give it a slap. You've had the disc and machine both for quite a while and never once had an issue with either. You worry one or the other might've been damaged in the move.

I'm tempted to make your worries reality but I prefer to take it slow during the introductory phase. Build anticipation. Really get to know my mark. Figure out what does or doesn't make them tick. So I take a step back and allow you to get the machine running again. You reset the song in a huff and I shake my head. I can see you're not the type to take a hint. I wait until you return your attention to the box you were unpacking to stick my hand inside the boombox again.

The display reads "disk error" when you move to give the machine another slap. There's nothing wrong with the disc aside from your poor taste, of course, but you don't know that. You open the device and remove the disc, inspect its underside, curse under your breath. You don't see any scratches or smudges and put the disc back into the machine. I make the error message appear a second time.

"Take the hint," I say.

You're not ready to hear my voice but you do notice the sharp blip of static that sounds from the speakers when I speak. You think it odd but see no reason to dwell upon it. You have a lot of work to do and know yourself well enough to acknowledge any lull in activity would likely lead you to plop down and veg out in the recliner only a few feet away.

"Take the hint," I say again; again the static sounds out the speaker. "Surely you've got at least one disc that isn't total shite."

You have a large binder full of discs, after all. It was one of the first things you unpacked and took care to tuck away in a safe place. Your eyes move toward the shelf you placed it upon before you even think to tell them to. Screw fighting the machine. Just try a different disc and pray it works properly, you think, because heaven knows you don't have the money to buy a new stereo right now.

I could point out that heaven knows no such thing but see no reason to further rain on your parade. Not just yet, anyway. The second disc you choose to play is less atrocious. Tolerable enough I'm not compelled to interfere as you return to your unpacking. It's precious how determined you are to get this busywork out of the way – as if you'll have time for leisure once it's done. As if you'll actually live here long enough to put all these things to use. The arrogance of such presumptuousness might offend me were you not so damn ignorant but that'll change. In time.

That is, after all, what I'm here for.

JD has been writing since childhood and has been self-published as well as picked up through small presses.

She enjoys making creepy dolls and communes with