Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #20 November 2015 | Page 73

Sadly, I watch my mother walk down the
alley, haunted by the memory of me, oblivious to my
presence. She will be alright for now. She has hope to
cling to, a life raft in her raging sea of pain. I need to
find harbour, to anchor myself.
I need to be heard.
I shift through the door, returning to the gloom
of the shop. Within moments, I’ve invaded her office,
permeating it with my half dead presence.
She’s busy typing on a computer. Her fingers
move swiftly and she bites her lip in concentration.
It’s funny how you notice little things when you’re
dead. Things that slip by in life, unremarked and
unappreciated. Her dark hair falls around her face,
exposing the back of her neck. She shivers a little as
I walk behind her. As I touch her skin, she jumps and
spins in her chair. Her wild eyes search the empty
space, seeking out unknown assailants.
I move closer and she leans forward, peering
intently. Closer still and she sits back suddenly in her
chair, as though pushed by an invisible force.
“Who’s there? Speak to me.”
I try. Oh, how I try! I scream out my name. It
echoes back at me- Lisa Ryan!
She frowns, as though picking up a weak
signal. I scream again, willing my words into her
head. Her fingers twitch a little and she leans forward.
“Lisa, is that you?”
I could die of happiness if I weren’t already
dead. I want to hug her but I figure that would freak
her out. Instead, I dance a ghostly waltz of joy,
twirling in the ether like a windmill. Susan lifts her
head, as though feeling the breeze as I pass.
Yes, I cry. Yes!
She fumbles for her laptop and brings up
a search page. Her fingers fly as she types in my

name. My image comes up, filling the screen. I peer
over her shoulder. My face has been cropped from a
professional family portrait. I look so happy. My hair
is neatly brushed. It shines under the studio lights.
He pulled my hair from my scalp as I struggled under
him, yanking my head back roughly to bend me to
his will. If someone were to search his basement,
they’d probably find it there. He’s not the greatest
housekeeper.
Susan brings up another page, a file. It has all
my personal information on it. The regular stuff: name,
age, address, that kind of thing. She quickly grabs a
notebook and scribbles my address, tears off the page
and stuffs it in her pocket. Grabbing her keys from the
desk, she bolts out the door so quickly I have to move
fast to keep up. I follow her to her car, a small white
sedan, non-descript; which is no doubt intentional. I
picture her more in a smart red sports, top down, hair
streaming.
We get in the car and take off. After drifting
through the ether, the momentum of the car feels
strange. I have to work at sitting still, allowing the car
to carry us to our destination without drifting there
myself. I recognise the old brick fence immediately
as we pull up. The lawn is long and overgrown with
weeds. Dad died years ago, leaving my mother to fulfil
both roles in my life. She did so remarkably well,
working as a teachers’ aide whilst juggling a degree
in counselling – her passion. I lacked for nothing,
materially or emotionally, except the presence of my
father.
I had hoped to find him when I crossed over,
but so far there’s been no sign of him in the dim halls
of waiting. Perhaps he has already moved on and is
waiting for me in the light. I hope so. I long to feel his
arms around me, hear his deep voice whisper into my
hair as he holds me to his heart.
I love you pumpkin!
He died violently too, a corner taken too fast
on a slippery road. They unwound the car from the
tree and pried his body from the mangled wreck. Our
combined grief drew my mother and I closer. We

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