Welcome to another addition of Finish the Sentence Friday and #writestuff.
Finish the Sentence Friday Prompt: One Halloween, I….
Write Stuff prompt: Choose a song and write a poem or short story inspired by it.
One Halloween, I went trick-or-treating. One Halloween, I gave out candy. That’s about it. That summarizes Halloween for me for my entire life. I never went to parties. When I was too old to trick-or-treat, I dressed up only for school, maybe, I can’t remember. I’m boring when it comes to Halloween. Don’t think I don’t face scary things because I have made love on top of a mausoleum in a cemetery at 3AM, not because I was performing some occult ceremony, but because my boyfriend wanted to enjoy the spook of walking a cemetery at 3AM, and I wasn’t scared, oh no, I was just horny. We just didn’t do that on Halloween for it to satisfy Finish the Sentence requirements.
So, I guess I could end the post like this, but well… I hate to do this. #Write Stuff had an October creative writing challenge. I was to write something inspired by a song. Years ago, I wrote a poem about my father’s death inspired by Moody Blues Nights in White Satin. This time, my song is See Beneath Your Beautiful by Labrinth. It’s a spooky, crazy-ass story I’m thinking is too weird and out there to post, but I shall anyway. Remember, it’s fiction… Something I don’t normally write or read, so deal with the suckage…
PS If you don’t want to read a long short-story in fiction, skip to the end. I summarize what it says.
Engrossed in the scent of male cologne, I stand here with my arms wrapped around him. Left foot. Right foot. Our song jumps out of the violins and dances along the tables weaving around all the guests wrapping its decibels around our bodies sparking motion in our limp limbs bringing life to our petrified states life left us. The song slithers in between our entwined bodies and pierces through our chests connecting our hearts, beyond two bodies smashed together, in rhythm and time. As he moves to the right, I move to the right. He swings to the left, and I follow. His hands resting on my hips subtly guide my movement in sync with his. As many glasses of wine I’ve had, and in these heels, I seriously doubt I could stand up on my own two feet without him holding me. In many ways, we are one.
The beat of the piano chord acts as a lullaby. I drift into a euphoric trance while his arms engulf me in comfort and warmth. Leaning on the strength of his chest, I take a deep breath and exhale a quiet moan as I shut my eyes and allow the song to carry my spirit wherever it may drift.
Memories flow in and out of my mind. Our first kiss. The power went out during a movie at the movie theater on our third date, and for a second, I was afraid of the darkness that bounced between the red-draped walls of the huge theater. The darkness whispered strange sounds you only hear between skeletal trees alone in a forest, the kind that jump into your chest and makes your heart drop into your stomach. I felt his hand grab mine, and I knew it was his hand because he has an unusually abrasive skin due to his career as a lumberjack. I fell in love with those hands the moment I noticed them as my father is the only other person I know to display his labor for his loved ones as scars on his hands. He guided me out of the chairs onto the main aisle, and when he realized we were the only people in the theater, or at least so it felt, he stopped, and he turned around right as I walked into his arms (by accident), and he grabbed me by my waist and kissed me.
My mind drifts to the day my father passed away. We knew it was coming as he was so sick, and we were amazed he was able to live as long as he could; however, it didn’t put the breath back that was taken from me the moment he stopped breathing. The cat sat at my father’s feet for hours, and when they moved his body, her little four legged black body didn’t budge for a few more hours. For months before his death, he would complain of the people in his bathroom and all the noise they were making when there were no people in the bathroom. I have no idea what ghosts he met that moment, but I wasn’t prepared mentally for him to be a ghost himself.
My true love held my hand through the funeral, and provided a fortress of hugs to hold me up through it as gravity wasn’t operating under normal conditions that day. On the first day of visitation, after everyone left the room at the funeral hall, adorned in luxuries we could never afford ourselves, we stood there for what felt like hours, in silence, staring at my father. The tears drowned my eyes in so much saline that I couldn’t tell you if he was crying with me or not. The world had a white blanket over it, like a huge hard water stain. I started to rant about how unfair it is for God to take people too soon. If God was benevolent and loving at all, He wouldn’t let us die like this. He wouldn’t leave us alone. And that’s when my love interrupted me, “You are never alone, not while I’m around. Your father worked harder than any man I know. He deserves his rest. Let him rest.” Those words made my mind click somehow that it’s ok to die.
My mind drifts to when we first met.
I was recently fired, and even though I was home all day, my house was 17 chocolate bars and two cheeseburgers shy of inviting cockroaches to my Feast of Plenty. I gained about 30 pounds, and my hygiene made the wicked witch of the west smell purple (as opposed to green). I probably qualified for a depression diagnosis, but I was too depressed to go find out because that would require a shower and a change of clothes. I slept about 20 hours a day, and spent the remaining four watching television reruns like it was my God-driven purpose in life.
On top of it all, my house was haunted. I would frequently feel the weight of someone sitting next to me on the sofa, but nobody was there. The walls cracked unusually more so than it should, and doors sometimes opened by themselves. Sometimes I could feel someone stroking my arm. Electronics frequently turned themselves on and off. The phenomenon was at its worse when I would lay down to go to sleep.
But nothing could prepare me for what happened next. I was cuddling with the safe haven of my down comforter in bed, drifting into slumber, and all the sudden, I couldn’t move. A dark figure stood over me, and started to reach toward me. I was screaming, but no sound escaped my mouth. I was petrified like a scared rabbit. I am not sure how much time passed, but I resumed feeling at some point. I got up and actually left the house to my mother’s. I told her what happened, and she just looked at me like I was crazy.
I stayed a few days at my mother’s afraid to go back to my own home. In that time, I started improving with my depression issues. My old childhood crush moved into his parents house when they passed away, 2 doors down from my mother’s house where I grew up swinging on the porch swing for hours after every football game just to catch a glimpse of my crush walking home. It was like we were children again. He’d come over to get me, as if he was asking if I could come out and play, and then he’d treat me to dinner, ice cream, a movie, a cup of coffee… anything to spend time with me.
In that 3 days, we developed a relationship that exceeded friendship, and I could see this going places I spent most of my life dreaming about except I wasn’t ready for it. My house was a disaster, and I shuddered at the thought of him seeing it or knowing it was a mess. The idea of taking off my shirt around him was cringeworthy due to the muffin top holding my pants up by suction. I lied about work. I told him I was getting paid to ghost-write for someone famous. I did not feel like I was good enough for him, and I definitely didn’t feel like I was good enough at all. But identifying this issue is the first step toward recovery. For the first time in months, I wanted to leave my comfort bubble of suckage and try to improve myself.
It was time I returned home because I’m definitely too “grown up” to be living with my mother. In addition, I was paying a mortgage payment with my savings that was starting to dwindle more than I anticipated. I went home determined to clean my house, find a job, and color my hair. No ghost was going to scare me away from true love. I even grabbed some Holy Water from a nearby Catholic Church, and I picked up some white sage to “smother” my house.
When I returned home, after smothering and blessing my house the proper way according to the hippy at the Natural Food Store that sold me the sage, the ghostly activity disappeared. I got as far as cleaning my kitchen and getting half of my dirty laundry caught up (mainly comprising of my best clothes in case my neighbor would ask me out again). I sent out about 10 resumes, and I had a job lead to chase. I wasn’t perfect like my neighbor yet, but I was on the right path. I could feel it. My house felt clear, and so did my soul.
Then one night, I laid in bed and before I could even drift, I felt chills run up my spine. I knew the ghost was in there with me. I could feel his presence. I felt a tingle on my outer thigh, and I jumped out of bed. I started saying prayers to God out loud, praying for protection. The light flickered in a way I’m not sure I could prove that it flickered, but it was enough to send even more chills running through my body. I grabbed the Holy Water and realized, I have no idea how to use Holy Water. I flinged it randomly into the air saying, “May the Power of Christ compel you to get the fuck out!” That’s when I heard him for the first time. A whisper from the corner of the ceiling, “But, I love you.”
It was the “I love you” that haunted me for days after that. Can ghosts love? I imagine they could. He probably was in love with someone when he was alive. Why me? Maybe I didn’t hear him right. Maybe I didn’t hear him at all. Maybe I’m just crazy.
At this point, I decided he must be a good ghost. If he survived smothering, prayers and Holy Water, he can’t be evil. So, I got my Ghost Adventures on, and I grabbed a recorder. I held it in the air asking questions. Who are you? What is your name? Why are you haunting me?
I uploaded the sound bytes of silence to my computer, and I upped decibels holding the speakers to my ear. I listened intently for hours, looking for anything. I heard a rant I couldn’t make out, but the part that was clearer than anything was, “But I love you too much.” I was under the impression, like a feeling, that he was trying to say something along the lines of, “I’m sorry I keep touching you, and I know you’d be more comfortable if I didn’t, but I love you too much.”
The phone interrupted my obsessive repetitive play of “I love you too much,” with it’s annoying ring. It was my neighbor. He apologized that he couldn’t meet me like we had planned earlier. A family emergency came up. This was the second time he flaked on me, but one cannot deny the blissful chemistry surrounding our conversations about our favorite television shows, science, religion, literature, our dreams and ambitions, and the meaning of life. He even wrote me a love poem in French.
I went to bed early that night. I didn’t want to be alone in the sense that I longed to be with my neighbor, but I wanted to be alone in the sense that I hoped I wouldn’t re-experience the paralysis I felt before with the ghost.
I heard a whisper from the corner of the ceiling, “He is no good for you.”
I responded, without thought, “Who are you to know?”
The voice said, “He doesn’t love you.”
I again defended the true love, “I’ve known him my whole life. He has always been one of my best friends. I know he cares about me deeply.”
The voice said, “He doesn’t love you.”
I realized at that point, I was talking to my ceiling. Wait. What? I was talking to my ghost. Whoah.
I wasn’t sure how to respond at this point. It was both exciting and scary at the same time. I wanted to talk to him, as I’ve tried gaining EVPs, but he was still a complete unknown, and unknowns are scary things.
I got myself together, smiled a devilish grin with the distinct odor of doubt piercing through my breath, “But YOU love me?”
“YESSSSS!”
“And what do YOU know about love?”
Silence. The lack of response assured me that this silly ghost had no idea what love is. Now that we broke the ice, I felt compelled to get to know him as if he were a blind date, and I needed to fill in the space of time waiting on dinner.
“How long have you been here?”
“Years.”
Embarrassment struck me like laughter at a funeral, “Sorry about the mess, I haven’t been feeling myself…”
“I know. It’s ok.”
“No it’s not ok. I shouldn’t let the house get like this… So what do I call you?”
After a series of getting-to-know-you questions, I discovered his name was Buford, he died in the 1930’s on my property, and he has a manly mustache. He also loves one of the tv shows I watched, and hates another one.
We developed a friendship over time. He helped me word my resumes, in which he constantly flattered me. He saw strengths in me I didn’t see in myself, and to hear him describe me, it was like God describing his best angel. It was actually his resume that got me the job I still have to this day.
My life improved. I cleaned my house. I lost 20 pounds. I got a job. I cut my hair contrary to Buford’s desires to keep it long. He was rather fond of hair. He didn’t even want me to shave my legs. We had arguments over things like whether I should drive in the snowy weather or drink a shot of vodka. He was super protective of me. He didn’t want me hurting myself at all, not even with an occasional drink.
On evenings I had a date with my neighbor friend, Buford would help pick out my outfit. He would say, “You look beautiful no matter what,” and I would reply, “But I want to look prettier than beautiful, does this match?” and he would find something with less cleavage and say something along the realms of, “If he doesn’t think you are prettier than beautiful, he doesn’t deserve you.”
His constant disapproval of my relationship with my neighbor had me fit to be tied. One night, Buford and I discussed it. I couldn’t take it anymore. My new best friend hates my boyfriend. I asked, “Why do you think my neighbor doesn’t love me?”
Buford responded, “Because you can’t be yourself around him.”
This was a difficult discussion because I can barely hear him. Many times I had to have him repeat himself.
“What do you mean I can’t be myself around him?”
Buford replied, “You wouldn’t show him your house.”
I explained, “It was messy.”
“Exactly. You lied about your job.”
I explained, “He doesn’t fail. He doesn’t know failure. He doesn’t understand failure. I can’t let him see me like that.”
“Exactly. I have seen you like that.”
This was the point in the conversation where I shifted from trying to defend my relationship with my neighbor and realizing what Buford was trying to really say. This was probably the first time I actually listened to him about this conversation. And here I had thought he wasn’t listening to me.
“Yes you have seen me like that. You’ve seen me in ways nobody else ever has or ever will.”
“And, I love you.”
Oh. Buford wanted me to understand his love is true because he loves me for all of me, not just my strengths. I realized that he might be right. All the sudden, I fell in love with myself, true love, where I accepted my flaws as part of me, even if I am improving, the fact remains that I was bent, not broken. That my character is not based on low moments of my life, but how I overcame those moments. There is still beauty beneath the beautiful…
And Buford, he was the one who lifted me up from that low point. He was always there for me, with me, watching, wanting to help. It was his love that nurtured me, and nobody else’s.
I never felt so swept off my feet before in my life. And this is crazy. Buford has no body. I have no idea what he looked like. He’s dead. What the fresh ell is wrong with me to entertain such a notion? Did I just fall in love with a ghost? Did I just fall from grace for it? Because I was definitely falling. Oh I need therapy, not because I hear voices, but because I want the voices to caress me. I need a priest, not to fight off the spirits, but to hear my confessions.
A few nights later, I laid in bed. Buford joined me as usual. I felt a blanket of warmth comfort my body like I usually do with Buford. Then I felt a tingling sensation on my neck. I turned my head to where I thought he was, and it was like that moment before a first kiss when the lips are close to each other, barely touching, and you can feel the breath of him on your cheeks and you long to let the lips touch, but there were no lips in front of me. Or were there? As each second passed with this sensational chemistry, the friction made my body hot, all over.
I didn’t even think to myself that I was crazy because I was lost in the moment. I could feel someone kiss me, though I couldn’t see anything there. I felt a hand rub my butt cheek and down my thigh.
I knew it was sinful. I knew God may never forgive me for it. My soul might be hell-bound for this, but true love is true love, and I was so lost in his ether, I removed my clothes and told him to make love to me. I laid on my back and covered my legs and chest with my plush comforter, and I could see the comforter bubble up where the spirit was entering it. Again I felt kisses, and I closed my eyes to focus as every touch was a whispered touch. Tingling sensations raced up and down the curvy outline of the side of my body.
As we laid in bed, cuddling, after I feasted on forbidden fruit, all the sudden, I heard from the ceiling as if a human were in the room, loud and clear…
“I’m a demon.”
I abruptly sat up in full attention, fully sober from the slumber. Thinking I misheard him, because he’s a ghost, he’s a man, I asked, “What?”
“I’m a fucking demon.”
Awkward silence filled the room as I sat in shock for a minute.
“And you love me?”
I heard a giggle echo around all the walls. I started to fear this whole thing wasn’t real. This whole thing was a fake set-up to take my soul, and I just stupidly gave it to him. What the hell is wrong with me to believe everything a ghost says?
I asked, “What’s so funny?”
“That’s all you can say?”
Realizing maybe this is real, I responded, “Yeah. I thought demons were incapable of love. You’re supposed to be tearing me down, not building me up.”
“I love you too much.”
Then I melted over those words. Again. Just like the first time I heard them. “So now what?”
He responded, “Do you still love me?”
Wait a minute. He proved to me he loved me despite all my weaknesses, despite my darkness, and now he is asking me if I love him the same. Do I? I thought about it sincerely for a minute, making sure whatever answer I gave was the honest truth. “Yes. I do. I don’t love evil, but I love you.”
We talked for hours about how he ended up in hell. The evil deeds he did on earth before death that gave him so much power as a demon in hell to haunt people. He started to rub my back gently as we continued our conversation…
“I can’t believe I did what I did on earth. I will never forgive myself for it. I don’t deserve you.”
“Such is the burden of sin. You deserve forgiveness. You deserve love.”
“But what I did… I can’t undo it. I killed my wife. My kids….”
“Would you do it again? Like knowing the consequences, do you think you would?”
“I’m not sure…”
“Would you kill me if I were your wife?”
“I didn’t love my wife. It was an arranged marriage by our fathers. I killed her so I could be with someone I loved. I would kill again to be with you, but I wouldn’t kill you.”
“What about our children? How could you kill helpless children like that?
“My kids were adults who stood up for their mother. We can’t have children. If I got you pregnant, it would be a monster.”
“Well, if you weren’t a demon…”
“If you were my wife on earth, no, I wouldn’t hurt our children.”
Then the gentle strokes on my back changed into a tapping sensation on the back of my shoulder. I look up feeling a puddle of my drool on my cheek and see my husband…
“The song is over. You managed to fall asleep on my shoulder, while dancing, on OUR WEDDING DAY.”
I am so confused. What happened to my demon? Who is this human? Wait. He kissed me in the movie theater. He held my hand through my father’s funeral. Those things did happen, and it was he who I was marrying. I must of dozed off and my brain created a false memory dream… I dozed off, in my wedding gown, on his shoulder… “And I drooled on your tux! Will you ever forgive me for it?”
With a giggle and a slight snort, “Of course. You deserve forgiveness.”
We hold hands walking off the dance floor. My uncle who walked me down the aisle calls him over through the filter of his duck dynasty beard, and he lets go of my hand, looks at me for confirmation, and he drifts to the wedding table. I sit down at someone else’s table–his cousin I never met until today.
Was that a dream? Was it a vision of a possible future? Would my husband, whose name happens to be Buford though we call him by his middle name, James, be damned upon his death? What just happened? What was the point of it all?
I bow my head and whisper a silent prayer, something I don’t normally do, but something as profound and spooky like that… I crave clarity, and I don’t care if they are playing the song “Shout” as little children are dancing on the dance floor, I’m taking a time-out to figure things out.
“God? Are you listening? What just happened? I know it wasn’t real, but it felt real. The love was real. The message was real. My fear is now real.”
I can hear Buford’s Aunt tell another guest, “Do you see Sheila over there? Bless her heart in those shoes with that dress. Did she not realize this was a wedding? You don’t wear flip flops to a wedding.”
I can hear my Uncle talk to my husband, “I want to make it clear, if you break her heart, I’m going to break your legs. You are now a member of this family, so that means you will have to be more responsible…”
“God? Why do we judge each other so harshly? Nobody really accepts us for who we are, do they? I mean, is there anyone on this earth who accepts me for all of me? Who doesn’t expect me to be something better? Who understands with all gravity and depth beyond the superficial understanding that nobody is perfect? Jim. Buford James. He never has completely seen me at my worse, but he has never insinuated that I need to be better. Instead of tearing me down with criticism, he has always built me up, in some way, with the right words.
But can I return the favor? Would I still love him if he were a demon? If I am the wife he killed? My darkness is just not that dark.
Stop it. He hasn’t done anything but love me. I can’t judge him on a dream. Hell, that could be me. What if I’m the one to flip my rocker? Besides, he said he would never hurt me.
Damnation could be our future. It can be anyone’s future. My uncle. His aunt. Anyone… We all have our inner demons we battle, and underneath it all, we are skeletons…
Maybe I was reminding myself the importance of love. That our love plays a role in each others lives and futures. That I play a role in where his soul will go, and he mine. That I also play a role in his happiness, and he mine. I play a role in his mental health, and he mine. We lean on each other to stand up now. And Love, that’s the ultimate need. We all seek it, constantly. I do love all of him. Even if he were a demon who did despicable things. I can only hope, with me as his wife, he won’t have to.
I feel a tingling sensation on my arm, and I turn my head expecting nobody to be there, and there is my husband, “Are you ready for the honeymoon?”
I smile. “I love you.”
He rubs my arm. “I love you too much.”
My mentality, as crazy as the story was, that a part of us all is evil. Demonic like. Beneath the beautiful you will find Halloween. You will find demons, monsters, and skeletons. You will find ghosts of the past that haunt us still. Many of us cover up these things, but it is with only love can we transcend from them.
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