The Spectre
Oliver made his way home after visiting his parents. In the summer, they lived in a small cottage out in the countryside. The old house demanded constant care—time and effort Oliver devoted willingly. His father’s heart had been troubling him lately, so Oliver took on most of the heavy work, repairing fences one weekend, fetching water from the pump for the garden, then more for the bathhouse, running errands with his mother. By evening, after dinner, he gathered his things to leave.
“Where are you off to at this hour? Stay the night, drive back in the morning,” his mother urged.
But Oliver had promised Emily he’d return home. Just as he was about to leave, he called her—and she, too, advised him to wait till dawn.
“Don’t you miss me?” Oliver feigned offence.
“I do. Terribly. And I’m waiting,” his wife laughed.
“Then I’ll be back soon,” he replied cheerfully.
The sun had long set, leaving behind a cool, eerie twilight. The road was quiet, and only when he was behind the wheel did Oliver realise how exhausted he was. The occasional late car streaked past, headlights blinding him. Just as he neared the city, he closed his eyes for a second…
“Emily, I’m home!” Oliver called out as he stepped into the flat.
Silence. He peeked into the kitchen—Emily stood by the stove, humming softly to herself as she stirred something in the pan. “You’re a sailor, I’m a sailor’s girl…” He recognised the tune, an old folk song. The smell of frying meat tickled his nose. He hadn’t felt this light in ages. The fatigue was gone, as though he’d slept deeply. Or had he? He didn’t remember the drive, as if he’d slipped through time or dreamt it all.
“Em,” he called again.
No response.
“Some music in her ears,” he thought, stepping closer—but no earphones hung from them.
“I missed you. And I’m starving,” he whispered close to her ear.
She froze, listening for something.
“Finally!” Oliver brightened. “I thought you’d gone deaf.”
In the next instant, Emily clapped a lid on the pan, turned off the gas, and spun around—Oliver barely dodged aside.
“Emily, what’s going on? Why won’t you look at me? I’m home—open your eyes!” he shouted.
He stood right there, yet she acted as though he didn’t exist. The jingle of an incoming call broke the silence. She brushed past him—so close he felt the brush of air against his skin—and answered.
Oliver peered over her shoulder. An unknown number. She hesitated, then lifted the phone to her ear.
“Speaking… What? That—that can’t be true—” A moment later, the phone clattered to the floor. Emily sank onto the sofa, face buried in her hands, sobbing.
“Em, what’s wrong? Is it Dad? His heart?” But she wept, oblivious to him.
He crouched before her, tried to pull her hands away—then recoiled in horror as his fingers passed through hers like mist. He jumped up, staring at his hands. Emily lowered hers, red-eyed, staring emptily ahead.
“Ollie?” she whispered.
“I’m here,” he said, hopeful she’d finally seen him.
But her gaze slid over him, lost again. No. She didn’t.
“This isn’t happening. It’s a mistake,” she rasped. “Ollie—” Her voice cracked, dissolving into weeping.
She grabbed the phone, fingers trembling over the keypad.
“Just—just let me—” She pressed it to her ear.
“Margaret? Someone—someone just called… No, Oliver hasn’t come home yet. The police said—” A shuddering breath. “He was in an accident just outside the city… No, Margaret, he’s—he’s gone.” The words dropped like stones. The phone tumbled from her grip as she crumpled, wailing like a wounded animal.
“Her—about me? Did I crash? Am I dead?” Oliver couldn’t grasp it. How could he be, when he stood here, speaking to her? That’s why he didn’t remember the drive, the stairs, the door. Like waking from sleep. Or a ghost. That’s why she couldn’t see him.
“Ollie, how can this be? How do I—what do I do?” She collapsed facedown, weeping.
Oliver reached—meant to comfort her—but his hand hovered uselessly. He stood there, straining to recall what he knew of spectres. Only an old film came to mind.
“So this is how it happens. And I thought it was just stories. How long do I have? Where are the guides? Someone should explain…”
Time bled strangely. Before he could adjust, dawn broke. Emily was gone. He didn’t remember where he’d been. Then—a tug, strong and sudden—and he stood in a cold, tiled room. A steel table. A body on a gurney by the wall. His own, face battered and bloody. His mother stood beside it, clutching a handkerchief, his father’s arm around her waist. Emily lingered further back, gaze locked on the body. Tears carved silent paths down her cheeks.
Later, they left the morgue. A taxi idled outside.
“Emily, love—come with us. It’s easier together,” his mother pleaded between sobs.
Emily only shook her head.
His parents climbed in. The driver crushed his cigarette underfoot.
“Greg, listen,” his mother murmured from the back seat. “They—they never had children. We helped them buy the flat—she’s not even registered there, still on her mum’s papers. Maybe she should move back—”
“Margaret, for God’s sake, how can you think of flats now?” his father snapped.
“But we’ve still got Peter—he’s finishing uni, might marry soon. I just—Emily’s alone. If they’d had a child…” She waved the tear-soaked handkerchief. “Oh, Ollie—” Fresh weeping.
“Mum. Mum.” Oliver shook his head. “Didn’t expect that from you.”
The taxi drove off. Oliver returned to Emily, walking beside her as she trudged home.
She sat on the sofa, motionless, staring at nothing. The meal she’d made remained untouched.
“Listen—you need to open the blue folder. The insurance—three hundred thousand. It’s enough for a small flat.” He stood before her, willing her to understand.
Emily, as if hearing, rose, retrieved the folder—but didn’t open it.
“Good. You’ll see later. I should’ve told you. When the deputy director drowned last year—left a wife, three kids—she said the payout saved them. So I insured myself too. Just in case. And if Mum brings up the flat…”
“Ollie, how do I live now?” Emily whispered. “We should’ve—should’ve had a child. I’d have a piece of you—”
“Who knew, Emily? We thought we had time. I love you.” He kept speaking until, exhausted, she curled up and slept.
At the cemetery, friends and colleagues gathered. They spoke kindly, mourned his early departure. Oliver stood by the open grave, watching Emily, his parents, the crowd around the coffin. He felt nothing for the body under the lace shroud.
Emily looked up—straight at him. For a second, he thought she saw him. But no—her gaze slid back to the coffin.
The mound of fresh earth grew, wreaths spiked around it. The living departed, voices drifting—less of death, more of their own lives. Emily trailed last, arms limp, stepping slow.
Oliver didn’t know where to go. Something held him by the grave. He looked up—the air shivered. A light hung above, pulling him irresistibly. He didn’t fight it.
The lightness was bliss. He soared toward it, certain he was awaited, that this was right. The love he carried was small next to the love calling him—swifter, brighter, eternal.
