The Spectre
Oliver was driving back home after visiting his parents. In the summer, they stayed in a cottage in the countryside. The old house needed constant work, and Oliver spent his weekends helping his father with repairs. Lately, his dad’s heart had been troubling him, so Oliver took on the heavier chores himself.
He’d only managed a day’s visit—fixed the fence, hauled water from the pump, first for the vegetable patch, then for the bath, even drove his mum to the shop. After supper, he got ready to leave.
“Where are you rushing off to at this hour? Stay the night,” his mother urged.
But Oliver had promised Emily he’d be home. Just as he was about to leave, he called her, and to his surprise, she told him to stay until morning.
“What, don’t you miss me?” Oliver pretended to sulk.
“I do, terribly. I’ll be waiting,” she laughed.
“Then I’ll see you soon,” Oliver replied brightly.
The sun had long set, and the road was swallowed by eerie twilight. There weren’t many cars. Only once behind the wheel did Oliver realise how exhausted he was. The occasional late-night driver sped past, headlights blinding him. Just as he neared the city, he shut his eyes for a second…
“Emily, I’m home!” Oliver called out as he stepped through the door.
No answer. He peeked into the kitchen. His wife stood at the stove, humming a tune under her breath while stirring something in the pan. “My Bonnie lies over the ocean,” he recognised the old folk song. The smell of frying meat tickled his nose. He hadn’t felt this light in ages. No trace of fatigue—like waking from deep, dreamless sleep. Had he slept? He couldn’t remember driving home at all, as if he’d slipped through time or dozed off mid-journey.
“Em,” he called again.
Nothing.
“Always with her headphones,” he thought, stepping closer—but there were none.
“I missed you,” he murmured into her ear.
She went still, as if listening for something.
“There you go,” Oliver grinned. “Thought you’d gone deaf.”
The next second, Emily slapped the lid on the pan, turned off the hob, and spun around so fast he barely dodged her.
“Emily, what’s wrong? Why won’t you look at me? I’m home—open your eyes!” he shouted.
He stood right beside her, yet she acted like he wasn’t there. Then her phone rang. She brushed past him—so close he felt the whisper of air against his cheek—and answered.
“Yes, speaking… What? No, that’s impossible—” A minute later, her phone clattered to the floor. She collapsed onto the sofa, face in her hands, weeping.
“Em, what happened? Was it Dad? His heart?” But Emily didn’t hear him.
He crouched in front of her, tried to pull her hands away—then froze in horror as his fingers passed through hers like mist. He staggered back, staring at his hands. Emily lowered hers, her swollen eyes fixed on nothing.
“Ollie?” she whispered.
“I’m here,” he said, relieved she’d finally seen him.
But her gaze slid right past him, lost again. No—she still didn’t see him.
“It can’t be,” she sobbed. “Ollie… Ollie!” she wailed, crumpling forward.
Suddenly she grabbed her phone, fingers trembling as she stabbed at the screen.
“Just—just wait—” She held it to her ear.
Oliver reflexively patted his back pocket. Empty. No phone, no ringtone.
“Dropped it in the car,” he guessed.
Emily hung up, redialled.
“Mrs. Wilson—yes, it’s me. They called—the police said—no, Oliver hasn’t come home. There—there was a crash near the city—” She choked. “He’s gone.”
She hurled the phone across the room, wailing like a wounded animal.
“She’s talking about me? Did I crash? Am I—dead?” Oliver refused to believe it. How could he, when he stood right here, in their flat, speaking to her? “That’s why I don’t remember coming home—why she can’t see me. I’m dead.” Oddly, he wasn’t terrified. Just numb.
“Ollie, how? How do I live now?” Emily cried into the sofa.
He reached for her—wanted to stroke her back—but his hand hovered uselessly. He stood there, scrambling for memories of ghost stories. Only that old film with Patrick Swayze came to mind.
“So this is how it happens. And I thought it was all fiction. How long do I have? Where’s my guide? Someone should explain—”
Time twisted strangely. Before he could make sense of anything, morning came. Emily was gone. He didn’t remember where he’d been—only a sudden pull yanked him forward.
Now he was in a cold, tiled room, an iron table at its centre. On a trolley by the wall lay a body. His body—face broken, bloodied. His mother stood beside it, clutching a handkerchief. His father held her steady. Emily lingered further back, eyes locked on the corpse.
Later, outside the morgue, his parents climbed into a taxi.
“Come with us, love. It’s easier together,” his mother sniffed.
Emily shook her head.
As the taxi drove off, Oliver turned back to her. She stared at the sky, as if searching for answers.
He followed his parents.
“My boy,” his mother wept.
The driver stubbed out his cigarette.
“Margaret,” his mother murmured, “Oliver and Emily—no children. We helped buy that flat. It’s in his name. If she moves back with her mum—”
“For God’s sake, not now!” his father snapped.
“We’ve still got Paul,” she sobbed. “But Emily—if they’d had a baby—”
Oliver shook his head. “Didn’t expect that from you.”
Back at the flat, Emily sat motionless on the sofa, the uneaten supper still on the stove.
“Listen—the blue folder. The insurance. Three hundred thousand. That’ll get you a flat.” He willed her to understand.
Miraculously, she rose, pulled the folder from the drawer—but left it unopened.
“Good. See it later. Never told you—last year, my colleague drowned kayaking. Left a wife, three kids. The insurance saved them. So I took one out too. If Mum brings up the flat—”
“Ollie,” Emily whispered, “why didn’t we have children?”
“Who knew?” he murmured. “I love you.”
She cried herself to sleep.
At the funeral, friends and colleagues gathered, speaking kindly of him. Oliver stood by the empty grave, watching Emily, his parents, the crowd around the casket. He felt nothing for the body beneath the shroud.
For a second, Emily looked up—right at him. Did she see him? No. Her gaze dropped back to the coffin.
Once the final mourners left, Oliver lingered by the fresh mound, wreaths wilting around it. Something kept him there. When he looked up, the air shimmered. A light pulsed above, pulling him irresistibly—no fear, no regret. Only certainty.
Wherever that light led, it was home. And the love calling him there was far greater than what he left behind.
