The Spectre
Thomas was driving home from his parents’ summer cottage in the countryside. The old house needed constant repairs, and though his father’s heart had been troubling him lately, Thomas still made the trip every weekend to help with the heavy work.
This time, he’d spent the day fixing the fence, hauling water from the well for the garden, then for the bathhouse, and running errands with his mum. After supper, he got ready to leave.
“Thomas, it’s getting dark—why not stay the night?” his mother urged.
But he had promised Emily he’d be back. Just as he was about to leave, he called her, and she too suggested he wait until morning.
“Don’t you miss me at all?” Thomas pretended to be hurt.
“Of course I do. Terribly,” she laughed.
“Then I’ll see you soon,” he replied cheerfully.
The sun had long set, leaving behind the cool hush of twilight. The roads were quiet. Only once behind the wheel did Thomas realise how tired he was. The occasional late car sped past, headlights flashing in his eyes. Nearing the city, he closed his eyes for just a second…
“Emily, I’m home!” Thomas shouted as he stepped into their flat.
No answer. He peered into the kitchen—his wife stood by the stove, humming softly to herself as she stirred something in the pan. The rich scent of frying meat filled the air. He felt lighter than he had in ages, as though he’d just woken from deep sleep. It was strange—he couldn’t recall the drive home, as if time had simply skipped forward.
“Em,” he called again.
Still, she didn’t react.
“Always with her headphones,” he thought, stepping closer—but there were no headphones.
“Missed you. And I’m starving,” he whispered near her ear.
She paused, listening to something unseen.
“Finally,” Thomas grinned. “Thought you’d gone deaf.”
At that, Emily slapped the lid on the pan, turned off the hob, and spun around so sharply he barely dodged out of the way.
“Emily, what’s wrong? Why won’t you look at me? I’m right here!” His voice rose in frustration.
She acted as though he wasn’t there at all. Then her phone rang—an unknown number. Hesitating for only a moment, she answered.
“Yes, speaking… What? No, that can’t be—” The phone slipped from her fingers. She collapsed onto the sofa, hands pressed to her face, sobbing.
“Em, what happened? Is it Dad? His heart?” But she wept on, oblivious.
Thomas crouched in front of her, reaching for her hands—only for his fingers to pass right through her like mist. He staggered back, staring at his own hands in horror. Emily lifted her tear-streaked face, staring blankly ahead.
“Tom?” she whispered.
“I’m here,” he said, relieved she might finally see him.
But her gaze slid right past him, unfocused.
“This isn’t happening. It’s a mistake,” she choked out. “Tom…” Her voice broke into another wail.
She snatched up her phone, fingers shaking as she dialled. Again and again, she mispressed the numbers.
“Aunt Sarah… the police called me. No, Tom isn’t back yet. He—he was in an accident near the city… No. He’s gone.” The phone tumbled from her grip as she curled into herself, howling like a wounded animal.
Thomas reflexively patted his back pocket—no phone. His must’ve fallen in the car.
“That’s me she’s talking about? I crashed? I’m… dead?” It didn’t feel real. He was right here, standing in his own home. Yet no one saw him. No one heard.
“Tom, how can this be? What do I do now?” Emily sobbed into the cushions.
He reached out to comfort her, but his hand hovered uselessly in the air. All he could think of was that old film with Patrick Swayze.
“Is this how it happens? How long do I have? Where are the guides—someone should explain—”
Time slipped past oddly. Before he could make sense of it, morning came. Emily was gone, and suddenly, he was pulled somewhere else—a cold, tiled room with a steel table. A body lay on a trolley by the wall. Thomas stepped closer, recognising his own broken, bloodied face.
His mother wept into a handkerchief while his father held her. Emily stood apart, pale and silent, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Later, outside the morgue, his parents headed for a taxi.
“At least come with us, love,” his mother begged Emily, sniffling.
Emily only shook her head.
As his parents left, Thomas overheard his mother murmur, “They never had children. We helped buy that flat in his name—she’s not even on the lease. She should go back to her mum’s.”
His father sighed. “Annie, for God’s sake, not now.”
“But we’ve still got Paul at uni—he’ll marry soon. It’s not fair otherwise—”
Thomas winced. He hadn’t expected that.
Back home, Emily sat motionless on the sofa, the untouched meal still on the stove.
“Listen—open the blue folder. The insurance is there. Three hundred thousand quid. Enough for a flat,” he urged, willing her to understand.
At last, she moved—pulling out the folder, setting it down unopened.
“At least you found it,” he murmured.
“Tom, how do I go on?” she whispered. “We should’ve had a child. I’d still have part of you…”
“Who knew, Em? We thought we had time.” He kept speaking until exhaustion claimed her, curled tight on the sofa.
At the funeral, friends and colleagues gathered, sharing kind words about his untimely passing. Thomas stood by the open grave, watching Emily, his parents, everyone clustered around the casket—feeling nothing for the body inside.
When Emily lifted her head, for a fleeting second, he thought she saw him. But no. Her gaze returned to the coffin.
As the last mourners drifted away, discussing life and their own affairs, Emily lingered, arms limp at her sides.
Thomas didn’t follow. Something held him there—until the air shimmered, and a light above beckoned, warm and irresistible.
The weightlessness was euphoric. He knew, without doubt, this was where he belonged now. The love pulling him forward was greater than anything left behind.
