The Phantom
Edward made his way home from his parents’ place. In the summer, they stayed in the countryside—an old house that demanded constant care. Weekends were for repairs, and Edward lent his father a hand, especially now that the old man’s heart had been acting up. He took on the heavier chores without complaint, not wanting to burden him.
He’d spent the day fixing the fence, hauling water from the pump—first for the garden, then for the bathhouse—and running errands with his mother. By dinner, he was ready to head back.
“Where are you rushing off to at this hour? Stay the night, leave in the morning,” his mother urged.
But Edward had promised Eleanor he’d return. Just as he was about to set off, he called her—only for her to say the same thing.
“What, don’t you miss me?” Edward teased, feigning hurt.
“I do, terribly. I’m waiting for you,” she laughed.
“Then I’ll be home soon,” he declared.
The sun had long set, leaving behind the strange, cool hush of twilight. The road was empty, and only now, behind the wheel, did Edward realise how exhausted he was. The occasional late-night driver sped past, headlights blinding. Just as he reached the outskirts of the city, he shut his eyes for just a second…
“Eleanor, I’m home!” Edward called as he stepped through the door.
No answer. He peered into the kitchen. His wife stood by the stove, humming softly as she stirred something in the pan. *”You’re a sailor’s girl, I’m a sailor’s boy…”*—he recognised the old tune. The smell of frying meat curled around him. He felt oddly weightless, as though he’d woken from a deep, dreamless sleep. He couldn’t remember the drive home. Had he drifted off?
“Ellie,” he tried again.
Still nothing.
*Always with the headphones*, he thought, stepping closer—but there were none.
“I missed you. And I’m starving,” he whispered into her ear.
She froze, listening—to something unseen.
“Finally,” Edward sighed with relief. “I thought you’d gone deaf.”
Then, in one swift motion, Eleanor clapped a lid on the pan, turned off the gas, and spun around. Edward barely dodged her as she swept past, so close he felt the brush of air against his cheek.
“Ellie, what’s wrong? Why won’t you look at me? I’m here!”
She moved as if he didn’t exist. Then her phone rang—a shrill, unfamiliar tone. She hurried to the living room, inches from him, and answered without hesitation.
“Yes, speaking. What? That—that can’t be right—”
A thud. The phone hit the floor. Eleanor collapsed onto the sofa, hands pressed to her face, sobbing.
“Ellie, what’s happened? Is it Dad? His heart?”
He crouched before her, reaching to pull her hands away—only for his fingers to pass through her like mist. He staggered back, staring at his own hands in horror. Eleanor lifted her head, her swollen eyes staring right through him.
“Eddie?” she whispered.
“I’m here,” he answered, hopeful.
But her gaze slid past him, lost and aimless. No. She didn’t see him.
“It can’t be. There’s been a mistake,” she mumbled. “Eddie… oh, Eddie…”
She snatched up the phone, fingers trembling as she dialled.
“Margaret—yes, it’s me. No, Eddie isn’t back yet. The police called—there was an accident near the motorway… No. He’s gone, Margaret. He’s gone.”
She flung the phone aside and howled, grief wild and unhinged.
*Is she—talking about me? Did I crash? Am I dead?*
He didn’t believe it. How could he, when he stood here, alive—wasn’t he?—speaking to her, breathing? But then why couldn’t she hear him? Why didn’t she see him?
*Maybe that’s why I don’t remember driving home. Maybe I never made it. Maybe I’m dead.*
Oddly, he felt no fear, no sorrow—just a quiet astonishment.
“Eddie, how can this be? How do I go on?” Eleanor moaned into the cushions.
He reached for her, wanting to stroke her back, to soothe her—but his hand stopped mid-air. He stood there, helpless, as she wept. Ghost stories flickered through his mind—something from a film, something with Patrick Swayze.
*So this is how it happens. Always thought it was just stories. How long do I have? Where’s the guide? Someone’s supposed to explain this, aren’t they?*
Time slipped strangely. Before he could make sense of any of it, morning came. Eleanor was gone. He didn’t recall where he’d been or what he’d done. Then, suddenly—a pull, a force dragging him somewhere.
One blink, and he stood in a cold, tiled room with a steel table at its centre. On a trolley by the wall lay a body—his own, face shattered and bloodied. His mother wept into a handkerchief; his father held her steady. Eleanor stood apart, staring at the body without blinking, silent tears streaking her cheeks.
Later, they left the mortuary. A cab idled outside.
“Won’t you come with us, love? It’d be easier,” his mother sniffled.
Eleanor only shook her head.
His parents climbed into the cab. His mother kept murmuring, “My boy, my sweet boy…”
The driver crushed his cigarette underfoot.
“Greg, listen—Eddie and Ellie never had children. We helped with the flat, but it’s in his name. She’s not even on the lease—still registered at her mum’s. Maybe she should move back there,” his mother said.
“Annie, Christ—now’s not the time!” his father barked.
“But we still have Paul. He’ll finish uni soon, might marry—what’s Ellie without Eddie? If only they’d had a child…”
“Mother,” Edward whispered. “Didn’t expect that from you.”
The cab drove off. He returned to Eleanor, walking beside her as she trudged home.
She sat on the sofa for hours, the untouched meat still in the pan.
“Listen—open the blue folder. There’s life insurance. Three hundred grand. It’s enough for a flat of your own.”
Miraculously, she stood, pulled the folder from the drawer—but didn’t open it.
*Good. You’ll see it later.*
“A year ago, Wilkinson from work drowned on holiday—left his wife with three kids. The insurance saved them. That’s why I took out the policy. Never told you. Should have.”
“Eddie,” she whispered. “Why didn’t we have a baby? I’d have had a piece of you left…”
“Who knew, Ellie? We thought we had time. I love you.”
He stayed until exhaustion claimed her, curled small on the couch.
At the cemetery, friends and colleagues gathered, speaking kind words of a life cut short. Edward stood by the open grave, watching Eleanor, his parents, the mourners clustered around the coffin. He felt nothing for the body beneath the lace shroud.
Eleanor lifted her head—and for a second, he thought she looked straight at him.
Then her gaze fell back to the coffin.
Everyone left, discussing ordinary things—life, not death. Only Eleanor lingered, arms limp, the last to walk away.
Edward didn’t follow. Something held him by the grave. He tilted his face skyward.
The air shimmered. A light beckoned, warm, insistent.
He didn’t resist.
Weightless, he rose—toward the light, toward where he knew, without doubt, he was awaited. The love he carried with him was nothing compared to the love that pulled him now.
