Page 4 of Earthly Ties

I thought being dragged along behind her was bad enough. Will I be subjected to bouncing off the ceilings here on out?

I wish I had a ghost journal, to write all of this down. That was my usual way of coping with the shit I didn’t want to deal with when I was alive. Journaling for me was never about processing my feelings or anything—oh, God no! Just documenting my observations. Obtaining facts about my life to inform how I might approach things differently.

“Threw up this morning. Might have been from hangover, or nerves from new job. Drink less next Sunday, regardless.”

“Allan used Gilda’s first name today in a staff meeting, and she was pissed. Will call her Dr. Frederick exclusively from now on.”

“Angel’s birthday. According to social media presence, still a douche canoe. Will attempt to find some goodwill again next year. Mom still missing.”

No, I would actually never write that last one. Far too close to feelings territory.

What would I write now?

“Stuck on ceiling. Do not attempt to test upper limit again. Grateful I cannot go below floor; being stuck underground would be worse.”

“Ten foot radius from Dr. Voigt in all directions except down. Will attempt to increase when not stuck floating.”

“Dr. Voigt appears to be the anchor to this plane. Unclear why that is, or what is connecting us. No physical rope—”

I pause my mental note to confirm my assumption, waving my hands along my chest for some sense of where we might be attached. My hands pass through nothing, and I scoff at the ridiculousness of my situation, looking like I’m doing the damn robot dance midair.

But who can judge me, other than myself? Esther can’t hear me, can’t see me. No one else we’ve passed today seemed to notice a ghost being dragged behind Esther like a kite. And I have tried to communicate with everyone we’ve passed. Even the animals.

If Esther is the anchor (spiritually, since apparently there is nothing physically connecting us), maybe she is also my way of getting down. Instead of closing my eyes and imagining myself in front of her desk, I look at her, and imagine myself moving closer to her.

At first, it feels like nothing is happening. But then the distance between us shrinks a few inches. With a triumphant smile, I will myself harder toward her.

Which ends up being a poor choice.

I go rocketing into her, dive-bombing into a lake of fire so painful, it takes me several excruciating moments to flounder my way out.

“Brr!” Esther shudders in her singsong voice. “Chilly in here!”

Gasping in pain, I scramble against the wall to get as far away from my colleague as I can. For a few heartbreaking minutes, I wonder if my mother was right about everything. Am I in Hell, attached to some twisted torture device mimicking the person I used to dream of? Is my punishment to be so bored that I will one day enjoy the pain Esther brings me, just to feel something? Will I eventually succumb to punishing myself for my sins?

But the pain fades, and with it, my rationality returns. Even if I wasn’t sure Mom was full of shit, I refuse to let her be right. I should easily be able to prove this isn’t Hell.

It would be easier with my journal.

But I’ve got a good memory, and after publishing four books and dozens of papers, my notetaking skills are immaculate. I should be able to remember all of this, until I find some way to document things. Either through finding a way to communicate with Esther, or telling whatever higher power awaits me at the end of this experience, in hope my findings are interesting enough for God—whoever they may be.

My advisor, Cash, always sent himself voice notes to write down later when he got an idea; he could remember the ideas better when he said them out loud, so much that he rarely listened to his voice notes. Even if I can’t record myself, and I can’t document everything, there’s no one to judge if I dictate notes to myself. Right?

Snapping her laptop shut, Esther stands, shoving her belongings in her backpack. “Home again, home again, jiggity jig!”

As she exits, I am pulled along behind her, that ache in my chest stronger than ever. I expect her to barrel down the hallway, the way she has been all day. But instead, she pauses a few doors down, outside my office, biting her lip.

After a moment’s hesitation, where my mind jumps to an assumption probably founded in hope instead of reality, I slip around her through the door, just to see it. It’s not so different from Esther’s, except the thick blue curtains are closed. All the books on the shelves belonged to Cash, other than a few of my go-to reference materials I squeezed in where I could. The ache in my heart feels heavier than it has all day as I drink in the familiarity of the office I barely settled into. A small bust of Edgar Allan Poe sits on the desk, and the fake raven I picked up from some Halloween store is attached to the curtain next to my desk. Still Cash’s office, but also, mine.

I hope whoever has it next leaves some traces of both of us.

Esther must walk on, because I am dragged back through the door, the ache sharpening as she pulls me away. Bitterness surges through me at being dragged like a dog on a leash. I pull myself closer to Esther, just to feel in control.

The ache lessens.

“Interesting,” I murmur, willing myself closer, just on the verge of being too close. The nearer I am to her, the less it hurts.

Until she stops suddenly, and I pass through her. As I’m gagging from pain, Esther is looking out the window at a nest tucked amidst the ivy growing over a window. “Oh, she laid eggs!”