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  Unfinished Business

  By B.G. Thomas

  Mike Ellsworth was alive and well one minute, and dead the next. Only he’s not really dead—he’s a ghost. One with lots of unfinished business. He’s never told his wife that he has come to accept that he’s gay. He’s never told her that he has a secret lover. He’s never been able to tell his lover that he is in love with him. Now there’s nothing Mike can do about it. And that’s only the beginning! He soon finds out he can help other ghosts leave the spirit world and step into the light. So what’s keeping him stuck on earth? If only there were a way he could make up for all he’s done wrong, and finally do what’s truly right. And maybe, just maybe, there is.

  Originally published in Spirit (Gothika #4) in October 2015.

  “Now I know what a ghost is. Unfinished business, that’s what.”

  ~~ Salman Rushdie

  1

  THERE WAS a girl wearing a Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt walking down the center of the street. Mike Ellsworth couldn’t remember when he’d last heard someone even mention the goth rock group. What’s more, the shirt looked clean, brand-new.

  Except, of course, for the blood. When he looked closer, he saw it was coming from a gash on the side of her head. She was very pale.

  “My God,” he said with a gasp. “Are you all right?”

  Stupid question! Of course she wasn’t all right.

  And the girl? She cringed but continued on by without responding. When he turned, he saw she was walking right past the remains of his car. There were two police officers had arrived (when had they gotten there?). They didn’t pay any attention to the girl. Ignored her! She was bleeding. How could they ignore her?

  “Can’t you see her?” he shouted. His heart was racing. He felt cold and clammy. Almost faint.

  The police officers—one a woman with very short dark hair, and a man, stocky, older, meaner-looking somehow—were looking at his car. They were looking at him.

  The him still in the car.

  The him that looked dead.

  God…!

  2

  MIKE WAS the one who had texted Joel, of course. He was only about eight blocks from their hotel—he would be in the room with his lover in no time—so why couldn’t he have just waited?

  But he was so anxious. It had been six weeks since they’d seen each other—six long weeks—and he was as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. His last trip had been cancelled due to a flu that had landed half a client’s employees at home in bed. Soon he’d be with Joel—holding him, fucking him—and, God, he was hard as he typed on the tiny screen.

  Hey Baby. Guess where I am? Mike spelled it all out. He sucked at textspeak.

  A few seconds later, his cell phone made that ba-bleep! sound, and when he looked, the response was RU N lobby?—because Joel was a master at it.

  Sometimes it took Mike what felt like forever to figure out what Joel was saying—IMO, SMH, AFAIK, LMK…. Mike considered himself lucky that he knew LOL. And for months he’d thought it meant “Lots of love.” It was Lori, with an eye roll, who set him right.

  “Laugh out loud, honey. When you’re typing away and you laugh, you write that down. You put it in your text.”

  “Why?” he’d asked, totally perplexed.

  “Because you’re texting instead of talking. It makes the conversation more real.”

  Whatever, he’d thought then, and thought now.

  But “RU” and “N” was simple enough to understand, and with only seven blocks to go, he typed, I will there be soon. Are you naked yet?

  No came the almost immediate answer. And then: Where RU?

  About six blocks now. He grinned. Get your clothes off. I want you naked in bed when I get there.

  And the quick response: Stop texting and driving, and, I <3 U.

  Texting. God. How many times had he gotten on Lori for the same damned thing? How many of those stupid emails—and, more recently, posts on Facebook—had he seen with the photograph of a crumpled car and the caption: “Was that last text worth your life? Share this if you agree! Don’t text and drive!”

  Later he thought, Stupid way to die.

  Mike ended his texting days with, See you soon, instead of, Me too—he just wasn’t ready to use the word “love” yet, not to another man and not even for Joel—and then there was the incredibly loud sound of a car horn. He looked up and was astonished to see he had just sailed, easy-peasy as can be, through a red light and there was a car heading directly toward the driver’s side of his rental. He froze, mouth falling open, and time seemed to slow stop. The other car hit his, and then there was flying glass—a million tiny pieces seeming first to float and then to dance in the air—followed by the most horrible noise and pain like he’d never felt before.

  And a second later, he was somehow standing beside the cars.

  He was dizzy—he almost fell over—felt all light… headed? No…. That wasn’t quite right.

  A woman was tumbling out of the car that hit him, and she was moving in slow motion as well, like the shards of glass, and her eyes were huge, her mouth working like a fish—he almost laughed at her comedic expression. She pointed. Gawked again.

  He turned to see what she was pointing at, and what he saw would have made him scream if his throat hadn’t seized up, preventing him from making any sound at all.

  What he saw was himself.

  The woman’s car was deep in the side of his, and he was looking into his own staring eyes. There was blood. Quite a lot of it.

  Everything that had been moving so slowly now froze in place. Nothing moved. There was no sound. Nothing. He couldn’t move. He could only look into his own face—trying to make sense of it, denying what he knew.

  His face was so pale.

  Dead.

  Somehow, time reasserted itself then, the world moving at its regular pace, the noises of traffic were back—shouts, a car horn, a motorcycle.

  The woman who had hit him was standing next to her own car, hand touching the door, her eyes blinking, lips moving, but no words coming out. Then she slumped to the pavement.

  Mike ran to help her, but to his surprise, he couldn’t move her. Not an inch. Even the loose fabric of her blouse. It was as if she had been carved from stone. A statue.

  Dreaming. I’m dreaming. Got to be….

  She was conscious, she hadn’t passed out, and she was staring at him—but not at him. She was staring at his car. She was looking right through the him kneeling before her.

  She doesn’t see me.

  This is crazy. This isn’t real.

  His heart was pounding and he staggered to his feet. He almost fell. He felt… how to describe it? Light. Almost as if he might float away. He could hear the wail of sirens.

  Cops. They’d fix everything.

  The woman, half sitting on the blacktop, half slumped against her car, was crying now. She was still staring at the him inside the car. At the side of his head slumped up against the broken glass side window.

  No! That’s not me. It can’t be me….

  How could it be?

  Mike turned, and there were more people now—gathering around, some moving in from the sidewalks, some climbing from their cars—and a few went to help the crying lady. None of them noticed him. They flowed past him like a school of fish.

  Not real. This isn’t real.

  He looked back and saw two police officers had arrived. They were looking at him. At the dead him.

  “
Help me,” he said.

  “I’m going to see if I can find a wallet,” the mean-looking cop said and walked to the other side of Mike’s car. He opened the door and bent in.

  Touching me. He’s touching me and I can’t even feel it.

  After a moment, the cop came back around. “Mike Ellsworth,” he said. “From Sacramento, California. Age—ah—forty? Looks like he’s married. There’s a picture of him here with a woman in a wedding dress. I don’t think he’s the father.”

  No, I’m not the frigging father! He shuddered. There was something creepy about the man looking through his wallet, checking into his privacy, looking at his wedding picture.

  “Don’t see no kids.”

  I don’t have any kids, Mike thought. They’d stopped trying after the second miscarriage. Lori wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

  The woman looked in the car. “He’s got a wedding ring on.”

  Mike felt that weird sensation again. Like a goose walking over my grave.

  That’s when he saw the girl walking straight up the yellow double lines in the center of the street. She looked maybe sixteen or seventeen, was just a little plump, and had dark brown hair parted down the middle and hanging to either side of her blood-smeared face. The gash on her right temple had gotten her Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt bloody, although you could only really see it where the white design was against the black. The lap of her light gray pants was bloody as well. She was coming right toward him, but like everyone else, seemed not to see him at all. If he hadn’t stepped aside, she would have walked right into him.

  “My God.” He gasped. What had happened to her? But even though she cringed, she gave no other indication that she had heard him and kept going. She was passing his car now, as well as the two cops, the man and the woman, and they looked straight at them, both him and the Siouxsie-girl. No. Through them. They took no notice of either of them.

  “Can’t you see her?” he cried.

  Nothing.

  The woman who had hit him (killed him) staggered, nearly fell, and when he instinctively reached out to help her, found she might as well have been made of bronze. She was moving, but he could no more affect her, move her, even let her know he was there, than the puff of a breeze. Not even that. She would feel a breeze.

  I can’t touch anyone! They can’t see me! They can’t hear me!

  His head began to swim, and he broke out into a cold sweat, heart still racing.

  Sit down. Got to sit down!

  The lightness was sweeping over him again. Not light-headed. But somehow… light. He leaned up against a lamppost, trying to regain his composure…

  …only to see something else that made no sense.

  There was a woman walking down the sidewalk, with bandages all over her. What the hell? She was dragging an IV pole behind her, complete with a plastic bag filled with some kind of clear liquid.

  So strange. It was all so strange.

  The cops had his cell phone now. The woman was looking at it. She shook her head and faced her partner. “Password-protected. Fuck. Why do people do that? I mean, who was this guy? A secret agent?”

  Of course he had a password. He was having an affair on his wife after years of marriage. With a man! What else could he do? He couldn’t very well take the chance that she’d see his frequent calls to a man who lived in Kansas City. She’d wonder who he was.

  Joel.

  God, Joel!

  He should be with Joel now. In his arms. In his bed. Their bed. Fucking. No. Making love.

  Except he hadn’t been able to say it, had he? Hadn’t been able to say a simple thing like “I love you too.” Hadn’t even been able to text the little less-than symbol and the numeral three. The one that Joel had shown him was a little heart.

  And now it’s too late.

  Too late? Too late for what? This was a dream. Had to be.

  Except in that moment, that second, Mike knew it wasn’t.

  I’m dead.

  It hit him then, and it hit him hard—hard enough to make him stumble and nearly fall to his knees from the grief of it all.

  Joel. Gone. No. He was the one who was gone. He would never see Joel again. Never touch him. Kiss him. Never get the chance to tell him that he loved him.

  Would Joel ever even know what happened? No one knew about Joel. No one would call him. Why would they?

  God! Joel!

  And then….

  —Swish—

  3

  THAT WAS the only way to describe it.

  Swish.

  One minute he was on the street, trying to understand what the fuck was happening, and the next he was in a room.

  What the hell? How the hell did I get here? he thought, as yet another wave of light-headedness swept over him.

  Mike looked around him. He was in a hotel room—the Meridian Hotel, of course, familiar from the dozen times he’d stayed here. He was standing by floor-to-ceiling windows that looked down into the Kansas City streets, and that did nothing to help his dizziness.

  And when he turned away… there was Joel.

  Joel was lying naked on the bed, and the sight—as always—took Mike’s breath away. He was on his stomach, perfect round butt raised, one knee pulled up just a bit to show off its perfection even more. He could see just a hint—a delightful hint—of Joel’s balls hanging in their hairless sac (Mike liked that Joel shaved his scrotum for him), reminding him that this was no woman waiting for him. Not that he could have mistaken those wide shoulders, the deep ridge of his back, and the narrow waist for anything but a man.

  Waiting for him.

  Joel shifted. Shifted again. Turned his head, and Mike could see the smile on his beautiful face.

  He’s posing. He’s waiting for me to open that door so that this is the first thing I see. Strangely, Mike felt himself getting hard. How could he help it at such a sight?

  Who knew a ghost could get a hard-on?

  Ghost? Really? A ghost? But then, what else? Wasn’t there a better explanation?

  “Joel,” he moaned, and his heart lurched and his eyes filled with tears. Tears! Him! Who would have thought? “Oh, Joel.”

  He walked to the bed. Looked down at his beautiful lover.

  Lover. My lover.

  “Joel,” he whispered as a tear fell from his eyes.

  Joel sighed.

  Mike froze. Did he hear me?

  Joel rolled over on his side. Looked at the clock on the bedside table.

  “Joel?”

  But no. Joel couldn’t hear him. He reached for his cell phone. His movements were all grace and beauty, even though he was only lounging on the bed. His skin was so smooth, the muscles flexing beneath. His hair, thick and wavy brown, was pushed back from his face. He looked at the phone with beautiful brown eyes. There was a shadow of a beard on his jaw—because Mike loved Joel’s balls smooth and his face just a bit rough. Joel did so many things to please him.

  “I like to make you happy,” Joel would say.

  Beautiful man.

  Joel raised an eyebrow and used a thumb to brush the small screen of his cell phone.

  God. He’s looking to see if I’ve called.

  I can’t call.

  Joel tapped at the screen and raised the phone to his ear.

  Calling me! He’s calling me.

  “Joel….” He reached for his lover. Touched his arm, that lovely skin, dusted with the softest of hair. But it didn’t feel soft. It didn’t even move. Joel was like a living statue.

  He can’t hear me. He can’t feel me. He doesn’t know I’m here!

  Mike groaned.

  Oh God.

  He’s calling me. Doesn’t know what’s happened. Doesn’t know I can’t answer. He probably thinks I’m parking the car or something. He doesn’t know!

  The cops! he thought. The phone will be ringing in their hands!

  And then….

  4

  SUDDEN, HUGE, gigantic pain! He was somewhere else—had been ripped from where h
e was. People…. Looking down at him, mouths moving, no sounds….

  —Falling—

  5

  HE WAS on the street again. What the fuck just happened?

  He was standing right in front of the police officers. The phone was ringing in the woman’s hand, but she could only look down at it helplessly. She shook her head. Looked at her partner.

  “Thirty-six, eighty-five,” he said, then cried, “Joel’s birthday.”

  He walked up to the pair and shouted it—“Three, six, eight, five!”—even though he finally knew they couldn’t hear him. No one could.

  I’m a ghost.

  He shook his head. This couldn’t be happening. It made no sense. It was like something out of that goofy Patrick Swayze movie.

  The phone stopped ringing.

  Joel….

  It was too much. Much too much.

  “No!” He strode up to the police officers. “Three, six, eight, five!” he screamed.

  The woman flinched. “What?”

  “I didn’t say nothing,” her partner said.

  She gave him a funny look. “Yes, you did. It was a number. Three and six?”

  He shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

  Her lovely dark brows turned into a single line, her forehead furrowing. “Yes. I heard it.”

  Wait. What was she saying? Numbers! Had she heard him? Mike moved closer. Got in her face, even though she looked right through him. “Can you hear me?”

  Nothing. Her expression didn’t change.

  “Damnit!” he shouted and then saw that time she did react. She gave a slight recoil, as if he’d poked her.

  “You okay, Daphne?” her partner asked. He had a gold bar over his right breast pocket with the word Townsend. His name.

  Mike looked at hers. Brookhart.

  “I-I don’t know,” she was saying. “I thought I just heard something. Swearing.”

  Oh! Oh God! His heart raced. “Yes!” he shouted, and she drew back against Townsend.

  Oh God, oh God! She could hear him.

  The password! “Three, six, eight, five,” he shouted.