By M D Smith IV

I can’t remember how long I’ve been a ghost—perhaps a long time, but it could have been recently. My memory—it’s so foggy.

I do know this is my house. I’m standing in my living room looking out the big bay windows to our wooded backyard. It’s bursting with flower blossoms of yellow, orange, and red, the lovely hues of an artist’s palette in the brilliant sunshine.

Amy, my wife, sits in the overstuffed chair, reading a novel—probably a romance story. She always was the emotional one. She’s smiling—must be nearing the happy ending. My son, Bobby, is content building a city with Lego blocks, while my daughter Susie thumbs through a picture book—the kind with the thick pages. I wish I could hold them in my arms again. I’ve tried before.

“Daddy loves you, my little ones!” I shout. Of course, they can’t hear me—I’m a spirit.

Walking closer to Amy, I smile down at her, “And I love you most of all, my sweetheart.” No reaction. Can’t touch them—my hand passes through.

What happened? I delve into the fog of memory, but I can’t quite dig out an answer. Was I in a fire? Or was I shot in a holdup? I don’t think so.

I’m wearing a light blue golf shirt, casual pants, and brown loafers. I shouldn’t be a spirit dressed like this if I’d died a horrible death. I just can’t remember.

My focus returns to the kids. Do they miss me? How long since I was alive with my family in this house we all love?

Why can’t I remember? I want to remember—at least I think I do. What separated me from them, and why am I in this spirit limbo world between the living and the dead, the real dead?

Reminds me of the time a fog bank rolled in early one morning. When I went out my front door, I couldn’t see the mailbox, much less the active neighborhood. My house and family might as well have been on another planet, transplanted from mother Earth. Then the sun came up, fog vaporized, and the world returned.

The children’s giggles as they play recapture my attention. I want to run over, grab them in a bear hug, pick them up in the air, and whirl them around, saying, “Daddy loves you.”

But I can’t. And I can’t feel the warmth of my wife in bed next to me at night—something taken for granted until you lose it forever.

I lower my head, sigh, and close my eyes, paying no attention. A moment later, I feel two pairs of hands softly but firmly grip each upper arm near my elbow. How can this be? I’m a ghost.

“Easy now,” one of the large men dressed in a dark blue uniform and cap says to me.

“Mr. Jenkins, don’t get upset.” It’s the third man dressed all in white with a lab coat. “You were coming along so well at Sunny Rest.” He walks over and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Doctor Stone. After two years, we thought you might be leaving us, so you had your freedom on the facility’s front lawn. But we must return.”

I jerk at the restraining grips on my arms. “I’m a ghost. Who are you? Are you people ghosts, too?” I point my hand toward my family. “What about them, my wife and kids? Can they see and hear you?”

There is an unsettling silence.

Dr. Stone speaks. “There’s no one there. A drunk driver killed your family.
At their funeral, you reached the breaking point. Your reality seeped into the fresh dirt at your feet that day.”

“No,” raising my voice, “it can’t be. My family is right there in front of our bay window with our beautiful garden outside.”

The doctor speaks in a soft, understanding tone. “Mr. Jenkins, it’s February. There are no flowers or greenery of any kind, and your wife and children are not here. They are ghosts of your imagination. You have regressed.”

He shakes his head. “And you had made so much progress.”

A pain shoots through my head. My house goes dark and silent. The yard is gray. No sounds, no color, no family. My mind’s fog is clearing.

I prefer being back in the mist.