Ghost at the World’s Fair

Written by J. R. Witherell

An elderly man in a care facility has an unexpected visitor.

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I think I’m going to die tonight, Harold thought casually. Perhaps my heart will finally give out, they’ll say ‘he died of a broken heart’. That’d be nice, Louisa would like that. The old man shifted in his bed, nothing was comfortable. Every joint ached, eighty plus years of desperately holding a skeleton together had taken its toll. Harold was far too tired to sleep. Perhaps my bladder will explode. Terrible way to go, but at least it’s memorable. Folks around here would have a good laugh about that, ‘remember the fella who had to pee so bad that he croaked?’. He allowed himself a chuckle, a sort of sawdust-scuffle sound.

With the effort of Samson bare-handedly pulling a stone temple onto his head, Harold sat up. Louisa slept soundly in his periphery, he ruined it with a glance. No Louisa, just her neatly made side of the queen bed. Her fluffed pillow, eternally awaiting the soft lavender-scented hair it once knew. Harold willed his heart to stop beating, bit his tongue. The damnable organ continued pumping.

Traitor.