Haunted

Corey Mesler

April 2006

Back in front of the TV, the couple had gone on without him. Our heroine now rode the stud in what Bob believed was called the Cowboy Position. Bob’s libido awakened asudden. It was a nice session.

Afterwards, Bob lay awash in his own fluid, pants at his ankles, TV back on tennis. Bob’s mind drifted. He may have even drowsed. Without warning there came a knocking at the door. Bob arose as if he’d been caught doing something shameful. He stumbled, attempting to lift his trousers and make the door in one movement. The knocking continued.

"Wait," Bob said.

With some difficulty he managed to rebuckle his pants. He opened the door. It was Honey.

"Jesus," she said in greeting. "What were you doing?"

"What do you mean?" Bob asked.

Honey looked at Bob the way one might look at a dog which had tried to hump a hassock.

Bob switched gears. "What do you need?" he asked.

"Did I leave my camera here?" Honey asked, breezing by him.

It’s my camera, thought Bob. But he said nothing. The sneaky guilt he felt, incongruously or not, made Bob meek. Even meeker than usual.

He could hear Honey rummaging around in the bedroom. Oh, God, Bob thought, I left the bag of videos out on the bed. Shit, he thought. And his hand went to his lower stomach where there was a good-sized soggy patch. Honey was going to smirk at him. He didn’t need that right now.

Honey emerged from the hallway, camera in hand. Her face was–it was–superior–and smirk-ready.

Bob started to speak before she could ridicule him.

Honey was too fast.

"You left a dirty plate in the sink," Honey said, as she headed for the door. "You’re slipping," she said, parting.

"I don’t understand," Rick said that night.

"Dammit, I’m haunted, spooked, visited by something from another realm."

"Because you forgot to put a dish in the dishwasher."

"I didn’t--and the toothpaste cap. And the sage."

Rick barked an unintentional laugh.

"Bob, the spices?"

"Yes, they’re always alphabetized, see. Always."

"Don’t panic, buddy. You know what I think? Honey is messing with you."

Bob thought about this for a moment.

"The spice rack maybe. But she didn’t sneak in and uncap the toothpaste. And–wait–see, she was the one who pointed out the dirty plate. Oh, wait, you think she took it out of the dishwasher? No, no, that’s not right. She didn’t know that I had just been bothered–that I had just put it away."

"So, what you’re saying is, something unseen is at work. Poltergeists that have nothing better to do than mess with your alphabetization."

"No, don’t you see–what if this is actually how they get you–not rattling chains or footsteps in the attic or table knocking–but by small seemingly insignificant moves–just a little each day to make you doubt your own volition–to make you aware of them."

"Ok, now you’re creeping me out. That’s–just, well, stupid."

"But it creeps you out."

"Ok, look you wanna sleep at my house for a while? It would be cool. I think you’re haunted alright, by loneliness. You’re just not used to being alone."

"No, no–what about–who was at your house? You had a woman–"

"Yes, right. Kathy, Kathy Faulk."

"Kathy from high school?"

"Right."

"And Sandra--How did you–never mind. How do you ever? You’re–insatiable."

"B–"

"Sorry, that was unkind. I’m–jealous, I guess. Anyway–I’m alright alone. Really."

Bob went home that night feeling even more remote from sympathy, an alien to human compassion. Even his best friend who understood everything was distancing himself. Ok, it wasn’t literally true–Bob was indulging in self-pity, relishing it really. Rolling around in isolation like a rooting swine. Bob was spooked into spiraling solipsism.

The house seemed hot, as hot as love’s flaming climate. Bob was uncomfortable in his own skin–he itched. He rubbed at himself, wanting to strip away everything, everything that held him, clothed him, everything that made him Bob. He settled for pulling all his clothes off. He kicked pants, shirt, briefs into the air and let them fall where they would. He was sweating.

Bob Plumb turned around like a dog situating itself and looked frenetically about. His body felt prickly, yet alive–alive! He rubbed his hand over his oh so solid protoplasm–his arms, ribcage, his belly, thighs, crotch. Desire stirred momentarily. But onanism was not what Bob was seeking. What was it?

Bob lay down on the crappy carpet in his living room. The ceiling above him whirled like the souped-up heavens. The water spot in the corner resembled a head, in profile, speaking, its moist mouth permanently ajar.

And, as he lay there, Bob thought about his life, how wrong it had gone, how it was his fault partly, but not entirely. Some things had just happened, like they might happen to any man. As natural as a shower of rain.

It was then that Bob noticed his two pieces of wall art, reproductions in cheap frames. One was Chagall’s "Bouquet with Flying Lovers." The other Larry Rivers’ "Parts of the Body: French Vocabulary Lesson." Someone had moved them. The Chagall was where the Rivers used to be, and vice versa.

Bob considered the new placement of his prints. And he smiled.

Let’s do a gentle fade here. We’ve gone with Bob about as far as we can go. His ignis fatuus is not our ignis fatuus. Each to his or her own phantoms, his or her own hauntings, and so on. Sleep well, Bob Plumb.

Corey Mesler is the owner of Burke’s Book Store, in Memphis, Tennessee, one of the country’s oldest (1875) and best independent bookstores.

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