A Ghost Of Regulars

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You wondering?

He asked me,

for what?

I replied.

He smiled and pulled back a chair with his cane

then tapped the seat with it.

His in-lips potted and he said to the regulus club.

His cyboros went up and down like doing a little dance

and the bespect gold eyes beneath them twinkled.

I'd been stopping at Morning Bell for coffee

every morning for a little over a month,

same time every Wednesday.

I'd noticed the two tables pushed together

and surrounded by a group of old agentemen

all beyond retirement age.

They were all there every time I ordered my 16 ounce

of mercano,

but I'd never really paid any mind or attention.

Apparently, they must have noticed me, though.

Oh, you'd fit right in with them, said Chrissy, the boss.

Half joking, I asked her,

Luddly enough for the old guys to hear

is this a club or an occupation.

Oh, it's an occupation for sure.

Christy replied at equal volume.

The old guys went into an uproar.

Hey, we're paying customers.

I've been coming here since before you were born, sweetheart.

Nobody's ever asked us to leave, have they?

Christy smiled at them all.

I paid for my coffee and wandered toward the seat

which had been designated for me.

I usually took my coffee out to my car

and drove to work where I would sit in the parking lot

and listen to the news while I sipped until I felt properly

electric so I could survive my office

where the most interesting thing was the contrast

between the great cubicle walls

and the fluorescent lights above, like Kevin and Hell.

I suppose I could stay out of the snow for a bit longer

as said, sliding into the seat offered me.

So, let me guess, this is the real city council, right?

Don't you know it, said the man who'd invited me over.

He patted me in the back with a hand

that had once been very strong.

The name's Stan Kessinger.

Alan, I replied.

Alan Persel.

Are you already retired, Alan?

Asked a thin student's looking man across from me.

Oh, get out of here, Wesley said another.

He's not even 40 yet, I bet.

I smiled.

I'm 42 and no, I'm a data analyst.

They still need that with all of today's advancements,

asked Wesley, the thin man, I smirked, shrugged

and said, well, that's sort of up for debate, I guess.

But they keep on paying me so.

This professional ambivalent seemed to resonate

with a few of the men who raised their coffers

and took joeville sips.

Mine was still too hot.

A man standing outside the group walked away.

I felt bad for a second, thinking maybe I'd accidentally

stolen his seat.

I expected him to pull up a chair from another table,

but he walked far past the table's nearest

and moved out of my line of sight.

As others began to introduce themselves,

I began to wonder if the standing man was just shy.

I said, so you guys come here just about every day, right?

Don't you ever run out of things to talk about?

Part left, Stan.

We've probably got 500 years of lived experience between us all.

It's going to be a long, long time

before we run out of subjects.

He or her sit a man exactly

westless opposite in size, demeanor,

and position at the table.

His name was Trevor.

There was also Henry, Neil, James,

Baron, Johnny, Gordon, and a couple of others

whose names unfortunately escaped me.

So what was today's subject before I came in, I asked.

The joeville group suddenly quieted.

The men all looked amongst each other, but none at me.

My coffee smelled strong and rich,

and I wanted so badly to sip it in that brief,

uncomfortable moment, but alas, it was still too hot.

You know, looking back,

the awkward silence probably only lasted three seconds,

even though it felt much longer.

Stan broke it.

How do you, Alan, feel about ghosts?

Ghosts?

I asked it surprised.

Stan nodded.

I looked around the table at all,

the expectant faces looking back at me.

Wesley said, telling ghost stories

was all a friend Bruce's favorite tradition

around Christmas time.

He passed away just over a week ago.

This will be our first Christmas without him,

but Stan here suggested we tell some tales of our own.

Turns out some of us have some good ones,

said the man named Johnny.

He looked much worse for where the many of his comrades,

yet when I started his face,

I believed him to actually be one of the group's younger members.

He either lived a hard life or lived life hard.

Stan said, before I interrupt him to invite you into our fall,

Johnny was about to tell a story of his own.

That's right, said Johnny.

Now, unless anyone else has something to add,

I'll get started.

Go ahead, said Stan.

Now that the introductions had ceased,

the man standing in the back returned,

crossing his arms and leaning on the wall.

I wanted to say something offered to get him a chair.

But since Johnny's seen somewhat irritated

about being interrupted before,

I did not speak up after he began it in.

You all know how I used to like to go out

on the water early before dawn.

On a good day, I could catch enough crappy oblugal

for dinner before heading out to work for the day.

I'm talking about back when I lived in the lake, of course.

I just wander down to the dock first thing in the morning,

hop in the boat and zip out to one of the good spots.

One morning, back at that time,

I might have been 40, but only barely

as stepped out my front door into a cloud.

It got foggy up there on the lake all the time,

but this day rested so heavy all around.

It felt like a cloud had sunk down from above.

It didn't stop me for a second though.

It was airy, sure, but also beautiful.

So there I was floating on dead,

still water in the heavy fog right before summaries.

I cast out one line and actively worked a second

to maybe snag a nice catfish.

When the sun began to rise, the fog around me,

so thick as it was, lit up orange like fire.

The new light bounced around in the cloud

until it felt like I was caught

in a still frame of an explosion.

It was absolutely gorgeous.

All day I turned that vivid color

and the smaller whips of vapor became shimmery

miniature rainbows that flash before vanishing.

I must have seen the air light up like

that a hundred times before,

but on that day it was no less beautiful

than the very first time.

I tell ya, that was a better way

to start the day than any cup of coffee.

No offense, Christie.

I looked over at Christie and saw she was making

no effort to disguise her eavesdropping.

She shrugged and said, none taken.

That morning was special,

not because the light in the fog alone looked any more

impressive, but because of how the stillness

of the water reflect to the fiery fog so perfectly.

All I could see up down and all around me

was that brilliant orange haze.

That is, until something else broke through.

A small dark shape that rested in the line

between the glowing air and the slightly dimmer water.

It merged in a direction of the rising sun,

so I had to squint a look at it

and through my eyelids it looked all soft and wavy.

I couldn't tell what it was for a few minutes.

It turned out to be a small robot,

the kind built for no more than a person or two.

At first I thought a fellow fisherman might be out sitting

or laying low inside the boat,

taking everything in like me.

Thanks to the stillness of the water,

I didn't have to worry about his colliding.

Even though I couldn't see anybody

for the sake of being friendly,

I called out howdy, beautiful out here, isn't it?

Nobody answered me back.

Here's where things start to get strange.

Hopefully I said it enough times now

that I don't need to remind you,

but just in case the water was perfectly still.

Almost no current whatsoever.

And it was most certainly a robot I saw on the near horizon.

I could see two oars sticking off,

dangling motionless in the water,

but somehow the little butt began drifting towards me.

Of course, even on the still list of waters,

there's bound to be some subtle movement,

but not enough to move a boat this fast, I tell you.

It came toward my boat as quickly as if someone

was rowing it toward me.

I called out again, again without receiving an answer,

and I started reeling in my active line.

I wanted to get away.

Suddenly the orange haze felt ominous.

I couldn't see beyond 10 yards in any direction.

I knew vaguely how far I ventured out,

but with no sight at the shore,

I felt especially nervous about the weird situation

I'd found myself in.

You might be thinking, so what?

It's just a robot, Johnny.

Not like it could've hurt you, right?

And sure, to write about that,

it could've just perked free of its tether

and drifted off empty.

Sure, I grant you that,

but that's not the scenario

that came to mind right away out there

on that glassy, blowing lake.

My mind jumped all the terrible reasons

a small boat like that might end up abandoned in the water.

After retrieving the line I'd been working,

I set down that pole and picked up the static line.

I put a bobber on it,

which rippled through the orange water on its way back to me.

Until suddenly it dropped below the surface.

The excitement, thinking I got in a bite

and from something big,

jostled my brain and threw out all of my fear and worries.

But the drag on the line persisted too consistently

to be from any fish.

I'd snagged something underwater,

something either very stuck or very heavy.

When I reeled hard enough,

I actually pulled my boat toward the bobber

and whatever the hope below it caught.

I might have just cut the line,

but I had one of my favorite jerk bits down there,

so I had to at least try to get it back.

I felt the object shift a little,

which gave me an ounce of hope

and just as I felt that little bit of give

the empty robot floated past me.

It cruised right over my trap line about 10 feet away.

I could see into it and saw nobody inside.

Nobody passed out, dead or asleep.

Nobody laying down to take in the sky.

Nobody at all.

Except that was about when the sun reached

a high enough elevation to light up

some of the rest of the world.

So high, it stopped making the fog glow quite so bright.

The shoreline began to appear

and there, standing on it, was a man.

He waved to me, not in a friendly sort of way.

Well, not unfriendly either, but not in greeting.

I guess is what I mean.

It sort of seemed like he was trying to flag me down.

I let my align go slack and wave back to him,

just trying to signal that I'd seen him,

hoping he would give me some sort of explanation and quick.

Finding the empty boat already had me on edge

and seeing that man, there was something

I still don't understand that just felt off about him.

But just as I lowered my hand after waving,

a man on the shore evaporated in the fog.

As the sun rose just a few inches higher,

it slights stopped coloring the fog

and equipment reflecting so brightly off the water,

at least from where I was positioned.

The glassy water looked almost black now

under the low cloud belowing above it.

Just wanting to get off that water,

I started reeling again.

I almost forgot my hook was caught.

Whatever it found down there

in those murky depths shifted again, ever so slightly.

Then came dislodged.

I felt its weight drag my line down

a little deeper as the end of my pole bent with it.

In my mind, a sudden flash of two images

totally unprompted by my conscious thoughts,

nearly made me lose my grip.

One, sort of floating in the background,

showed my immediate memory of the man on the shore.

The second, more prominent image

was of nothing I'd seen with my two eyes,

only the one up here.

Johnny tapped his forehead with his index finger

and looked around.

What a picture was my hook down there

in those cold dark waters stuck in the ribs

of a blue decoats.

Did I have any proof that a dead man

was dragging my line down, bending my pole no snapping?

No.

But I tell you all, I cut that line faster

than I even realized my knife was in my hand.

It snapped into the water

and I watched his ripples fade away.

I never learned his boat I saw out there

or who that man on the shore was.

Nobody ever came looking for either of them

as far as I know.

I probably just got tricked by the light

and spooked by a log or something.

But there you go.

As it asks then.

You were just going to leave us all hanging there.

That's all the closer I ever got, grunted Johnny.

During his story, he seemed to disappear into a trance

but now is down to his self-remurged.

Oh, don't be so critical, parlayed Westy.

It was a good story, full suspense,

well told Johnny.

Ambivalent cheers went up

and a few old guys took tepid sips

at the lips of the cups.

He didn't seem like anyone really wanted to go next

except for maybe the guy leaning against the wall.

He didn't look at all uncomfortable without a chair

and didn't bother Christy for anything

as she came around to top everyone off.

But Westy didn't notice the man in the back

and while Christy refilled everyone's mugs, he said,

I have a story to offer with just as much mystery

but Stan might find a conclusion a bit more to his taste.

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I'm all ears set Stan.

Wesley push back his chair, stood and moved behind it

where he placed his hands on its back

and leaned forward making the wood creek.

As most of you know, I used to teach physics.

Variations of, yeah, and we know

what up all around the table informing me

this was a fact Wesley mentioned with some frequency.

Oh yeah, yeah, he dismissed them.

I worked with many graduate students on the overseas.

Some of them even went on to work

with many of the greats in their respective fields.

But ironically, the most memorable student I ever had

was one who dropped out and never became anything.

Nothing in the world of physics anyway.

But she was the only student who I can honestly say

taught me something.

Her name was Rachel and she was pursuing her PhD

focusing on magnatics.

She had a brilliant mind but thought a bit too much

of her originality and creativity.

She frequently brought me designs, schemes,

calculations, behaving as if she had just brought me

the solution to all of the world's energy problems

only for me to regrettably inform her

that whatever breakthrough she did

was already tried by Nikola Tessa

or a similarly great mind of the past.

I always told her not to be discouraged

because as soon as she could just learn to examine

all the work done before her,

she could build something truly remarkable off of it.

And then she disappeared for a while.

I eventually learned her mother

who she had been very close with

and had done everything in her life to impress.

Past a way after being struck by a driver

who fell asleep at the wheel.

I wrote her a letter, well, an email expressing my condolences

and telling her we could easily arrange

for her to make up her lips whenever she felt ready.

I didn't hear back.

Then one day it was a Friday.

I stayed late to finalize a report

before the long winter break.

I started an automated process

then went to relieve myself while it ran its course.

I shut my office door behind me out of habit.

It's latched, I could off the Polish floor in the hallway.

Every light in the building had been shut off.

So only the red emergency lights

provided any light for me on my way to the restroom.

Only when I opened the door to go in did

I hear someone else's footsteps down the hole.

Not wanting to get arrested in conversation

with another late stay

I quickly ducked into the dark restroom

and quietly closed the door.

I needed to turn the light on

and struggled for a few seconds to find a switch.

During that time I listened

as the gentle footsteps passed by the door.

It struck me as odd.

I heard only the person steps.

I didn't hear any swishing of clothes,

no size of 11th eye or exasperation.

You don't even notice, I'd venture to guess

how many other noises usually accompany

a sand so simple as a footstep.

Until those other noises are absent.

Well, I still had a task at hand

so after I finished up in the restroom

I returned to my office.

Along the way, I saw no sign of another person

in the building, heard none either.

But when I again stood at my office door

I found it partially open.

Now you might say, Wesley, you crazy old man.

You just forgot to close the door.

But remember how I told you its latch

echoed down the hall when I closed it.

I distinctly remember hearing it that evening

because the building was otherwise so quiet.

I would have surely detected any weakest

in a noise which might have indicated my failure

to properly shut the door.

Of course, my first thought went to the footsteps

I'd heard on my way into the restroom.

My premonition that whoever they belonged

to wished to speak with me,

therefore interrupting my last minute work

I thought must have been correct.

I pushed open the door, prepared to meet you

ever had come to find me.

Or so I thought.

There, standing on the other side of my desk

just behind a tall chair where I usually sat reading,

grading was a shimmering translucent switch

took the vague form of a woman.

With her back to me, she jumped when I entered

turning ever so slightly toward me

before vanishing into thin air.

Air which she left electric with crackling static

in her wake.

Now you man all know me.

Christy, you too.

You know I'm a man of science.

Anything that exists can be proven given enough time

and resources.

That's my philosophy.

Well friends, admittedly fell too scared to sit in my chair

with my back to the empty place

the apparition had left behind.

So while waiting for my nerves to settle,

I went looking for the answer,

the logical rationale for how I'd seen what I saw.

I retraced the footsteps I'd heard,

walking past the restrooms to where from which

they first reached my ears.

I stood in a tea intersection

and could have turned left or right.

White would have taken me to the lecture halls

and more faculty offices.

Left led to the lab.

Having just experienced what I would categorize

as a scientific anomaly, of course I chose left.

In our lab, we had a variety of equipment

but don't fill your mind's eyes with some grand laboratory

like he might see in a Hollywood horror film.

We essentially had rows of desks lined up,

each with relatively simple equipment

for a particular field of study.

There were no windows,

so we could more easily control light conditions

and temperature, which meant when I first opened

the door to the lab, it was pitch black inside.

But deep inside the darkness,

I heard the muffled solbs of a woman.

I called out hello and a crying immediately stopped.

Nobody answered me though.

I stood in the doorway, waiting and heard nothing more.

With rising apprehension,

I reached into the dark to fill for the lights

which inflicted on.

The rows of white lights in the ceiling came to life.

Those which needed to be replaced soon buzz than hunt.

A couple of lights deeper in the room flickered erratically

before stabilizing.

It was beneath one of these flickering lights

that I saw her.

Rachel, my student who had vanished

earlier in the semester.

She gave me a good fright, Rachel.

I found her called up with her niece to her chain

in one of the swiveling chairs by desk.

In front of her, encased in child glass,

sat a complex device she concocted on her own

out of parts of the various equipment around her.

Rachel, what are you doing here?

I asked her.

She seemed surprised to see me.

Said she thought the building was empty.

I asked if that was why she chose such a bizarre time

to return to the lab and she told me it was.

When I asked if she knew anything about footsteps

and the whole way or an apparition

which visited my office, Rachel looked up.

Dumbstruck, she was, this formerly in-shakable student.

See, Rachel had just finished conducting an experiment.

An experiment which she thought to have been a total failure.

She built an electrostatic generator inside of a vacuum tube.

Inside the tube, she also placed a bracelet

her mother had been wearing the night she died,

which was stained with blood.

Prior to her experiment, she used an electromagnetic field

to charge a bracelet, making it interact

with the electrostatic device in a way she's beculated,

hope more alike, would bring about some ethereal remainder

of her mother is such a thing existed.

Her hypothesis was convoluted,

a mutant offspring of the scientific and spiritual

clearly bored of a person maddened with grief.

It gets somehow, although not in the manner she expected,

it worked.

I told Rachel to go stand by the restroom door

and wait while I reset her experiment

and performed it for a second time.

I must say, I found the prospect terrifying.

I just wanted to reward my student

for her profound discovery and give her the closure she sought.

While she was gone, I did exactly as promised.

And when she returned to me, it was with tears

streaming down her cheeks.

I never asked her to tell me what she saw

or what else may have happened at in that whole way

and she never offered to tell me.

However, as a scientist,

I know how much stock to put into power of human emotion.

Her reaction was all the evidence I needed.

Wessly looked down, then picked up his coffee

and took a long sip.

We all knew he was done.

Hang on, said Johnny.

If you believe this experiment actually worked

and you conjured up a ghost, why didn't you publish it?

How come we've never heard of this incredible break

through viewers?

Because Wesley instantly counted

as if expecting this question,

I was never able to recreate it without Rachel

with any item except her mother's bracelet.

If you'll allow me to be briefly in scientific,

I personally believe whatever emotional power Rachel

instilled in that piece of jewelry matter

had more than any other factor in her experiment.

Perhaps if someone experiencing a similar level

of grief and beauty and object with matching power,

we could recreate what Rachel did

in the physics lab that night.

I am content to have experienced one such

a apparition though,

and I count myself lucky to have witnessed it.

Unlike at the end of Johnny's story,

after which most of the men had ruminated in silence,

after Wesley's story nearly everyone spoke at once,

all having something to say.

It became immediately clear to me

the character Wesley played in this group.

He was the unwittingly arrogant academic

who thought more of his own intellect

than any of his comrades did,

that he made up for this bony personality with his big heart.

I keenly understood that these men appreciated each other

for their differences,

for their differences are what made the gatherings

interesting enough to continue for years,

and in some cases, decades.

I made the upper accusations of exaggeration,

friendly denials of credibility,

good nature, cheers at Wesley's scholarly pros,

I turned to stamp side me and whispered,

although I'm sure it was quite loud,

I'll need to leave soon.

Thanks for inviting me though.

This has been really fun.

Oh, do you need to leave right this second?

Us Stan.

I stammer afraid of what I might be committing to if I stayed.

Stan said, well, at least stick around for one more

if you can.

I've got to tell my story yet.

It's one some of you won't buy, I know.

Some of you will though.

The others quit bagging on Wesley

and gave their attention to Stan.

He turned to me again with his head cocked and said,

maybe even you, new friend.

I think he may have forgotten my name,

but something in how he looked at me felt

indescribably knowing.

He gave me the sense that we were in on a secret together

or be it a secret, I could not pretend to be aware of.

The one man standing against the back wall seen

to become very interested as soon as Stan

made to begin his story.

And he too, the standing man,

watched me like a light-hearted co-conspirator.

I haven't thought much about how to start this,

said Stan, so I guess I'll just lay a little ground

where I can go from there.

I took Paladin, all gosh, how long it all now.

Just about three weeks ago, I bet.

Anywho, he's a well-behaved,

albeit feisty golden lab.

He's got to be walked at least twice a day

or led out to play cause otherwise he gets real antsy.

That boy's not meant to be cooped up.

In fact, just after this, I'll be walking him.

To be straight with you all,

I wanted to have this conversation about ghosts

because of something that happened to me

just over the weekend.

On Saturday morning,

it stuck ghosts to my mind like cheese

in the bottom of a pan.

And, well, I wanted to run the story by all of you.

But I couldn't go first.

No, not before you'd all let your mind be opened

and intro to.

What I'm about to tell you happened to me

is the 100% no BS, no lies truth.

I promised that.

Saturday morning, I took Pilate for a walk.

And like I said, he's a real good boy.

But that morning, he jumped away from me.

He ripped the leash from my hands

and nearly pulled me down.

He shot across the street and into the park

with the leash swinging and jumping behind him.

I looked thinking he must have seen a raccoon or square,

but as far as I could see,

Pilate wasn't chasing a thing.

Hey, it's Cole Swindle.

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He yipped and jumped through the park

like he'd been struck mad and for a minute,

I thought maybe he had.

I called him back to me.

And after a couple of tries, he listened

and came running back with his tongue

flopping out the side of his mouth.

He looked so happy, just thrilled with himself.

Now, pilot's been through a lot,

so I didn't want to be too hard on him.

I took up his leash and tried to lead him home,

but that stubborn dog didn't want to budge.

Now instead of running around like a fool,

he planted his rear on the sidewalk

and sat there with the dumbest.

Happiest look he've ever seen.

I gave his leash a gentle tug,

but he would not respond to me.

I looked up and said, come on, boy,

it's time to get you home.

You wanna treat?

That's always a good way to get him moving,

but not that morning, apparently.

And what else, when I looked at him,

my eyes were sort of drawn up as only.

There was nothing there were.

There's still my eyes got locked.

They're staying into that blank space

beside pilot where I felt I sensed someone there.

I can't say her because I didn't see it here.

I smell anybody.

I just sort of sensed a person.

Yes, a human being standing near my delk.

Till it seemed to sense them too

and wasn't remotely bothered.

In fact, I've never seen him look so happy.

Finally, he let me lead him back to the house.

Well, I guess he led me.

He really didn't seem to pay me any mind at all

as he followed whatever I couldn't see.

At the front door, pilot sat obediently,

but not for me instead at the sky until I unlocked the door.

He walked inside slowly and for the rest of the day,

he moped around the house looking sad and tired.

I couldn't think of a reason for him to act like that.

I offered him treats, played with him as well as I could,

but nothing I did cheered him up.

Strange.

I took him on his evening walk at the usual time,

but we didn't leave the block.

He just seemed so depressed.

So the next morning, this is yesterday,

I was cooking some bacon and eating an apple

to keep the doctor away.

I fed a couple strips of pilot.

He already seemed to be warming back up to his usual self

and I was glad to see it.

I always tend to move a bit slow on Sunday mornings

so we didn't do our first walk on time.

I just finished breakfast and was tying my shoes

when somebody knocked on my front door.

This time of year, you never can know what that means.

Could be a neighbor dropping off some Christmas cookies,

could be somebody whose car got stuck up the road.

Either way, you'd better answer.

I limped over with one shoe and opened up the door,

but I tell you, nobody was there.

I looked both ways.

Then I realized there were no footprints

in this snow which had blown around overnight.

I could clearly see mine and pilots from Saturday,

but not one foot nor void yet to disturb

the fresh layer of snow.

Strange how well I started to shut the door,

but pilot darted through it at the very last second

I went to the door back open and yelled after him,

but he got out of reach quick in me

with just one half-lay shoe on I had to just watch him go.

He ran the same direction.

We usually walked so I estimated he would go to the park again.

In my car, I thought I might have a chance of catching him.

I drove to the park, didn't see him.

So I went to the next place that kin

to mind he might have gone.

Stan looked around the table as if checking to see

if he'd been understood.

One of the men, whose name I forget, asked Bruce's place.

Stan looked down and slowly nodded.

Bruce, I thought.

When did they mention Bruce before?

Wait, wasn't he the one who I should have explained

for our friend here's sake?

Stan continued gesturing toward me.

Pilot belonged to Bruce before he passed.

I adopted him.

We always got along, pilot, and I, so it seemed like a good fit.

Nuts of agreement barbed all around me,

I noticed one character was suddenly absent.

The man standing against the wall

had disappeared without my noticing until that point.

Stan said, so I naturally considered

that pilot might return to his long time home.

Maybe he wanted to see if, you know,

his old master had come back.

I pulled into Bruce's driveway.

The sign in his yard still says it's for sale.

I got out to have a look around.

Maybe call pilot's name a bit to see if I could draw him in.

I wouldn't need to though.

Right as I closed my car door, I heard him barking.

I would have been relieved to hear it

except there was just one problem.

The barking was coming from inside the house.

I hadn't noticed him because of the reflection

on the window earlier, but now I could clearly see

his face in Bruce's front window.

He was smiling, eager to see me.

I assumed someone must have been around,

maybe the realtor,

and let him inside to keep him

until animal control could pick him up.

So I knocked on the front door.

Someone had to be there, right?

Nobody answered, so I checked around back.

Through the patio door,

the house looked pretty empty besides pilot.

I found a realtor's hide a key,

but I didn't have the combination.

Luckily, it turned out nobody told the realtor

about the keeper's kept hidden in the doorbell.

Isn't that crazy though,

the doors were locked even though pilot was inside.

Somebody could have let him in and left him,

but it hadn't been that long yet.

Anyhow, pilot met me at the door,

but was careful not to let me catch him by the collar.

Maybe going in with Alicia Hahn wasn't a good idea.

I announced myself to anyone who might be around

as I followed pilot into the house.

Bruce's family took all the pictures

and sent him mental stuff down,

but otherwise his house is still pretty much

how it always was.

It felt strange to be back there.

pilot went into the kitchen

then around to the staircase going up.

I was right on his tail until the kitchen.

I saw up there because I was pretty sure

I'd heard one of the boys about my head and creek.

I told pilot to come back, but of course he didn't listen.

He went right up those stairs straight toward the place

where I now most definitely heard a second creek.

It sounded like a grown man was standing directly above me,

which those of you who've been there might know

was Bruce's bedroom.

I listened through the floor's pilot

joined the person standing above me.

I waited to hear voice, but no one spoke.

The pilot was obediently quiet,

not hyper like he usually gets around strangers.

That gave me a little comfort.

Again announcing myself, I went up the stairs

as loudly as I could.

I wanted to give forever was up.

There was much notice as possible that I was soon up here.

Pilot stuck his head out of the bedroom doorway

then quickly spun around back inside.

I started talking right away as I got to the room.

I think I said something like,

sorry for letting him bother you.

Before I froze there in the doorway,

Pilot was in there all by himself.

I heard another footstep down the hole

in one of the other rooms.

I called out and stepped into the hallway,

but nobody responded.

So I asked Pilot, where are they boy?

He stopped in front of me in a doorway

for a second with his tail straight back.

Nearer of us breathed.

After a time, Pilot braved the short trip back

to the bedroom down at the corner of the hole.

I decided to keep back.

As soon as Pilot reached that doorway,

his tail pointed upwards and he ran in.

Watching him disappear started all me into a run.

He barked twice.

My heart was fit to burst, you know.

I started to wonder just who or what exactly

we chased into that dark room.

A burglar?

A squatter?

Highlights a big boy, but he's no fighting dog.

I reached the doorway just in time

to watch Pilot Chase's own shadow into the corner.

He stopped and looked up about halfway to the ceiling

and his tail stopped wagging.

It stuck back at an angle like a warning flag.

When he barked, I recognized the anticipatory tone.

When he always took if I struggled too long to open his treat jar

or locked the door on our way out of the house.

With each bark, he wriggled backward a bit

and gestured slightly towards the floor

in front of him with his head.

I said to him, come on boy, let's get you back home.

But he wouldn't budge from that corner.

It took me 10 minutes to get him to leave.

But once we got out of there,

things have carried on like normal since.

Strange how that's what got me thinking about ghosts

and that's the story I wanted to share.

I felt Stan looking at me,

but I was looking at the big front window

into the fallen snow since morning,

I fell sat on the corner,

the window looked a long way down the next block

although the blowing snow made it difficult

to see in detail past the fire hydrant on the corner,

people flurred but who oblivious to the tall man passing

by them all and bothered by the cold and blown snow.

Somehow, even from behind,

I recognized the man who'd been leaning against the wall.

He's still with us there friend.

Stan asked me, I turned to him and said, sorry,

I guess I just got lost thinking about the sorts

of possibilities a story like that opens up.

Before Stan could even take in these words, I asked,

what did he say your friend's name was again?

Bruce replied Wesley.

Johnny Clarified, Bruce Edwards.

Edwards?

Oh, never mind.

I thought it sounded familiar,

but I was thinking of someone else.

Stan eyed me, likely realizing along with me

that no one had said Bruce's last name allowed yet.

He didn't say anything though.

Instead, he got caught up in the low

but lively discussion which his story provoked.

Meanwhile, I pulled out my phone under the table

and searched for Bruce Edwards' obituary.

As I hoped, it included a recent four-door film

and sure enough, the face staring up at me

was the same which it interacted with me from the back wall.

Excuse me, I interrupted.

Sorry, but I really need to go.

Great story is everyone.

Tell you what, if you'll let me join you tomorrow,

I just might have a good good story myself.

I think you'll all find it pretty interesting.

Stan winked at me and said, see you tomorrow then.

I hurried out into the cold,

realizing I've forgotten to leave a tip for Christie in the jaw.

Oh well, I would get her double tomorrow.

I couldn't afford the time to turn back.

By the time I confirmed his identity,

Bruce's ghost had already drifted out of sight down the block.

Shielding my eyes against the flurry, I pursued him,

but at the next coroner,

with no sign of the tall operation in any direction,

I surrendered.

I would not get to ask Bruce why he chose to appear

at his morning cloak and why to me alone,

unless Stan could also see him

hence the insinuation I'm winking.

What I told those men the next morning,

after sharing my story about seeing a mysterious man standing

in the back of the coffee shop,

was that I thought Bruce might be making his rounds,

saying his goodbyes.

Even those who had seemed skeptical of the stories

told the prior morning appear to accept this theory

with humble gratitude.

From then on, I've always waved to the regulars

when I picked up my coffee,

but I've never sat with them again.

They never pressured me to either.

It isn't my time to join them yet.

Whatever the reason Bruce and maybe Stan,

chose me through which to channel the gift

of Bruce's final goodbye,

I'm glad he did because I received a gift from it myself.

I've learned not to hurry so quickly through each day,

always too eager to reach the next stage, the next chapter.

I know I'll get there eventually.

Right now, I need to pay attention

to what's happening right around me right now.

There are stories happening in every direction,

and ghosts will likely touch every one of them

at one point or another.

Well, so, Bruce, men have been J.U. Salt here from the WWE.

When it's just me between matches, it's day one-ish.

That means it's chumbitime with hundreds of casino-style games

and new titles arriving weekly.

There's always something fresh to try at Chumbacacino.

The daily booze make it even more fun.

And have me, about to get them all doing my downtime.

Ready for a fun way to chill out

and enjoy a few minutes for yourself?

Let's chumbac!

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Hi, I'm Alicia, and I'm Stacey,

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