The Ghost Tour is Over
Flash fiction
A woman in the graveyard knelt by an iron-caged plot. Long golden rays of the dipping sun glowed in her flaxen hair and cast her face into shadow. None of the others on the tour, sipping plastic cups of Cabernet and cans of Sweetwater, paid her any mind. They were listening to stories of 20th century children struck down by plague and watching the dancing lights of an EMF reader. But my husband gripped my arm.
“Does that woman—”
“Yes.”
I walked to the iron gate. It was locked.
“Sorry Ma’am, the cemetery closed at 5:00. But you’re welcome to come back on your own tomorrow. Now, let’s continue. I have a very special house to show you all, it belonged to…”
I turned away from the group, hoping to snap a photo of the woman who looked so uncannily like me. Dappled light fell on the wrought iron and green-tinged cement. She was gone. My husband shrugged.
We followed our guide through the mossy squares of the historic district. Children shrieked and giggled, running around with the light-up boxes he had handed out, checking bushes and benches for ghosts. Stopping before an ornate, three-story mansion, the man began a new tale, some colonial magistrate’s murder. The home glowed gold from the lit chandeliers in its windows, rimmed by centuries-old ivy and scarlet curtains. The guests inside dressed fine and modern, drifting between staff standing in stiff period attire. One stared back down at us, wearing my face.
I reached for my husband, but she put a finger to her lips. I dropped my hand. She mouthed something to me, her red lips gasping like a fish. I didn’t understand. She mouthed again. Four, maybe five syllables. I still didn’t understand. She lifted her fists and brought them crashing against the glass. I jumped, and my husband put a hand on my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
“In the window—look!”
Other guests heard, and all turned to look, murmuring at the now empty window.
“Ah, you’ve seen the actors,” the guide said. “The estate likes to hire them to play members of the family. It’s a very immersive experience.”
I trembled as we walked to the next square, scanning every face around us. A bridal party passed, wearing pink and white sashes, spilling Champagne on the overgrown sidewalks. We stopped again. An inn stood wedged between an antique shop and a high-end seafood restaurant, its facade a patchwork of clean red and fire-charred bricks. I didn’t listen to whatever morbid tales had been born there. My heart pounded in my ears as I searched for a bench to collapse onto.
Staring at my clenched hands, I ignored my husband until my heart tired of its frantic thrashing. When I finally looked at him, I could see the worry under the projected sympathy and understanding. After the tour we walked to Broughton street, alive with flashing lights and neon signs. There was an underground speakeasy. I sipped a gin and tonic while my husband’s hand held my knee steady. But I couldn’t stop scanning the faces. I couldn’t breathe.
“I’ll be right back.”
Outside, in the alley, it was cool and quiet. I watched college kids and old couples shift past one another on the next street. A woman dropped her keys. I bent to help her, picking up the metal, cutting my finger on its sharp rusty edges. I held my breath as I lifted my eyes to her face, exhaling as I saw that her features were elderly and kind and nothing like my own.
She left, and I hurried back down to the bar. As I waited to pass the bouncer, my eyes fell on the velvet drapes around the entrance. They had been ivy green before. Now they were scarlet. I was in front of the bouncer. His sharp black beard, which I’d silently found attractive when I first entered, had given way to grey stubble. I stared at it as my thoughts turned into uncomfortable static. He pushed me inside.
Shoving my way through sweaty bodies, slipping on satin, I found my husband. New shirt. Pressed tie. Drunken eyes. Another woman sat across from him, twirling her honey-blonde hair on her finger. She kicked back a crystal glass and wiped her glossy lips slowly with the back of her hand. The world froze as she turned to me and spoke in a voice so similar to my own. Just younger. Brighter.
“You can go home, Sarah. The ghost tour is over.”
Thank you for reading Every Nook Uncanny. If you liked what you read, please share and comment. The audio version of this story will be available this Friday. You can follow Mae on Twitter.