The Writing Machine

Stories by Christian Cloud Abraham

The Ghost of Vince Margolis

“Hello?”
“Bob? It’s Valerie.”
“Oh. Hey Valerie. What time is it?”
“It’s almost four. I’m sorry to wake you like this.”
“No, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”
“Well, no. I don’t know where Vince is. Did he crash on your couch?”
“No. He left around midnight. He’s not home yet?”
“No. And I’m worried. This just isn’t like him.”
“Did you call Jim?”
“No. Not yet.”
“He’s probably just over there.”
“I hope so. But this just isn’t like him.”
“True. But I’m sure he’s okay. Give Jim a call.”
“Okay. I will. Thanks. Bye.”
“Bye.”

The police investigation determined that at 11:56 p.m., Vince Margolis used his debit card to purchase a six pack of beer at TJ’s Liquor Store five blocks from his home. Two blocks later, a surveillance camera at the Armco gas station recorded a man determined to be Vince Margolis, walk into the camera’s field of vision, stop abruptly, turn around, drop the six pack of beer, and run. Nothing else entered the camera’s field of vision, leaving a lonely scene of broken bottles bubbling on the sidewalk. On October 1, 1999, at 12:01 a.m., Vince Margolis was officially declared missing.

At 4:00 a.m., October 2, 1999, Valerie Margolis woke suddenly, panting and panicky and startled and screaming when she saw the ghost of her husband, Vince, at the foot of the bed with a pale effulgence about him. The sight of him, of his doppelganger, seized her heart. He looked at her sadly, then at the floor, then faded away. A unmistakable, dreadful sensation consumed her: she knew he’d just died. The dreadful sensation was hot and nauseating. The pain it gave built up in her. She drew deeper and deeper breaths but no sounds could come out. Her body began to shake and she held the comforter to her gasping mouth, but before the screams and the tears could escape, the phone rang in the darkness beside her bed. It rang once. Twice. She swallowed hard, expecting the police, and lifted the receiver. Another woman’s sobs answered.
“Lydia?”
“Oh God Valerie, help me. My precious son is dead. Oh help me please, he’s dead. He’s dead! I can feel it. I can feel it in my mother’s bones. He’s dead Valerie. He’s dead!”
“I know,” said Valerie. And the women wept together.

On September 28, 1999, Vince Margolis wrote in his journal the final entry of his life…

Strange it is to think that in death, one becomes more alive than in life, leaving behind a complex atom of energy powerful and full of mystery. The room you lived in becomes a museum, and to those who knew you, it is haunted by the memories of your life in their mind. The common articles are sacred relics. A picture on the wall is examined over and over wondering what it really was you loved so much about that ugly thing and why you hung it where you did. A book on your shelf evokes memories of nights you talked with great passion, drunk with life and literature and glowing with inspiration. A pile of clothes on the floor and the seven empty glasses on your desk are no longer an annoying habit, but the mementos to the your character and even its petty flaws are now cherished. A photo album is a thousand daggers for many years to come, but even in the tears there is sublime joy. Your letters serve as a direct portal into your mind and boom with the sound of your voice. Your dirty clothes are sorted out and wrapped in plastic bags so as not to lose the intoxicating aroma your body left behind. The room is sealed off, and this is where you slowly pass on. The energy draining in time, dissipating into the cosmos, peacefully.

It is important to think of death. To realize just how alive we really are and to say “fuck it and fuck it all” to our stupid fears of living, and just live. Good-night.

The body of Vince Margolis was never found.

END
© 2006 Christian Cloud Abraham

Posted on January 4, 2006 in
Emotion: Fear, Type: Fiction