Sometimes I get bored.

   Even though the sum of my beforelife and afterlife equals fifty-three years, I still sometimes act like I am fifteen years old. I act like it is still 1964. That I am a freshman at Blanesville High School. That I am the kid that has always kept to himself. That I still walk through the halls of my school, hoping to catch just a glimpse of her. The same girl that I had first seen playing in the flowers and dirt.

   That I still wonder why my mother is only getting worse. She cries. She is quiet. She wants to be left alone. She hugs me. She holds me tight. So tight it almost frightens me. Her tears fall upon my face, and I feel like I do not know how to love her the way she needs to be loved.

   I get so bored of being in this house. Every day I soar above, my back gliding against the ceiling. The faint scratch of the stucco against me. I could not always feel things, though.

   At first, when I woke up in my afterlife, I was still in the pond. My spirit, I suppose you can say, was tethered somehow to that spot where I had fallen. For years, I do not know how long, I could only see through the water of the pond and out above me. It was all blurry, but I could see. I could see the trees. I could see the sky. I saw the seasons come and go. Leaves fell onto the water and the pond water gently rippled against the weight of them.

   I felt as if I had the weight of the entire world on me as I laid there, in the pond, waiting for freedom, for change, for something to happen. I can not pinpoint when this occurred, but somehow the tethers loosened. I was then able to float just beneath the surface of the water. I remember being giddy about that. Any leaf or bug or other debris that had fallen on top of me I would take somehow and swim with it on top of me. It was the smallest of sensations, but I could feel it and I savored it.

   Eventually, I was able to leave the pond completely. I did so and I remained stuck amongst the long-stemmed flowers for what seemed like another few years. This part of my afterlife was quite invigorating as well, and differed from my time in the pond. I was still very much contained in the wildflowers, but I was more free, too. The wind picked me up and I swirled and swirled, up and down, up and down. I was never a good dancer, but I certainly danced in the flowers. I said hello and good-bye to the sun with a dance.

   I likened it to a carnival ride that I enjoyed so much when I was a young boy. I could almost taste the buttered popcorn and cotton candy in my mouth. I could almost feel my young mother's hand in mine, making sure not to lose me in the crowd.

I could almost still see her laughing, her auburn hair floating about her face, as we went higher and higher, up to the top of the Ferris wheel. She gathered me up into her arms and tickled me. She pointed out to the lights of our town, sparkling and glowing bright against the night sky.

   My time in the wildflowers allowed me to heal. I even went long periods of time without a thought about what had happened to me in the pond. Whenever those memories did sink back into me, though, I would plummet, down down down, into the thick of the grass and weeds, and I would not rise up for weeks and weeks.

   I only then truly understood what it must have felt like to be my mother. The days she could not get out of bed. The days I begged for her to come outside for a walk with me, or the days I tried to entice her to come out of her bedroom with a steaming cup of chamomile tea and a slice of toasted bread with strawberry jam.

Nothing I could do got her up and out. All of a sudden, there would come a day she would just get up and move, due to none of my urging. The same happened to me. I would rise again, after some time, and not because of a ladybug or a fallen twig or a heavy breeze. I just did it on my own.

   I have had so much time to myself in both of my lives. When I finally was able to enter my house, I was infuriated to see that it looked completely different on the inside. The dark wooden cabinets that my mother and I had painted a pale blue were taken out and replaced with more modern cabinetry. Solid oak doors and rounded, golden and shiny knobs. The counters were not the same; they were a pleasing shade of deep green and were granite, but I did not like them at all.

   The walls, once the color of sand, were the starkest of whites. I could even sense a sting in my eyes as the brightness of the walls reflected the sun coming in through the windows. The lace curtains my grandmother has bought for us were replaced with cornflower blue blinds. The beige shag carpeting had been torn up and new, gleaming hardwood had taken over the floors of every room but the kitchen.

There I let myself fall, like a pleased feather, and rested my head on the cool surface of the light yellow tiles, bordered with tiny orange-colored roses and leaves. The very tiles I would walk on barefoot as a boy.

   I am not proud of this, but I was so enraged at all the changes around my house that I lashed out.

   When the inhabitants would leave a glass or plate or bowl on edge of the counter, I would slowly push it further and further until it fell and broke, startling the person that had just set it there. I would turn lights on and off. At all hours. Television sets. On. Off. Radios. On. Off. Record players. On. Off. Blenders. On. Off. One of my favorites, the garbage disposal. On. Off. I really did begin to scare and spook.

   My old house was no longer the house at the end of Honeysuckle Lane. It was the haunted house at the end of Honeysuckle Lane. Renters came and went, hearing of the rumors. Some would stay longer than others, and there were blissful times, but also the most boring of times, when my house was vacant.

   The Wakelins have lived in the house for over five years now. I have not let any other family do so. The mischievous mess I had made with electricity and frequently lost items and unexplained plumbing issues or the like, all ended the morning they moved in. I can not explain myself. All I can say is that they were different from any people I had ever seen in that house.

   The house had been vacant for months. One late summer afternoon, I heard the realtor come in to inspect the house. A couple days later a cleaning crew came in and gave all the surfaces and floors much needed attention. And just a week after that, Andrew Wakelin, with one of our keys in his hand, opened the door and looked around.

   I was first struck by Andy's face. I hovered there before him, about a foot away, and just looked and looked. His grief-stricken face was captivating and stunning. I had never seen such a face as his. I had almost forgotten how to feel until I saw his face. His eyes were the same color of honey. His tears only enriched the amber flecks as the sunlight played upon his brow.

If my mother could only have seen him! She would have definitely thought he could have stolen Paul Newman's thunder had he been around in the films of my childhood and adolescence.

He stood there alone, with his arms crossed tightly, in the empty house. His broad shoulders shook like tiny earthquakes. Even all alone, this man was incapable of letting his emotions pour forth freely. He was in battle with himself, and I watched it. If I could have cried, I would have cried for him and with him.

We then shuddered at a high-pitched merry sounding jingle coming from the pocket of his jeans. We both looked down at the same moment. He let out a pained sigh, I floated a foot away, and he wiped at the tears on his cheeks with the back of his hand.

I could tell his cell phone was brand new. It was sleek and immaculate. I had never seen one like it before. It was as if it was a very slim and glowing device straight out of a science fiction film. With the tap and flick of his fingers he was able to talk to others. The colors on the screen were bold and the images were crisp. I hovered there behind him and saw that Richard Allen was calling him. With a light tap on the green circle, he was completely open to the rest of the world.

"Hi, Richard," Andy had brought the phone to his ear and tucked in his other arm beneath his bent elbow. He looked down at his worn leather work boots and then up through the bare living room window facing the frontyard.

"Yeah. I'm here in Blanesville... Oh. The house looks good. It's real clean and everything... I think the children will like it. I've taken a good look around the place. There's quite a large field out back and even a pond. Some wildflowers... Yeah. They're still at my mother's house... No. Jude really hasn't improved much. He's not talkin' to anyone... Thank you for your concern...

Yeah, about that, well, you see, the real estate lady had told me that there are old town rumors about this house. That it's haunted or something... Yes," he lets a little laugh generate through his chest and throat, "that is precisely what I was thinkin'... Oh no, nothing scary like that. Mostly electrical and plumbing issues. Nothing I can't manage on my own... Oh," tears began to return to his light brown eyes, "Did he tell you that, really?...

Yep. Dad would call me Handy Andy... Oh, no, that's fine... Thank you so much for all your help... Yes, once I get the children moved in within the next couple days I will give you a call... The phone you recommended is working really well. Heh, it's quite a learnin' curve, but I think I'm gettin' the hang of it. Thank you... All right. Talk to you soon... Bye, Richard... Bye bye, thank you."

With a press of his finger, the phone's screen went to black and Andy fell to the floor.

He was not the stoic man that had just been quiet and still between sobs. He was now falling apart, piece by piece. His moans and deep cries shook through my invisible self. He frightened me. I had never seen a grown man fall to the ground and heave with such agony.

It had been a very long time since I had seen anyone unravel in front of me. My only instinct was to let this family be. To let them live, and maybe all be happy one day, in my house.

~~~~~~~

A/N: Hello, precious reader...

Work with me through this tough spot here. It won't be the last, but I promise to fill this story with many other emotions. I want to put you, my reader, through as many feelings and experiences as I can.

Richard Allen made another appearance of sorts in this chapter. I always new he would come back in some way.

What did you like about this chapter?
Please, let me know.

And whether you believe in ghosts or not, I hope you vote and comment!

XO,
Leanne