Post-Script

an unexpected visit from an old friend

Oct 15, 2023

John laid awake, wrestling with his pillow. It was late, and the rain was tapping a curious melody on the wood shake roof, drawing his attention away from some needed rest. Just as the slumber found him, he was awoken to a scratching on the kitchen door, most likely his cat wanting a respite from the rain. He heard his dog jump from the bed and scamper down the hall toward the kitchen. She wasn’t a big dog, and wasn’t really a discernible breed either. Unlike his friends who spent thousands on their dogs, John opted to save one from the shelter and named her Patty, after his grandmother, who had passed that same year. From down the hall, he could hear her growling and barking at the door, which struck him as a bit odd since she rarely barked. With all hope of sleep dashed for the moment, John rolled out of bed, lumbering down the hall, his slippers scuffing as he went. Turning the corner to the kitchen, lightning flashed in the darkness outside, sending a ribbon of light flickering across the floor, illuminating Patty. She stood a good yard from the door, the hairs on her back bristling, and she was dug in, growling at the door.

John hesitated, looking into the kitchen, a shiver creeping up his spine, wondering what had Patty all worked up. Just as he was about to tell Patty to quiet down, there was another scratch at the door, causing Patty to go wild. Instinctively, he reached out grabbing a kitchen knife, joining Patty, his senses now sharp and alert, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He thought for a moment of turning on the light to scare away whatever it was, but as he reached for the switch, he heard it. A voice, fleeting and reminiscent of the wind, muted by the door that marked the barrier between them.

“Why? Why me?” it said.

John’s hand stopped short of the light switch, his senses overloaded as Patty continued voicing her thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he stroked Patty, silencing her. Slowly, he crept to the window beside the door, flicking the porch light on and risking a peek out, hoping to see who or what was there.

“Why me?” it said again, this time dripping of condemnation.

John pushed the curtain aside, looking out the window, but he saw nothing. Only the warm glow of the porch light mixing into the darkness of night that enveloped the secrets of the yard beyond. Reaching for the door handle, it was ice-cold and coated in a veneer of frost, causing another shiver to dart up his spine. Regripping the knife, he pulled the sleeve of his shirt over his free hand and turned the knob, opening the door as his cat darted inside, startling him. Gathering himself, he gazed out the doorway to see nothing more as the cool evening air flowed into the kitchen, the pitter-patter of rain dancing on the ground.

“Stupid,” he said, shaking his head for letting his imagination get the better of him–especially since he wrote stories like this for a living, his latest book being published after a year’s worth of toil. Ready to get back to bed, he reached over flicking the porch light off, but as he turned to close the door, he saw it out of the corner of his eye. It was a wispy thing. More like a translucent fluff, but in a humanoid shape vaguely familiar to him. He slowly turned as it floated closer, Patty now quiet, cowering behind him. Even though his stories often involved ghosts, he’d never seen one in real life. In fact, he’d always believed they were relinquished to the land of fiction.

“Why me?” It repeated like a scratched record as it now started to take on the more defined form of a man in business attire with a satchel at his side. Yet, it remained outside the door, repeating, “Why me?”

John paused, not certain how to answer, and finally said that which came to him most plainly. “‘Why you, what?”

“Why did you kill me?” It answered before again repeating, “Why me?”

John stood shaken a bit as anyone would be talking to a ghost for the first time and being a law-abiding kind of guy, he was taken aback at its accusation, responding honestly, “I’ve never killed anyone. Are you sure you have the right place? That you’re haunting the right person?”

The ghost scoffed, pulling a book out of his satchel and holding it for John to see. “You’re John James, right? You wrote this book?” it said, its eyes locked with John’s.

Looking at the book, John could see it was his book. “Well, yes, that’s my book–” He paused, starting to think this was an elaborate hoax being put on by his friends and he peered into the darkness, searching for them, but finding nothing. Then, looking back at the apparition, it was so real. Mesmerized, he reached out across the threshold to touch it. As soon as his hand met its outstretched arm holding the book, a chill took his breath away, and he was overcome with feelings of pain and loss. He stepped back, dropping the kitchen knife to the ground in shock and coming to the realization that this wasn’t a hoax. It was real and happening to him.

A bit flustered, he made the mistake of inviting it into the house to talk, an offer which was promptly accepted as they retreated to the kitchen table. It was a rookie move for sure, especially for someone with the knowledge and background like John’s. He’d studied spirits and the underworld for his books, and later, he would recall that you never, under any circumstances, invite something like this into your house. It was really entry-level stuff, but for the moment that didn’t register with John. He merely wanted to have a simple, private conversation with this thing and was curious, as any writer would be. “Who are you?” John asked.

“You know who I am. You killed me, left me for dead on the side of the road. No burial, no wake, no celebration of life. How dare you act like you don’t know me. You stole my life from me.”

As it spoke, explaining the circumstances of its death, John found that its mannerisms and tone of speech were intimately familiar to him. “You’re Sam Smitz,” he said with a sudden realization, recalling the details of Sam’s death. How it happened. Why it happened. How he had, in fact, killed him, intentionally and in cold blood. Sweat now beaded on John’s brow. “But you’re from my book. That’s all fiction, make believe,” he said, struggling to understand how Sam was here.

Shaking his hand in disgust, brow furrowed full of anger, Sam wailed, “Do I look like fiction? Do I look make believe to you now?”

“No, not exactly, but–” John stuttered. He thought that he’d finished the job. Tied it up nicely before moving on with the story.

“There are no ‘buts’. I’m asking a simple question. Why me? Why not Tom or Eliza?” Sam said, looming darkly across the table, waiting for an answer.

“It’s complicated,” John started, opting for honesty. “There were a lot of things happening and, well, at the end–there’s no good way of saying this. Your death was just necessary.”

“Necessary? Necessary?” Sam said, rising from the table, pacing wildly back and forth. Turning away, he took a deep breath, regaining his composure before flattening the wrinkles from his shirt, just as he had done on numerous occasions in the book. He resumed in position across the table from John before continuing in a calm voice. “Necessary is not a good reason for offing someone. Please, tell me more.” True to his character, he settled his hands calmly on the table, still angry, but more subdued for the moment.

Taken aback by the sudden outburst, John wondered where this was going, taking a brief moment to reflect. Realizing he’d invited this spirit into his house, he knew he’d need to see this through or move. Honesty, he reminded himself. Sam may not like it, but John had learned early in life that trading in half-truths and lies only makes things worse. John steadied himself and looked at Sam. “Your death, it was necessary to move the plot forward. You know, in the book. It was the next thing to happen, to continue pushing the story to its end. I admit, it was a bit unforeseen to the reader, to you even, but that was intended.”

“So you intended to blindside me and others? That seems dishonest, like a trick. But it still remains, why me? Why not Tom or Eliza? Killing them would have moved the things along as well.”

John agreed, it was a fair question, and he tried to explain his choices. “Agreed, it would have moved the plot forward, but not where I wanted it to go. See, Tom still had something he had to do in the book, a reason for being in the pages ahead and you–” John paused, carefully choosing his next words, spinning it as honestly as he could. “You were certainly a shining star, but in the end, between you and Tom, I kind of had to keep Tom. You know, for the purposes of the story. But you, you made a lot of great contributions, and remember, it was the memory of you that pushed Tom and Eliza forward.” John ended with a smile, trying his best to sell the story and Sam’s role in it.

“That’s little consolation in my current state,” mused Sam, holding up a translucent arm and passing it nonchalantly through the table-top. “Why not Eliza, then? I could’ve carried the story to the end in her place.”

John let out a small laugh and then choked it back as Sam looked at him unamused. “Oh, you’re serious,” John said, recovering quickly and repressing his laughter.

“Deadly,” Sam said, staring ominously back, devoid of any hint of humor.

“But you were never–you know, the main person. The driver of the story. The protagonist–”

Sam leaped from the table, throwing his arms into the air again, interrupting John. “Protagonist? Protagonist? Is that all this is to you? My life’s merely a chess piece in a story for you to create and destroy with no regard?” Sam stood staring at John, Patty suddenly coming to life, barking wildly.

“Patty! Enough! Go lay down.” John said as Patty relented, retreating to her bed in the corner of the kitchen, her eyes never leaving Sam. With moistened eyes, John looked deeply at Sam, speaking in a hushed tone. “You were never just a person, and it was a difficult decision to–you know, kill you. It was hard for me. You’re my friend, my child. Just as Tom and Eliza are. I felt like I’ve known you all my life, and when you were left on the side of that road–I shed more than one tear for you. You’d been there all along fighting for all the same things Tom and Eliza fought for, but had you not sacrificed yourself at that point, everything you fought for, everything you sacrificed, would be lost and Sven would have won. Sven would have–”

“Yes, Sven.” Sam said with a sincere distaste. “At least we can agree on one thing, it’s good he also died. The only difference is that you mourned his passing. Tom and Eliza even collected his bones, and built a pyre to burn him, releasing his soul to the afterlife. Me, my bones are alone, on the side of the road somewhere, never collected, never buried, and now I walk this world for eternity. Is that too what you intended, John James? For your story’s martyr, your shining star, your friend, your child, to be forever punished? Restrained from passing to the afterlife. Forever wandering?”

Hearing it spoken out loud, it was disconcerting and not at all what John had intended. He’d simply failed to give Sam’s passing its proper due within the pages, but now the book was done. His publisher had contacted him earlier that very evening to say the books had been shipped and would be on shelves next week. It was an exciting call for John, yet it now seemed the book wasn’t finished, and he longed to make this one last change.

“A revised edition,” John said out loud, continuing to explain to Sam that successful books often had revised editions, sometimes years after publishing. That would be the opportunity to address his oversight of Sam’s death. Of course, there was no promise of a revised edition, but he excitedly shared his idea with Sam.

“So,” Sam said, leaning in. “Let me get this right, if your book is successful and if it remains that way for several years and if your publisher is open to a revised edition and if you are still alive yourself, then maybe on the 5th, 10th or 20th anniversary you can write a revision that properly takes care of me, so I can pass on? But until then, I hang out with you, or if you die before that, then I just wander around, forever? Is that whet you’re saying?”

Of course, as Sam summarized it, the solution, which at first seemed brilliant, lost its luster. John and Sam sat at the table in silence. A moment later, John popped up from the table. “I think I’ve got it. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Sam stared at him, nodding. Moments later, John returned to the table with an advance copy of his book and his laptop. Turning the pages, his finger passed along the pages, skimming the words until he tapped his finger on the page, looking up at Sam. “Yes, right here. This is the spot.” Turning to his computer, he began typing as Sam rose, walking around to see what he was writing. John typed as Sam interjected comments and thoughts sporadically. Leaning back, they both read the newly created passage.

As soon as the blaze on the pyre had subsided, consuming Sven’s body, Eliza looked to Tom. “You know, I never felt right about how we just left Sam, dead, on the side of the road.”
“I know. Me either, but we were literally running for our lives at the time,” Tom said.
“Still, if not for Sam, Sven would’ve caught us for sure. Sam sacrificed himself to save us so that we could finish this.”
Tom looked at the dwindling fire. “You’re right Eliza.”
She reached out, taking his hand, “We need to bury him, Tom. We owe it to him, hell, the world owes it to him.”

Sam nodded to John with a smile on his face. “That’s a fine start.”

John smiled back, turning his attention to the computer, continuing to write into the early hours of the morning until he finally resolved the oversight of Sam’s death. Looking up to get his final approval, he found the room was empty, only Patty sound asleep in her bed. With a few simple keystrokes, he added the title “Post-Script” and paused, wondering whether his publisher would approve. Shrugging his shoulders, he tagged it to the online version of the book, and hit publish on his computer. Sometimes you just have to do what’s right, and this was one of those times. John closed his laptop, not certain if Sam had really been there, or if it was simply the stress of publishing a book with the nagging feeling that it was unfinished. He knew what he believed, and he smiled, returning to bed for a few hours of sleep before his book signing later that morning.