Linger

Bob was 17 when his father passed due to complications with his heart. An average man. No heart conditions that bob was aware of. One day, Bob’s father and mother went for a walk around the neighborhood. Something they did every night after their meal. He was outside when he heard his mother scream. He felt a chill that momentarily froze him. Upon hearing the second scream he ran. His father was lying on the cold sidewalk with his head in his wife’s lap. He saw her kneeling there, on concrete. Arms wrapped around his father, screaming for help. Bob pulled his phone out of his pocket as he dropped to his knees next to his mom, “What happened?” The voice over the phone was very clear, “911, what seems to be your emergency?” His mother was still screaming. He shook her, “Mom, what happened?” “I don’t know.” Tears flooded her eyes, running down her cheeks. Her voice was hoarse from screaming, “We were talking about our vacation next week. His face went pale. His eyes glazed over and he hit the sidewalk.” The voice on the phone told Bob an ambulance was on its way. Bob looked into his father’s eyes. They were white. Pure white. “Dad, hold on their coming.” Bob could feel the tears in his own eyes. A hand grabbed Bob’s arm. Startled, he dropped his phone. His father looked at him through those white eyes. His voice, gravely, silent, almost a whisper. “I’m sorry.” His hand dropped. He was gone.

The funeral was nice, as funerals usually are. “He was too young.” “I’m sorry, he was a good man.” “Deary, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” and the one that bothered Bob the most, “God got an angel in your father today.” His father was not by any means a religious man, however, justifying his death by stating a higher power wanted him always seemed like something small minded people said when they had nothing nice to say. The one phrase that was said the most on this day was the one phrase that always pissed Bob of the most. “If there’s ever anything I can do…” Bob knew no one ever meant it. They would say it just to make themselves feel better. Feel important. At the end of the night, Bob put his mother to bed. She passed out almost immediately from sheer exhaustion. He went downstairs and began cleaning the kitchen. All those people so eager to help if needed, were nowhere to be seen. As he finished the final dish, he heard moaning. It was low. “Mom, you need to rest.” Bob wiped his hands on the dish towel and walked into the living room. It was dark. He flicked the switch. Light filled an empty room. “Mom?” He asked in a low voice. He slowly searched all the rooms until he came to his mother’s room. She lay silently in her bed. As Bob lightly closed the door he heard the moaning again. A little louder than before. This time from his father’s upstairs study. The door was open. Bob saw nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing. Just a room with hundreds of books on floor to ceiling shelves, surrounding a large antique wooden desk. The only light in the room was from an ornate lamp on the desk. As Bob walked into the heart of his father’s study, he began to feel uneasy. His skin began to crawl. His hand felt cold as he reached for the silver chain on the lamp. He looked to the window. It was closed. Bob thought maybe it was being in his father’s sanctuary after his death. Remembering all the times his father would sit in this very room. The room that was off limits to him and his mother. He smiled at the thought. His mother would often join his father for lunches here in this very room. He took a deep breath, blew it out and pulled the silver chain that hung from the lamp. A shadowy figure stood beside the desk in the dim room. Bob froze in fear. Finally he laughed, thinking it was his eyes playing tricks on him as he adjusted to the dark. “Shit.” He had a quick thought of his father standing next to his desk. The thought faded as the shadow began to move towards him. He took a step back. Slowly trying to make his way to the hall. He felt the figures’ presence. Bob couldn’t explain it, but he knew it was no trick. His feet stopped moving. Sweat beaded on his brow. His stomach dropped. ‘What is this?” The words barley escaped his mouth. The antique desk was the only thing between Bob and the shadow. He looked closer. He saw what he believed to be a female face. A woman. But it was distorted. Twisted. The body was emaciated. To thin. Just bones with flesh hanging on for dear life. She wore a tattered and torn gown. It was dirty. “Who are you?” Bob’s voice was a little stronger. He was beginning to find his courage. With no answer he raised his voice to almost a shout. “WHO ARE YOU?” In the blink of an eye the figure floated though the desk. It’s twisted mouth was next to Bob’s right ear. Her voice was guttural. A low sound, an echo of a thousand voices. “We are yours now!”