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Ben
A week after I'd first introduced myself, I floated above Logan's breakfast table while he read the morning news on his phone. The allure of having a resident ghost might've dwindled, but I was far from finished. I wanted more than a captivated audience; I wanted a connection.
"Hey," I said, catching his attention as he looked up from the phone. "You ever have a first crush?"
Logan looked up, slightly amused. "Why? Are you planning on haunting him next?"
I chuckled. "Nah. For me, his name was Henry. I was fourteen, and he was—well, breathtaking. Picture James Dean but with the kind of smile that could upstage the sun."
His eyes narrowed playfully. "Very vivid. When was this? The 50s? 60s?"
"Oh, you caught that, huh? Yeah, 1964 to be precise. I was born in 1950, died in 1976. So, technically, I'm 73.”
“And back to Henry—tell me more,” Logan requested.
We met at a little diner back in 1964. He was a fry cook, two years older than me, and I was just another customer, lost in my world of The Catcher in the Rye and the Beatles.”
Logan chuckled. "Some things are eternal.”
"But let's not kid ourselves, things were different back then. I mean, for starters, the music was real music," I said, chuckling at my own nostalgia.
Logan laughed. "Everyone thinks their generation's music is the best."
"True, but the 60s? Come on, the Beatles, the Stones, Hendrix! Not to mention, the whole social scene was a powder keg—civil rights, anti-war protests, the sexual revolution. There was a vibe, a sense of urgency, like everyone was on the cusp of something big, something monumental."
"Yeah, but now we've got social media, gay marriage, and—don't forget—avocado toast," Logan insisted, waving his phone for emphasis.
"Ah yes, the modern miracles of technology and brunch," I said softly. "You do have some points there. Acceptance has come a long way, and that's beautiful. But sometimes I think the screens have made things more distant, you know? Back in my day, a connection felt so immediate, so raw. Now, everything's through a filter—literally."
"Okay, time-out," Logan said, interrupting my trip down memory lane. “Forgive me for changing topics, but if you're the October resident ghost storyteller, what do you do the rest of the year? Hibernate?"
I chuckled at his choice of words. "Hibernate is one way to put it, I suppose. Time works differently for me. There are periods of stillness, pockets of inactivity where I'm aware but not engaged.
Then, October rolls around, and it's like I've been called to the stage. Cue lights, camera, action—or haunting, in my case."
"That sounds…odd. Like you're trapped in a cycle, a ghostly Groundhog Day."
"Exactly! Bill Murray would be proud. But when I'm fully awake, I get to interact, I get to feel the rhythm of life—even if I can't fully participate in it."
Logan pulled me back on track. He hadn’t forgotten my story. “Henry—“
"Henry had this thing," I continued, “he made flipping burgers almost like ballet. He had this mop of unruly black hair and the most captivating brown eyes. It was hard not to notice him."
Logan leaned in, hanging on to every word. "What was it like, being gay in the 60s?"
I felt my spectral form almost shudder. "A life behind veils. A constant balancing act. You could be gay, but you had to be clever, secretive, and a master of hidden languages. Innuendos, glances—everything had to be in code, unless you wanted to risk everything."
"So, what happened—you and Henry?” Logan's eyes met mine, rich with curiosity.
"We became friends. Good friends. But the time wasn't as accepting as now, you know? The thought of telling him how I felt was like tiptoeing on a tightrope over a canyon. One wrong move, and I could lose everything."
Just then, a soft noise from the hallway caught my attention. I used my spectral senses to identify it as Lucy. She was eavesdropping, paper cup to the door, probably drawn to the apartment by the intensity of our conversation.
She had a curious look on her face, trying to make sense of words nearly too faint to comprehend. I knew she probably caught bits and pieces about spirits and the afterlife.
Although Lucy didn’t seem to be a person who would believe in the supernatural, our conversation unsettled her. She quickly shuffled away, probably wondering whether or not she’d heard a ghost.
Logan, blissfully unaware of Lucy’s presence, looked at me sympathetically, like he was trying to read between the lines of a story written half a century ago.
