The Marlene Stottsberry Award Winner for 2010:
Lei Fahrner. October’s Ghost
The Stottsberry Award honors a former Guild president, an inspiring and generous writer, who is remembered with affection. Guidelines are fiction, 2000 words or less. Open to all.
For the video recording of the reading by the author of this award click on this link.
October’s Ghost
By Lei Fahrner’s
I had been blissfully enjoying a particularly ghost free period. My last ghost asked me to plant a row of potatoes since it was a job he had been about to accomplish just before he died. Unfortunately, his former property had been leveled fifty years ago, and his garden matched up perfectly with a bed of petunias, also know as the landscaping around the water treatment plant. I accomplished my mission under the cloak of darkness, and my ghost was able to pass on in peace to the other side. The facility directors, however, were left scratching their heads as to the newly found row of potatoes beautifying the treatment plant sign.
In the early morning hours of October 21st , I was peacefully sleeping under my pile of fluffy blankets. Tap, tap, tap, something hit my foot. I ignored it and drifted back to sleep. Tap, tap, tap, my annoyance was persistent. I rolled over and practically jumped across the room. At the end of my bed stood a man dressed in a tattered military uniform. His long, drooping mustache, and the curls sneaking out from under his cap, confirmed that he was a soldier from a different era.
“Who are you?” I blurted.
“I’m sorry to have alarmed you, ma’am. My name is Corporal Paul Ennis and I came here to your beautiful old historic home to ask for your assistance.”
“What time period are you from?” I asked despite already suspecting the answer.
“The Civil War, ma’am.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. You have the wrong house. This house was built in 1965 not 1861.” Apparently, I had a ghost who needed GPS.
“Oops, my mistake, ma’am, my sense of direction was never one of my more admirable qualities. Despite my miscalculations of the age of your home, I do believe that you may be the person I am searching for.”
Shoot, I was hoping that the wrong address might dissuade him. “How can I possibly help you?”
“I need you to find and deliver something for me, ma’am.”
“And what would that be?”
“A Civil War uniform.”
I envisioned myself searching relentlessly through every antique store in the area. Groaning, I plopped back down on my pillow. “I think this is a project best left for morning. Why don’t you come back then?”
“I understand, ma’am. How about if I just sit here in this fine rocking chair and let you sleep.” He parked his ghostly form in my grandmother’s antique rocking chair which occupied a corner of my bedroom. Squeak, squawk, squeak, squawk, the ghost rocked back and forth. I tried covering my head with a pillow; it didn’t help. My voyeur ghost was now noisily watching me sleep. My discomfort, on numerous levels, told me to give up and solve this man’s issue if only to get him out of my bedroom.�
“OK,” I acquiesced, “I’m too awake to sleep now. Where is this old Civil War uniform?”
“I’m mighty glad you asked, ma’am. It just so happens to be in your attic.”
“My attic? How did it get in my attic?”
“It was left behind in a house your great grandmother moved into. She boxed it up with the hope that the rightful owner would return. He never did.”
“So it was passed down through the generations since no one knew what else to do with it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember seeing any nice boxes up in the attic.”
“That’s because it’s in your great grandmother’s trunk.”
“How do you know what’s in my great grandmother’s trunk?”
“I’m a ghost. I can go in and out of anywhere. That would have served me well in the infantry.”
I pulled an old sweat suit on over my pajamas and headed up towards the attic with ghost in tow. I flipped on the pathetic forty watt bulb which illuminated practically nothing. Truth be told, I never came up here at night so the lack of light was usually immaterial.�
“So where’s this uniform?” I asked as I lifted the trunk’s lid.
“It’s at the bottom in a white box.”
I pulled and pushed various artifacts out of the way. In the process, I upended a box of miniature tin horses that spilled everywhere. I made a mental note to clean them up later and finally dug out the box at the bottom. “So what’s the big deal about this uniform?”
“The uniform belongs to Corporal John Hunt. I shot him.” His candor surprised me.
I lifted the lid. A perfectly packed uniform stared back at me with two ragged holes in the chest area. “Looks like you shot him twice,” I mentioned nonchalantly.
“Yes, ma’am, it was the second bullet that brought him down. I don’t seem to have very good aim either.”
I giggled. He looked at me strangely. “So who do you want me to deliver this to?”
“A nice lady two streets over in the green house.” This ghost didn’t have a sterling reputation for accuracy, so I sincerely hoped that there was only one green house. “Corporal Hunt was one of her distant relatives. I need to beg her forgiveness for killing him. At the time I was merely going along with the war, but for the past one hundred fifty years I have lived with the unrelenting guilt of knowing that I murdered an innocent man.”
“So let me guess, if you obtain her forgiveness you’ll be able to move on.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“When was this battle?”
“It was the Battle at Ball’s Bluff, Virginia on October 21st, 1861. That’s why I need you to do this today. Today’s the anniversary date.”
“Are you certain this is the right person? Your battle was fought in Virginia, but this is Ohio.”
“The last owner of Corporal Hunt’s uniform, before your great grandmother, brought it to Ohio when she moved from Virginia.”
He was a ghost with all the answers. I sincerely hoped his omnipotence would assist me when I had to explain the implausible. I took the box and headed down towards the kitchen.
“Where are you going? Shouldn’t we deliver this?”�
“It’s 6:00AM on a Saturday. If we deliver this right now I’ll never achieve forgiveness for you.” I sat down and poured myself a cup of coffee. I would have offered a cup to the ghost but cleaning it up off the floor after he drank it would be awkward. Finally, after several hours later and several additional cups of coffee, I was ready to achieve forgiveness and everlasting peace.
We walked up to the only green house on the block. I rang the doorbell and prayed. An older, but very distinguished, woman answered the door.�
“Good Morning, ma’am, you wouldn’t happen to be a relative of Corporal John Hunt would you?”
She looked at me strangely. “Yes,” she replied hesitantly, “how did you know, and who are you?”
I introduced myself and explained that a friend of mine told me that the Civil War uniform I possessed was Corporal Hunt’s. It was a stretch, but I knew I couldn’t logically explain my ghostly friend who was now hanging over my every word. I continued to explain how my great grandmother had acquired it, and how I had the hope of returning it to its rightful owner.
“But how did you know that I was a relative?” she understandably asked.
Um, uh-oh, I hadn’t thought out the answer to this one.
“Your friend’s a Civil War fanatic who does genealogy research and he uncovered her name,” the ghost whispered helpfully.
I repeated the information which seemed to pacify the woman. “I wanted to turn this uniform over to its rightful owner. My understanding is that Corporal Paul Ennis shot Corporal Hunt. When Ennis died, several years later, he was still in agony from never having contacted Hunt’s family to beg for forgiveness.”�
“Oh goodness, of course my family would forgive him. If it weren’t for the war, the two never would have met, and the tragedy never would have happened.” She accepted the uniform from me. “Thank you. I know my family will appreciate having it returned.”
After some polite small talk, we all parted ways, and my ghost and I walked home. I noticed, as we walked, that my ghost was beginning to fade.�
“Thank you,” was all he managed to say. �
“You’re welcome. Just do me a favor.” He cast a puzzled look towards me. “Let me know somehow before you cross over to the other side.” He nodded appreciatively and was gone.
The next morning, after a peaceful night’s sleep, I trudged downstairs to get my first cup of coffee. A tiny tin horse stood head first in my cup; its small hind end greeted me. I smiled. It proved that Corporal Paul Ennis had ridden off into the sunset of eternity, and that, dead or alive, he still had bad aim. Oh well, I guess all’s fair in love, war and forgiveness.