Forever Bound

This was my submission for the final round of the NYC Midnight Short Story Contest. We were given a random topic at midnight and then had 24 hours to write a 2500 word piece about it. I like my idea but it just wasn't even room to flesh it out enough. That's a fancy way of saying I didn't win.

My job isn’t easy. Make no mistake though; I am very good at it. I do not sugar coat what I do. I don’t glorify it in an attempt to justify it; I just do it, get paid and do it again. I sell a service, piece of mind as it were. Do I take advantage of people who are in a delicate situation? Do I prey upon the scared and weak? Yes. Yes, I do. My name is Christopher Ware and I sell sheets.
Of course it’s a scam. It’s practically a cultural phenomenon. I don’t know when it started or who was the first person to throw a table cloth over their head and pretend to be ghost but whoever it was I wish I could kiss their hand. That person has kept me unnaturally tanned; living in a river-view apartment and driving a fully-loaded Caddy XLR Roadster…she’s candy-apple red. The pitch is simple: You’re going die. You have unfinished business. As an ethereal entity, you cannot interact with a corporeal world. In order to be seen, to be…experienced in our world you must be able to manipulate something that can fully express your continued presence. That’s where my sheets come into play.
The truth about them is that they are wonderful pieces of fabric. Each set is 100% Modal which, if you don’t know, is a fabric made from Beech trees. Modal, unlike cotton, will not pill. It’s resistant to shrinkage and color-fading and no matter how many times my sheets are washed they will not lose their exceptional softness. The lies that I tell about my sheets are equally as exceptional. They are so outrageous, in fact, that when faced with the inescapable axiom of death they become completely plausible. I assure the people that purchase my product that each set is guaranteed to physically cooperate with any and all ectoplasmic entities while maintaining the classically elegant look of a white-sheet ghost. Of course this guarantee is based only on my good word, something that has never been questioned in all my years of sales. After all, any unhappy clients would surely make their claim and it’s unlikely that I would be around very long to dispute them.
My work has taken me around the country but I largely roam the southern states. I find that their rich history with voodoo, the occult and their piss-poor school system helps me peddle my bullshit and my sheets quite easily. I’ve been most successful in Louisiana, which is where I’ve been for over a year now. These people are brought up from diapers believing not only that ghosts do exist but that they can play a significant role in life. It’s as if they consider death as nothing but a promotion to take care of all the jackasses you’ve left behind…like there’s nothing better to do in the great beyond than help Cletus pass his spelling test. There are times I have pause and realize how unfair it might be but I never let myself pity idiocy for too long.
As I’ve mentioned, my job isn’t easy. I can never stay in one city too long for obvious reasons. At a certain point, the size of my profile becomes inescapable. After a while I’m seen at any given hospital or old folks home too often and then families or staff begin to ask questions. So I never really get to have a home or a life but the idea is to build up enough capital so that I can buy one. That’s the American dream right? Work hard enough so you can stop working. Also, there’s the whole “illegal” thing. Yeah, technically I’m making fraudulent claims about my product but to a certain extent, so is all of organized religion. Think about it. You make donations upon donations because they guilt you into it making them. All you want to do is pray. So you go to church, sit down and begin your one on one with the Big Man. But at a certain point during that mass they shove a basket in front of your face “requesting” a small contribution. How can you say no? While the eyes of the congregation and your god gaze upon you, it is impossible. My service is no different. I offer some semblance of life after death and all I ask is twenty-five hundred dollars to cover the cost of the sheets, shipping expenses and travel costs. I also guarantee that all of my transactions are completely confidential and no one will ever know that the sheets they purchased were purchased to scare the crap out of people still kicking about on the mortal plane.
It goes without saying that I seek out terminally-ill patients. I go further than that though. There are a lot of people that are dying but I need to find the ones who are really pissed off about it. I need the ones with an asshole for a son or a spoiled bitch for a daughter. I search for the ones who stayed married for forty years and never had the courage to tell their husband or wife that they knew they were fucking around on them. I want the ones who don’t want forgiveness, who don’t seek absolution for a lifetime of venial sins. I want old codgers aching for vengeance.
For the past three weeks I’ve been visiting the Lone Palm Senior Living Facility in Metairie, outside of New Orleans. It’s no old folks’ home; I can assure you of that. This is a country club with nurses. The grounds are sprawling and practically choked with magnolia blossoms. The perfectly manicured greens are split by paths of salt-and-pepper river pebble walkways. Looking around, you’d never know that these people are all left here to die. Silver foxes chase grandmothers all around the white-washed decks and down towards the beach. Had I not already devoted myself to selling “ghost-sheets” to dying morons, I’d seriously consider stocking up on Levitra and control top hosiery and setting up shop. At first glance, this place seemed like a bust. But a few pay-offs got me a tip about their “Twilight” wing. That’s where I’d find the hopeless, bedridden few. That’s where I’d score.
I go through the same routine every time, it hasn’t failed so I don’t mess with it. Paying the right people gets you names; those names are of the people you’ll have to pay a lot more. I like to work with two nurses if I can. Having just one is dangerous, because eventually she’s going to want to brag. If you have three or more, it won’t be long before they think they can team up and run a scam themselves. Two is good, they can talk to each other and I can keep them in check. Most of them broads hate the people they take care of; it’s just a matter of looking for the ones with the most dramatic roll of eyes after leaving Old Man Colostomy Bag’s room. Their lives are boring, routine. Their jobs are too thankless and consuming. I dangle money and danger in front of their faces and let that do the talking for me.
Grace and Shannon have been a dream. Both are wonderful actresses. The utter disdain they feel for their patients is completely undetectable when they’re working. Their patients love them and have no clue how badly each girl wants to smother each one of them. Grace has been a work horse for me. She’s gotten me the exact times family members visit, when security does its rounds and she even made up a story about me so the rest of the staff not only doesn’t mind my presence, but welcomes it. Grace is married, happily if you can believe that, so I can only flirt so much, money has to make up the difference. I pay her more than I should but so far it’s worth it.
Shannon has gotten me in with the patients themselves. She’s sold them on me being everything from a deacon, to a bishop, to a linebacker for the Saints. She’s helped me gain trust that would normally take me weeks in a matter of days. They really love her. I’ll keep sleeping with her until she thinks I love her too. Hopefully by that point I’ll have made enough money and can move on.
As I walk into the chicken joint we meet at to do our little exchanges, I see Shannon and Grace giggling to each other, they barely notice my approach.
“Ladies, you’re looking particularly radiant today. I must say, floral scrubs really do bring out the most in both your complexions.”
They glance at each other before tossing a fake smile my way.
“So, this is for all the hard work last week, six sales in three days. Ladies, we’re officially on a roll.”
I cock an eyebrow as Shannon counts her cut in front of me.
“Chris, this is great and all but…”
Grace looks over at Shannon as she trails off. Shannon doesn’t make eye contact.
“My dear Grace, let me remind you that all we’re doing is selling these people comfort in the afterlife so we can live comfortably in the present-life. It’s no different from telling a little kid about Santa Claus, a simple white lie to ease someone into death.”
She flips the manila envelope in her hands a few times and feels the heft of it.
“You’re right Chris. I’m sorry.”
Shannon continues to go out of her way to not make eye contact with me; I should have called her last night.
“Ok, so if there’s nothing else, I’ll need the shift change lists, who’s on security tonight and an update on any new arrivals. Just email me as soon as you can.” I stand up to leave; I think I might get a milkshake.
“Actually Chris,” Shannon finally speaks, “there is something else.”
I sit back down and unbutton my suit jacket.
“Yes dear, what is it?”
“Do you know Mr. Briar in 302? William?
“Yes, I do. He’s not on the list, so he’s of no concern.”
Grace and Shannon look at each other again, without giggling.
“I know but he wants to talk to you. He says he keeps hearing stories about the Ghost Man and needs to speak with you urgently.”
“Alright, do we think he’s a sale or what?”
Grace checks the other tables to make sure no one is listening in, then answers.
“Maybe, but we think he might know something…guy’s weird.”
Paranoia can kill an operation as smooth as the one I have going very quick. I have to ease the girls’ minds immediately.
“Sweethearts, don’t concern yourselves. I’ll speak with him tonight, assess the situation and resolve it either way. Ok?” I stand up again and button my jacket. “Just get me what I asked for and everything will be fine.”
I walk out and a bell jingles above the door, I can hear the girls laughing again.

So far tonight, I’ve laid the groundwork for two more sales. When I see that security is fast asleep I head for room 302. The first thing I notice is the almost overpowering scent of roses, even in the dark I can see the room is filled with them. Slowly, I approach the bed to see if Mr. Briar is awake.
“Hello? Hello, who is there?”
His voice sounds like a hard candy wrapper.
“Mr. Briar, my name is Saul Adams. I heard you wanted to speak to me. May I turn on the light?”
Before my hand reaches the switch he answers.
“Please no, my eyes can’t bear it now.”
I can see him sit up in his bed.
“As you please, now, what can I help you with?”
“I’ve learned you know of...ghosts.”
This guy’s a lock. I’m not wasting time.
“Yes sir, I have experience with spirits. I sell fabric that can give them form with which to be seen.”
William almost leaps out of the bed.
“Oh thank God for you! I’ll take it, but I need it now!”
Part of me knows it’s a bad idea, but I have to ask him why.
“Absolutely sir, all I need is a check in the amount of twenty-five hundred dollars. May I ask why you’re in such a rush to have this fine product?”
“My wife, I need to see her.”
“I’m sorry sir?”
“My wife, she’s been coming to me in this room, I can hear her at night. She knows that I plan on marrying a woman I met here. She said I promised myself to her in eternity and I must honor that! I need to know if it’s real. I need to know if she’s haunting me.
That’s not all this nutjob needs. Hopefully his check clears. I remove one of the sheets from my case and place it on the chair by the door.
“Well sir, I can promise you that if she has been coming here she can put that on to show you she’s real. Then I hope you can work out whatever posthumous domestic dispute you might be experiencing.”
He turns on a reading light and fumbles for his checkbook. I watch his hand shake as he fills in the zeroes.
“Thank you Mr. Adams. You don’t know how much…”
His hand stops shaking and his yellowed eyes glance up over his glasses. Mr. Briar begins to cry.
“Mr. Briar, is there a problem?”
I’m no longer in the room with him; he falls back into the bed as a scream rips out from his body. I take a step back and then I see him point at me. No, not at me, behind me. I turn and see the sheet floating there. Fuck. I’m busted. Mr. Briar continues to scream. It was all a set up, those bitches set me up. Hopefully I can buy my way out of this.
“Alright pal, you got me. How much is it gonna take to keep quiet?”
The sheet doesn’t move or talk, it reminds me of Michael Myers in Halloween. This asshole thinks he can spook me.
“Dude, game over, give me the sheet.”
I grab the sheet at the face and tear it off. Much to my surprise, no one is underneath. Under my breath and whisper:
“Well that’s a neat trick.”
Mr. Briar has stopped screaming now. Someone knows what I do and now they’re trying to freak me out before turning me in. I know when to fold. I toss the sheet onto Briar’s bed and walk to the door.
“Later old-timer.”
I go to open the door but it’s locked. No surprises there. I pound on the door.
“Alright! You got me! Let me out of this fucking room!”
All at once, the scent of roses becomes so thick in the air it nauseates me. Then I hear Briar start screaming again. I know what’s behind me but I turn around anyway. Above his bed, the sheet flows around the form of a person. Briar is frenzied but can’t get up.
“Alright, enough! You’re gonna scare the guy to death just to prove a point to me?” The sheet turns towards me and says nothing. I’m starting to get a little freaked out. I kick at the door behind me without taking my eyes off that sheet. It descends off the bed towards me. Briar is hysterical. Then I catch something in the light of the bed lamp. A small dot begins to grow on the sheets face like an ink blot. It gets so big I can see it’s dark red. Blood. It begins to gurgle and bubble from underneath the sheet. It drips down the front onto the linoleum floor.
“What. The. Fuck?”
Running on panic and not bravery, I rush the sheet and tear it off again. There’s no disappearing act this time. Underneath I find a gray-haired skeleton in a decomposed wedding dress.
“Jesus Christ!”
I leap for the door but feel claws digging into my shoulders then I’m thrown into Briar’s bed. He’s still screaming. The skeleton flips me over to face it and I can hear a shrieking not from Briar.
“Bound! Forever bound!”
I may be scum but I’m not an idiot.
“You want him, you got him lady!”
I grab the sheet and throw it around Briar’s neck. For the first time I can really feel the strength of the Modal. I cut off his airway instantly, no more screaming. But I still feel the inhuman shriek in my mind. It doesn’t take him long to die. His eyes turn red and I hear his trachea snap, it’s done. I straighten myself and wait for my turn…but it doesn’t come. There’s no longer a skeletal bridezilla and no scent of roses. I think it’s time I switched jobs. Maybe I’ll be a divorce lawyer.