A Ghost (1990) fanfiction
For both Sam Wheat and Carl Bruner, there was one night that felt like an eternity. Two different men, two separate nights; and yet, in some ways, these two endless nights were two sides of the same, single, story.
Carl paced anxiously. What in the hell was taking Willie so long? He was supposed to call two hours ago now. Carl tried to reason with himself: Willie hadn’t struck him as the most… reliable person. He was just… passed out drunk, or strung out on some shit, something… but surely, surely he’d gotten the address book. How hard could it be? How hard could it possibly be to get hold of one lousy little scrap of paper with some numbers scrawled on it? Even a piece of shit like Willie could do that.
Two hours, 19 minutes overdue. Carl kept trying to distract himself, and failing; he turned on the television, tried to watch the news, and then switched it off almost immediately. He picked up the newspaper from the counter, found all the lines of print blurred together in his mind into an incomprehensible mess, and threw it down in frustration. He tried the television again, blindly flipping channels; a rerun of I Love Lucy was on. Lucy was wailing about something. He clicked the Off button furiously, and Lucy diminished into blackness. He couldn’t stop sweating.
Three hours and seven minutes. Carl felt like screaming. Willie had been caught. He must have been. Carl kept waiting for the sharp, official rap on his door; the coldly formal voice to announce, “Police!” It didn’t come.
The phone rang. Carl uttered a strangled little half-cry and leapt for it in one fluid motion. “Willie! What—”
But it was Molly’s voice that came back to him. “…Carl?”
Her tone stopped him dead in his tracks. Her voice was hoarse and wet, filled with tears, and hardly above a whisper. It was also empty, flat, listless, like all the life, all that special Molly sparkle that he loved so much, had been drained out of it. She didn’t seem to have even registered what he’d said. And then only her harsh breathing, and the faint static of the phone line. He thought he heard an intercom somewhere dimly in the background.
“Molly? Molly, what’s wrong? Molly, what happened?”
A long, shuddering breath. “Carl? We’re—I’m in the hospital.”
“Hospital?” No no no please no… “Molly, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m… I’m fine.” She uttered a short, painful gasp. “Sam…”
“Molly, is he okay? Molly, is Sam hurt?” But he already knew. His mind was racing wildly. Ok, Sam’s hurt—it sounds like maybe badly—but he’ll be okay, I know Sam, he’ll be fine…
A long pause. Carl’s heart was beating frantically. Finally, he couldn’t stand the silence. “Molly—!”
“Carl, Sam’s…” A brief, strangled sob. She took a steadying breath, and began again. Her next words were lost and hopeless. “…Sam’s dead.”
Nothing made sense. Nothing connected. Time was frozen. Carl knew he must have said something—something soothing, comforting, he supposed, from Molly’s reaction—but he had no idea what. She said something in return. His brain on autopilot, he carried on talking for a minute or two, still not knowing what he was saying, then hung up. The soft, plastic click of the receiver shattered the painful stillness of his apartment.
That was his last clear recollection of that night—the click that symbolized that the world was breaking. He might have screamed. He thought dimly that he was screaming, but afterward, it occurred to him that it might have only been inside his head. Time stood still, and the screaming went on and on, and everything was colder than he’d ever imagined it could be.
At some point, he must have slept. He woke up, fully dressed, on his bed, curled up like a child in the grip of a nightmare, his hands clutching feverishly at his sheets. His head throbbed with a slow, thumping ache, and his tongue was dry. His lashes seemed to be glued together, and when he pried them apart, the weak autumn sunlight filtering through the white curtains stung his eyes. There was one blissful moment where he wondered vaguely why he felt so rotten; then it sank into him, slowly and relentlessly, the knowledge suffocating. He closed his eyes again hopelessly and forced himself back into unconsciousness.
He woke again, at some point later in the day—the sun was brighter then—and once again retreated almost immediately into a sleep blacker than death. And again. When he woke the fourth time, though—the sun was gone, the street outside now gray—thirst drove him out of bed and into the bathroom. He drank deeply from the tap, gulping greedily, then splashed the cold water onto his face. He felt a little better.
He examined the face in the mirror, which hardly looked like his own. The eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them dark and raw. He would need to do something about that. He couldn’t let people… let them wonder. All his muscles felt weary; movement was slow and painful. He pulled himself into the kitchen. He didn’t think he’d ever feel hungry again, but he still boiled water for noodles.
Sam was gone, and that was awful
(and it was my fault but he wouldn’t think about that)
but he was still here, he was still alive; he had to move on, that was all there was to it. He would go see Molly tomorrow. He could help her. He would call in from work for a few days—they’d understand… in fact, they might be suspicious if he didn’t. He’d be able to get the address book from the loft later. Everything would be… everything would be all right. This was his one chance at life, and he couldn’t afford to waste it.
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