You meet in the queue for a haunted house, where they’re playing a ghost and executing jump scares. Once you recover from the surprise, you strike up a conversation. They say they’re shocked you can see them, since they’re a ghost, and you laugh.
They seem committed to the bit, and you go along with it. It’s nice to talk to someone with a sense of humour. You ask them what it’s like to be a ghost, and they regale you with incredibly inventive stories. You think, what the hell, and ask if you could do something together. They say it would be great to have a coffee, if you’d like to join them in the haunted house sometime.
This sounds fun, even if it’s a little silly, so you come back the next morning with two coffees in takeaway cups. Before the ride starts for the day you sit together in one of the carts, sip your drinks and talk about your hobbies and interests. You have a lot in common, and the conversation flows easily. You sense a spark, but you’re not sure if they feel the same way. You’ve been strung along in the past, so you get straight to the point and ask them if they’d like to go out with you for dinner.
They tell you they’d love to, but they feel like they need to be very clear, because you don’t seem to be getting it. They’re not just playing a ghost: they’re actually a ghost. They died while on the ride a few years ago, and have been cursed to remain on this plane, trapped within the boundaries of the haunted house, until they resolve something within themselves and are able to move on. Not only can they not exist freely within your realm, they cannot even leave the ride.
Something in their eyes, their tone, tells you they’re not joking. You don’t want to believe it, but you can’t imagine why someone would make something like that up. You walk away, sadly, wondering whether you’ll ever meet the right person.
It’s only as you’re getting into your car that you start to ask questions. Questions like, how were they able to drink the coffee you bought for them? Or, given the circumstances, isn’t it more likely they’re an actor than a ghost?
A few weeks later you see them, totally fine, eating a chicken parma at a pub in the inner suburbs.
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A Quick Recommendation
This is a very short story featuring Taylor Swift clones, which is silly and slightly disturbing, then somehow hopeful and brutal at the same time.
You’re in love; it’s great, you swipe on your phone and order: the next day a Taylor Swift clone shows up at your house. It’s not awkward, it’s everything you want. She knows all her songs, and she sings them just for you. When you put your Taylor Swift to bed (early, you got a big day tomorrow) you peek over the fence into the Rosenblatt’s yard, and the lights are blazing. Your best friend Tina has three Taylor Swifts swimming in her pool.
The full story, ‘Taylor Swift’ by Hugh Behm-Steinberg, is in Gulf Coast Magazine.
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