In the post-Thanksgiving spirit, I am reposting this.
GHOST STORY! (Basically)
And there, on the porch of his decrepit farmhouse, I told the old man about the girl I had met the night before. Elizabeth. And how Elizabeth and I had spent the most romantic evening together.
“And then when I woke up, she was gone,” I said. “I never even got a chance to say goodbye.”
The old man leaned against the rotting door frame as if it were the only way to keep from falling over.
“That’s impossible,” he said. “Elizabeth was my daughter…and she died in a fire twenty years ago!”
We stood in silence for a while until it was impossible to hold it any longer. I burst into laughter.
“I’m just fucking with you!” I said. “One of the other townees told me about it.”
I went on to explain that really I was just stopping by to ask him if he knew of any place in town that served a decent cup of coffee – something strong, but the old man suddenly didn’t feel like talking.
As I sped away in my Ferrari, I thought about the old man’s parting words – something about “Karma” whatever that was.
“Sounds like the name of some Indian God or something,” I thought. And then: “Indian food sounds good. Really expensive Indian food.”
