A Phantasm of You: Third Day, Morning

It took some time for the knocking at the door to register. The gin haze clouded everything; I couldn’t think clearly. I opened my eyes and couldn’t see much of anything except what might have been wood grain.

Why did you kill me, Sam?

“Shut up, Becky. Just… shut up. Let me be.”

The knocking at the door came again, insistently. I stood and supported myself against the clock. You were still sitting on the bench. I staggered to the door. Opening it, I threw my hand in front of my eyes against the light.

“Mr. Jameson? Mr. Sam Jameson?” the constable asked.

“Yes. How can I help you, officer?”

“You filed a missing person report last night. We’re here to get some more details.”

Why did you kill me, Sam?

I swung to face you. “Shut up, you fucking harpy! Get back in your fucking grave and stay there!

Those were the last words I ever said to you. I never set foot in that house again, never again saw the grave I dug for you in the back garden, was never again troubled by a phantasm of you.

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