Equally Unhelpful Words

Of all the times Linus could start believing in ghosts, he hadn’t considered during brilliant daylight. Ghosts were of darkness. Of shadows and chancery. They were tricksters and mirrors, not the inhabitants of a sun-swamped canyon in the middle of nowhere. Too bad no one had told the ghost that.

He sat on a rock with his feet in the weeds. No, the weeds were in his feet. They poked through his boots as he stared glumly at nothing. He hadn’t said anything, and yet Linus couldn’t have missed him. When the ghost drew a breath, the canyon itself breathed for the man.

Swept past with the sorrow of the condemned.

“Hello?” Linus tilted his head, trying to gather the man’s attention. Could he gather a ghost’s attention? Just because he could see the ghost did not mean the ghost could see him. The man raised his head, staring at Linus with hollow eyes.

“You’re here,” He stood, a jagged movement that ended in a half hopeful slouch. “You see me. You hear me.”

“Yes, and apparently you can do the same.” Linus tucked his hands behind his back. Had he wanted the ghost’s attention?

“You must warn them.” The ghost stepped toward him, the ground trembling beneath his foot.

Linus staggered back. “Warn them? Warn who of what?”

“You must warn them,” the ghost repeated. He reached a translucent hand toward Linus and vanished.

Linus spun about, expecting the man to appear again. Ghost did that, right? Appear and disappear? The canyon remained stubbornly empty of apparitions.

Linus flung his arms out and screamed into the canyon. “Warn who? Of what?” His voice echoed his frustration. He stared at the empty rock, wondering if sitting on it would bring inspiration. Or would he in turn would haunt another with equally unhelpful words.