Sing, and I’ll come calling, my love!

ghost story 20 min. read

“Sing, and I’ll Come Calling, My Love!”

By Cameron Reese

Chapter 1

            Jonathan and Emily Larsen spent the cold morning together at the beach, alone. They were together, but they were alone. As he was driving home, he thought about this strange phenomenon in life that was being alone with someone else. For all of his life being alone meant to Jonathan that he was isolated, by himself, in the company of one. But today he sat on the towel alongside his bride-to-be as the cold winds of the ocean breeze blew in their hair and he felt a sense of loneliness. It was just the two of them on the silvery sands of a quiet morning beachfront, and he heard her mutter, “We’re all alone.”

            He said nothing to her. He cupped his hands and scooped a palmful of sand and watched it as it was carried away harshly in the wind. We’re all alone. In a sense, Jonathan and Emily, their union, made them one person. A yin and yang of intertwined spirits sitting quietly on the silent stretch of beach looking out at the sea eternal, alone.

            It was a quiet drive home where each of them retreated into their own heads running through thoughts unuttered. She had dark hair and fair skin, and he had the early warning signs of what is referred to as father body. He was chubby, five-o’clock-shadowed, and had trimmed, shorter hair than what he once enjoyed in his youth. She had a perched endo belly, straight hair with no flavor or gusto, and was also a shadow of her former self. When they first started dating years ago, they both appeared very differently as she was blond and curvy and he was as thin as a rail and vivacious, but, through their bond, they have since come to slightly resemble one another.

            “I have a strange question to ask,” she said breaking the silence.

            “Go ahead.”

            “If I died before you, would you remarry?”

            He thought about it for a moment and then answered, “It depends on how old you were, I suppose. If you were young, then yes, I suppose that I would remarry. You can’t expect me to wait around forever, and I would not expect you to do the same.”

He answered her honestly and it upset her. Marriage is the unity of the souls, but through the actions of people denigrating the institution through years of repeated debauchery and lasciviousness, the social stigmas around marriage have decayed to the point where it is overall seen as a brief exercise of utility rather than a function of a greater, everlasting endeavor of the spirit—an assembly of the thing which we call a soul. She sat there quietly sulking.

At this point, he knew her well enough to read her silences. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“You know, my father died when I was really young. My mother was in her forties and she lived out the remainder of her life alone based on the promise that he made to her on his deathbed. He told her that they will meet again in the heavenly meadows. That when she sees the light all she must do is call his name and he’ll come beckoning. She never remarried and I like to imagine that they did meet again somewhere outside of time.”

            “How about this… I want us to die at the very same time. This way, neither of us will die alone. I love you. I want us to be rested in twin deathbeds holding hands as our consciousnesses fade out of existence.”  

  His romantically grim quip elicited a smile, and then they resumed their silence. He entertained her antiquated ideas of romanticism, but his heart was firmly kept with the material world.

            As they were driving down the winding backroads of their suburban neighborhood, which led to their home deep within, they came upon a garage sale where underneath the tented driveway there sat an old woman dressed in black. “Oh, looky-look, a garage sale. Let’s check it out,” she said. The car slowed to a halt and Jonathan looked at the wrinkled old woman who sat alone under the tent with her head shaded by a black bonnet. Upon a quick inspection at the various antiquities bore upon the tables, he surmised, “There’s nothing good here. Nothing interesting, at least. Everything looks old.”

            She said, “I love old things, you never know what kind of traveled past these objects possess.”

            He turned and parked on the side of the lawn. They walked up to the tent and meandered around the tables which were oversaturated with antiques covering every inch of counterspace. Dusty lamps, damp vinyl records, a cobwebby victrola, old watercolors rendering peaks and valleys bound to weatherworn stucco frames, and many more relics piled atop one another.

            Jonathan kept his hands in his pocket as he passively scanned everything with a flare of indifference. A look of, how much longer? rolled over his eyes. Meanwhile, Emily was thumbing through books whose pages were yellow-stained and cracked at the seams. She picked up a dusty collection of M.R. James short stories and wedged it in her underarm until checkout.

            Jonathan nodded to the old woman in black as he strolled over to Emily who seemed to be enjoying herself. “She’s just staring at us,” he whispered. Emily, who was holding a cylindrical whistle which had an engravement in a dead language, slowly peeked over her shoulder and saw the woman staring at them with an eerie smile, frothing.  

She was dressed in a dark gown apt for a prior century, her wrinkles cut deep into her face like the freshly sealed cracks in tar, and her eyes were narrow and bent like the hook of a crescent moon, black all around and cadaverous. She wore too much makeup like a corpse attempting to look animate, but the flies buzzing around her head were unconvinced.

            Emily said, “Golly-gee, you certainly got a lot of neat stuff here, ma’am!” 

            The old woman said “Oh, sweety thank you for saying that. It could all use a new home though.”

            Emily placed the whistle down and looked about the table as Jonathan hovered around her disinterested. He checked his email and social media notifications as his wife participated in the real world. She moved aside a vintage cap gun, which was designed for a child’s use, and she picked up a dusty, brown-stained wooden box. “Oooo,” she said as she opened the top.

            “Look, Jon, it’s a music box.”

            “Oh, yeah?” he said scrolling through his phone (and scrolling through life for that matter) “Sounds nice.”

“My grandmother used to have one like it when she was a little girl, and she gave it to my mother. Look, it opens up and—” out came a melody which sounded distinctly familiar to everyone, it was a sound we’d heard in the crib and have not heard since—a sound that lies dormant in the recesses of our minds. Once you heard it, you knew it. When the top of the box was uplifted, the cylinder within rotated on pins which dragged across a comb inhumed with a tune.

The song played but, try as she might, Emily could not remember the name of the nursery rhyme. Was it sun? Sunshine? She could think all she wanted, but the words escaped her. Sun? Oh, forget it.

“Are you ready to go?” Jonathan scratched the back of his head.

“Yeah, I’m gonna get the music box.”

“Alright, very well. Geez, look at that thing. Could you imagine having to carry that thing with you while you jogged? Seems rather cumbersome, am I right?”

Emily just rolled her eyes. “What? Oh—ha-ha. You know, women didn’t start working out until the 21st century, Jughead.”

They walked up to the old woman who sat in her chair as still as Zoltan in his booth. “Well, I’m ready. How much for the book and this music box?”

The old woman eyed the book and then smiled. “Oh, my love, you have excellent taste in literature. So much so, in fact, that I will part with that one for free.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s very kind. What about the music box?”

“Open it up and allow me to hear it please.”

Emily did as she bade, and when the lullaby chimed from the box and graced her ears, the old woman’s eyes fluttered shut and she swayed her head slowly and rhythmically to the tune humming along. “Oh, sweety, you have such a great taste in music, too. The music it just calls to you. Do you hear it calling to you? Ahh…” She reopened her eyes, they were black like the twisting of dark clouds off the coast, “For you… I’ll part with it free of charge.”

“Really? I’m more than willing to pay something for it. Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, sweety, I’m sure.” She said with solemnity.

“Why are you giving all of this stuff away?”

The old woman said, “I no longer have any use for it. Most of these possessions once belonged to my husband, but, as it has come to pass, he died before me, and I have since been left with the burden of keeping his things intact. I am reminded of him every time I look upon his possessions, and subsequently of the indelible truth which is that I will never see him again. He died years ago, and I can no longer stand the sight of it to be frank. So, take it—take whatever you want. Everything he left behind, all of his Earthly possessions, make me lachrymose—on the brink of tears by every sight. I’ve kept his memory around long enough. In the end, it means nothing, and our memories mean nothing and transcend nothing. Our memories die with the dust in our bones. And don’t forget that, my love.”

“Well, I hope you’re wrong about that. Anyways, I’m sorry for your loss. Thank you so much for the book and the music box, I appreciate it. Come on, Jonathan, let’s go.”

She turned Jonathan around and she led the march back to their car. Her steps were indignant and although her sensibilities struck a morose chord, she breathed away her wants to excoriate the woman and she left unbothered. The old woman mustn’t be blamed since she’s clearly been battered through years of grief and sorrow. Emily vented her frustrations through the density of each step. When she hopped into the car, she turned and looked back at the old woman in black who watched them drive away. The old lady never once moved from her chair.

“That’s sad,” Jonathan said.

“Yeah, I feel sorry for her. But still, I don’t know how she could do that. I mean, why would you want to get rid of someone’s memory? I could never do that. If you get rid of someone’s belongings, it’s as if though there’s no remnants of them left on Earth! Whatever, she seemed strange anyways.”

She lifted the lid of the music box and the rusty cranks winded, and the tune played again. She listened and tried to remember the name of the lullaby, but it still would not come back to her. She’d heard it before many times, and it ate at her that she couldn’t remember.

“What’s that say?” he asked.

“What’s what say?”

“That.” He pointed, “Right there.”

She looked under the lid of the music box and saw an inscription. It was written in a small cursive font which was illegible to the undiscerning eye. She struggled to make out the words at first, but she soon put it together and it all came out at once: “It says, Sing, and I’ll come calling, my love!”

Chapter 2

She left the music box perched on the windowsill looking out to a yellow moon. Jonathan joined Emily in the living room, they were both dressed for bed. He was flossing his teeth as he watched her arrange her new decoration, which, he thought, would become like wallpaper sooner rather than later. Whenever she brought a stray item into the house, it was always the object of desire for a fleeting moment, and then it was relegated to a spot and became décor. Look no further than the record player that has become a bookshelf, or the CDs that have become coasters, or the wooden barrel turned coffee table—all of which were accumulated by Emily’s mild hoarding of antiques. 

“I liked it better above the fireplace—more fitting.”

Emily shrugged at his remark and said “You think so? You think it’d look better on the mantel?”

“Yes, darling, I do.”

She moved it from the windowsill to the mantel and then she assessed its rank among the photos, the metal Cox airplane, the toy Hess truck, the Faberge egg, and the snow globe. Jonathan had his hand deep inside his mouth trying to pluck an old piece of popcorn which sat in the back, rent-free. “Fucker,” he mumbled.

“What do you think?”

“More junk from the past, that’s all I see. You coming to bed or are you going to stay for the show?”

They went to bed, turned out all the lights, and said arrivederci to the day—the time was ten o’clock. Ten o’clock had become orthodoxy since they became engaged.

But only a few hours later did Jonathan awaken in the middle of the night. The light was on in the kitchen, and it shone in through the gap, which struck him perfectly. He rolled around and groaned until, in his haze, he saw a shadow pass by the door whereupon he said, “Come back to bed,” only to discover that Emily still lay beside him.

His senses were aroused quickly, and then he jostled Emily awake. “Babe, wake up. There’s someone in the house.”

Her eyes shot awake; she stood up. Jonathan looked around for a weapon but ultimately settled for his balled-up fists. He led the way as they crept toward the door, silently. With their ears perked, they heard the window slide open and consequently felt a cold gust enter their house. Then, as they heard the commencing of a sound familiar to their ears emanate from the living room, they stopped to share a glance at one another to know if it was true. Yes, yes it was; their eyes told that it was the song! It was the lovely lullaby which chimed from the music box she had found earlier that day.  

When they exited their bedroom, walking with timorous steps, they saw no one was there, but that the living room was well-lit, the window was left open, and the melody from the music box played upon the windowsill and traveled out into the dour night for any wayward souls to hear.

Chapter 3

            The following morning, Emily prepared a larger cup of coffee than they’d usually take in order to make up for their midnight misadventure which woke them at an odd hour and consequently kept them from resting peacefully thereafter. The music box was returned to the mantel, the window was shut, locked, and their lives resumed as though nothing had happened.

            “How’d you sleep last night?”

            Jonathan had his laptop out on the kitchen table, swiping through news articles with his dainty pointer. “Fine enough. Been better I suppose.”

            “Fine? Really? Even after the music box was playing?”

            “Yeah, what of it?”

            “It didn’t creep you out that it started playing on its own?”

            He looked up from the laptop and furrowed his brows. “Is that what you think happened?”

            “Yes, what else could it have been?”

            He laughed and leaned back in his chair folding his arms. “I think it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

            “Not to me.”

            “Someone broke into our house, heard us wake up, and then they fled out through the window.”

            “Really, that’s it? We were burgled and then they left without taking anything? What about the music box? Explain that.”

            “Explain what?”

            “We left it on the mantel before bed, but when we came out, it was on the windowsill, playing.”

            “The burglar probably intended to take it, but left it behind after he saw it had no value. He probably left it on the windowsill after he heard that awful chime and then made his escape. He probably didn’t want it. Who could blame him?”

            “I think it was something else.”

            He scoffed and returned his attention to his laptop, “Of course you do.”

            She sat down with her legs crossed on the chair, “Do you want to know what I think?”

            “No.”

            He didn’t even look at her.

            She shook her head, “Why not?”

            “Because, it’s predictable. You think it was an apparition of sorts that for some reason wanted to play a silly tune on the music box. What good would that do? What does it want to do? Scare us? Why would a ghost want to scare us? It makes little sense. My explanation makes more sense in the real world. Yours is a fantasy brought on by a worldview that refuses to die.”

            Not once did he deign to even look at her while he dismissed her beliefs.

            “Michael is coming by later,” she said.

            “Oh, that’s right. That’ll be good to see him.”

            “I’ll go to the store in a little and get stuff for dinner.”

            “Sure, I’ll go with you.”

            “No, it’s fine. I’ll go by myself.”

Chapter 4

            Michael came over at dusk wielding a bottle of wine and a baguette he purchased at the market. Since the passing of his wife, Alice, he has gained a considerable amount of weight and seldom leaves the house. Sometimes he leaves the window open in case she wants to come home. Michael, like Emily, believes in the ‘supernatural’ (that there are worlds outside of time). In the early part of the 21st century, these views are seen as archaic, but Michael believes that ghosts, sprites, and even the devil all have real world, secular applications; the proof of which has been borne out through the accounts of millions of people spanned over centuries rather than empirical, repeatable processes. Since the crucifixion of Christ, there have been millions of recorded accounts of the supernatural from all walks of life, emanating from every corner of the world, and most of them go unpublished. I’ll leave it to you to believe what you will, but I do not possess the requisite ego to ostentatiously dismiss the testimonies of more than a million people.

            Michael knocked on the door and was received by Emily and Jonathan with welcoming hugs. It’d been a while since they’d seen him, but no matter how much time had elapsed, things recommenced as though they’d only just parted yesterday. They laughed, talked politics, and briefly discussed the incident with the “intruder” as they tentatively called him.

            Dinner was prepared by Emily who insisted that the men stay out of the kitchen lest they ruin a perfectly good meal; as the saying goes, too many cooks. Whilst they ate, the subject of Alice was prompted by Jonathan who asked his friend if he believed he would ever see his love lost too soon again? From then on, he spent the majority of the dinner opining about his unyielding love for Alice, and how he dreaded the uncertainty as to whether he’d see her again. “All I can do it hope, right?” Jonathan encouraged him to seek a new woman and to remarry, but Emily cautioned for more time to pass. She said, “It’s too soon, you do not want to offend the dead.”

            After dinner, as Emily was cleaning dishes in the kitchen just within earshot, she heard Michael humming a vaguely familiar tune. Hmm-hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm; hmm-hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm…. She dropped the silverware into the sink and walked over to where Jonathan and Michael sat.

            “What is that sound?” she asked as she sat down with them at the table. She sat on her legs which were crossed like Lincoln logs.

“Oh, it’s just this song. I’ve had this strange song stuck in my head all day. I heard it in a dream last night and I have since been unable to get it to go away.” Michael said.

“Oh, yes? What is it?”

“It’s an old nursey rhyme, I believe.”

“Well, let’s have it then, go on.” Jonathan said.

Michael took a slight breath, “It goes, ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are grey. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Emily rose from the dinner table and said, “That’s the song! That’s the melody from the music box.”

The whites of Jonathan’s eyes expanded when he realized it was true! “Oh, my… you’re right.”

            She ran over to the mantel and grabbed it and played it for Michael to hear, and he said, “Huh, would you look at that. Vexing. Absolutely vexing.”

            “What was your dream about, Michael?”

            As he thought about it, consternation filled his face, for it was always a struggle to resurrect old dreams. “I can’t quite remember. All I know is that I was back with my wife. And we were walking…”

            “Walking where?”

            “On the sands of a silvery beach. The dunes stretched out far and wide—forever—and we walked the beach, ad infinitum. Just the two of us. We were… alone.”

            “Whoa, that’s creepy.” Jonathan’s brows were raised as the coincidence was uncanny and unexplainable for even the most scrupulously scientific mind.

“Do you know how the song ends?” Michael asked her.

“No, how?”

He cleared his throat and finished it: “The other night dear, as I lay sleeping. I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken, And I hung my head and cried.”

Chapter 5

            Later that night, after Michael bid them farewell, the couple were dressed in pajamas reading their separate books as the fireplace roared on a wintry night. The windows were slightly frosted, the logs crackled and popped, and the cocoa steamed from the mug. The wind whistled against the pane of the window as they were both immersed in their own worlds just feet away from each other on the couch.

            By the strike of the clock ten, Jonathan looked up from his book—something by Descartes which he vaguely understood but could not reiterate—and announced, “Bedtime.” Then, in short order, their books were doggy-eared, set down upon the barrel, latched the window locked tight, and then they made off to bed. Once Emily’s head hit the pillow, she was out like a light and there would be no commotion until morning, but, as we have seen, Jonathan was a light sleeper whose grasp on sleep was as tenuous at best.

            With the shorthand of the clock hovering around the three, Jonathan tossed and turned in bed tormented by the melody of the music box within his dream. Waves crashed on the beach and then retreated on the shore and faintly he heard: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me—and then it faded away. Far away, standing at the peaky slopes of the dune, was the figure of a woman who watched him run from the tide. You make me happy when skies are grey. Dark clouds twisted up above, grey; greyer than the sands on which he ran. No matter how fast he ran, the beach grew longer with every step and slowly the shadowy figure of the woman became more distant—you’ll never know dear, how much I love you. He continued to run until he fell face-first in the sand and sank into the shell-laden Earth. Please don’t take my sunshine away.

            When he awakened, he could still hear the song playing faintly in his head, swirling like the tumultuous thoughts on the morning after a rumbustious bender. But in no sooner than a moment’s time did he realize that the melody did not emanate from his head, but rather from the living room. He turned to the door, which was cracked, and he saw a shadow befall the crevice but there was nobody there.

            He turned to Emily who slept as snug as a bug in summer heat while Jonathan was tormented by the music. He rattled her awake and said, “He’s back.” Her eyes fluttered awake, and she crawled to the edge of the bed.

            Together they crept from their bedroom outside to the living room whereupon they saw the music box was opened and had been again placed upon the windowsill. No one was in the living room, and when they flicked on the lights, the runny shadows vanished. The song came to its crescendo and then ceased. “What the hell is going on?” Jonathan asked.

            Emily looked at him and said, “There’s someone in the house. Whoever it is, is tethered to that music box.”

            “That… that—that can’t be. What the--”

            Emily walked over to the music box and grabbed it but then she suddenly gasped and dropped it onto the floor. Her hands covered her mouth and when she turned to Jonathan, she was ghastly pale and the whites of her eyes glinted. He rushed to her side, and she said, “Look” pointing. Impressed upon the foggy window, there was the unmistakable marking of a handprint.

Chapter 6

            In the morning, just as soon as the sun crept over the trees, and as soon as it was permissible for polite society to wake, Jonathan and Emily got into their car, music box in-hand, and made their way back to the house where they had received the object. They took the winding road through suburbia passing by their neighbor’s picturesque homes. The white of Jonathan’s knuckles shown as he gripped the wheel. Emily held the music box in a towel like a mother would hold baby. 

            “I would like to ask her if she’s ever experienced anything like—”

            Jonathan cut Emily off, “We’re just returning it. No questions asked.” He would not entertain the thought that anything incongruent with his presupposed knowledge of the physical world could be validated. Everything had to have a physical, logical rationale, and what’s simpler is that it had to conform to his own minute knowledge.

            She quieted and put her thoughts back in her pocket. This would be over soon enough, she thought. Once it was over, and Jonathan had peace of mind, things would return to the way they were before—happier. She held out hopes for this much.

            They came around the bend and saw the house where they got the music box. The tent had been cleared and all the possessions were gone away. In their stead, was a parked car on the driveway, red was its color. They parked at the edge of the lawn like they had done before at the garage sale.

            Jonathan brought a pocketknife with him which he pulled out and examined in front of Emily who quivered at its sight. “What are you doing?”

            “Relax, I don’t intend to use it. But I have a strange feeling about this lady and if anything goes awry, I want to be able to protect you.”

            Emily took a deep breath.

“Ready?” he asked.

            They got out of the car and walked up to the pale green house. It was a small house and the lawn was unkempt. The blinds were shut and there was no signs of anyone inside. Jonathan knocked on the door—knock, knock, knock. He kept one of his hands inside his pocket with his thumb rested on the grip of the blade ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

            Within the time it would take to put on one’s slippers and check the peephole, he knocked again impatiently. Then the door opened and out came an old lady dressed in a dark robe, but it was not the woman they had seen at the garage sale.

            “Hello? May I help you?”

            Emily spoke. “Yes, good morning. So sorry to bother you at this early hour but we were sold an item here at a garage sale only a few days ago and we would like to return it.”

            “Garage sale?”

            “Yes, I don’t remember seeing you, but it was definitely here at this house. There was a nice old lady who gave me a music box. I just have a few questions about the item is all.” Her eyes darted to Jonathan.

            “I’m sorry to say but there was no garage sale here.”

            Jonathan chimed in, “No, we’re certain it was here. Is there anyone else who lives here? Anyone else inside? We’d like to see the person who gave us this wretched device.”

            “My name is Marlena Pettigrew. I live here alone—always have. I have owned this property for over two decades now and I can assure you that there has never been a garage sale here. In fact, I’m certain. I am quite the homebody—if there ever was such an event, I would be keenly privy.”

“No, you’re mistaken. I’m sure this was the house. It was just a few days ago. We know it happened for a fact.”

“No, no. It is you who are mistaken. There never was a garage sale here. I should know since I have lived here all my life. There was never a garage sale here, it simply did not happen.”

            Then she shut the door on them abruptly and they were left standing there in the morning breeze, alone.

Chapter 7

            Later that night, after a day spent idle, it came time for Jonathan and Emily to decide on what to do with the music box. They could not sleep another night under the same roof with that wretched, antiquated box, and it was time to either dispose of it once and for all, or to keep it locked up and observe its behavior. It began to rain as they lit a fire in the chimney. Jonathan poked at the logs on the hearth, the fire reflected in his eyes, the sound of thunder crashed nearby.

            Emily brought him the music box and said, “What should we do with it?”

            Jonathan did not want to assert that there was anything chiefly supernatural about the music box’s existence. He was afraid to succumb to certain truths—or mere perceptions of events to say the very least—that would betray everything he hitherto believed. 

            The fire blazed in the windows of his soul, “Let’s burn it.”

            Emily handed him the music box. “Alright, you do it then.”

            “It doesn’t mean anything. Destroying this object doesn’t affirm that I believe there’s anything more to the world that we cannot see around us. It’s just an old piece of wood with metal inside, there’s a crank that winds and through human innovation it makes a sound.”

            He threw the music box into the fire and watched it burn. They both did, alone.

            “They glued pieces of wood, they attuned the chimes, and created hinges for the lid to open. They polished it, engraved it, and then sold it in mass quantities and by virtue of luck this one survived long enough to find itself in our possession. Anything that happened during the span of the music box’s life bears no significance to the item now; it means nothing. Any uncanny circumstances that arise in its presence are apropos of nothing. It’s a piece of wood, we’re the ones who attach value or place meaning to things which can then distort our view of objective truth. In the end, it means nothing.”

            Knock, knock, knock. 

            Just as soon as he finished talking, they both heard a knocking at the front door. Thunder crashed, rain pelted the pane of the windows, and they looked at each other, perturbed. “Answer it,” she whispered.

            Jonathan walked over and answered the door. When he opened it, he saw there was an old man dressed in a grey suit with an umbrella at his side. He was soaking wet as he stood on the stoop out of the rain. His hair was grey, his wrinkles cut deep into his skin, but he had a pleasant, elderly smile on his face. He was a docile old man with easy eyes, unthreatening in his manner and even more gracious in his speech.

            “Good evening, sir, I am sorry to disturb you, but my car has just broken down. It couldn’t have happened at a more inopportune time, as the rain has decided to come down in buckets—ha-ha! Umm, say, I do not wish to be an imposition upon you, sir, but I would greatly appreciate it if you would be so kind as to let me use your telephone. I have to call my wife.”

            “It is very late. I don’t know…”

            “Please, sir, can’t you find it in your heart to help a wayward traveler such as myself?”

            Jonathan examined the old man and concluded he was, being of slight proportions and doddering where he stood, of no harm physically and by all detection seemed to be earnest in his request. “Sure, it’s no big deal. Come inside, get warm.”

            “Splendid! Thank you for your graciousness, sir—ha-ha!” his laugh was senile.

            “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

            “Why that would be most agreeable, sir—ha-ha.”

            Emily watched on from afar.

“What’s your name?” Jonathan said.

            “My name?”

            “Yes…”

Emily approached them and as soon as she saw the man’s face, she became sickly pale and immediately went quiet.  

            “Oh, great Scott! What a lovely wife you have here, sir. Is it miss, or misses? I do not wish to be undue in any form.”

            She didn’t answer. Jonathan spoke for her, “Miss for now, but we’re engaged to be married.”

            “Very good, very good. You know, my wife looked as fair as you once did. Of course, she’s older now, but… That reminds me—ha-ha—I am here for a reason.”

“Come to the kitchen, we’ve a landline you can use… would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Oh, very much, my lad, I would appreciate that.”

“How do you take it?”

“As the Lord intended it, sir, as black as it is found in nature.”

Jonathan and the old man sat at the kitchen table as Emily prepared coffee for them in their Keurig machine. Jonathan crossed his legs and leaned back, the old man smiled and then pulled out from within his breast coat pocket a silver time piece whose ruffled ticking became cohesive and clear when it was let to breath. He noted the time and then placed it back.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Jonathan asked.

“I do, but I am in no particular hurry. Well, better late than never, right? Ooo—ha-ha.”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It just sort of gave out on me. You could say it just quit. We stopped dead in the street. I was able to—ha-ha—get her a little out of the ways, you know? But I have little doubts that we’ll be delayed too long.”

“Can I help? I don’t know much about cars, but sometimes—is this a new car? What kind of car do you drive?”

“Compared to the automobiles I saw in your driveway I’d say mine is of a prehistoric model. I doubt though, polite as it is of you to offer, that you would be of any useful service to an old fogy like me. Not to cause offense, but merely to say that—ha-ha—you’re probably not accustomed to vehicular antiquities.”

Jonathan smirked at Emily and said, “No, I’m not the biggest fan of antiques. So, what brings you out this way?”

“I am looking for my wife. She’ll be missing me, but I will see her soon enough. When I was young, younger than you, I was always in such a hurry. Never thinking if I slowed down, so too would time. You see time moves at our own pace. Be patient and savor every minute of it.”

Emily handed Jonathan his cup and then she placed the old man’s mug on the table and in a very guarded motion, she slid it in his vicinity. He picked it up with a courteous smile, “Much obliged, milady.” Emily remained quiet throughout the duration of their chat.

“You’re looking for her?” Jonathan said as he sipped his coffee from the piping mug.

“Yes, yes, that’s right.”

“Where is she?”

“Oh, she’s not far. I am a bit late you could say, but what’s a few minutes more?—ha-ha. Once I give her a call, she’ll come here and help me out and we’ll be on our way. Once I have my tools, that is.” The old man touched the mug and moved it in his palms for warmth, but he did not drink from it.

“Oh, yeah, would you like to call her? Our phone is right there.”

“Yes, of course. But might I first excuse myself to the towel room? I would hate to catch a cold. The draft in here is already alarming the hairs on my body.”

“Sure, go right ahead. The bathroom is past the living just down the hall that way.”

“Thank you, sir. Apologies for having dragged mud into your clean house—ha-ha. Okay, then, I’ll be right back.”

The old man tremored as he rose, but he proudly stood upon his own strength. He nodded as he bid adieu and then turned and walked away. His steps were wet and sounded as he walked on the tile. As soon as he got up and left for the bathroom, Emily stood up and made sure he was out of earshot when she spoke.

            “What’s the matter?”

            She looked at him and said, “Jonathan, that man is dead.”

            “What? What are you talking about?” Jonathan was confused.

            “He’s not alive, he’s not even really here right now. He’s just passing through this plane temporarily.”

            “What are you talking about? How do you know that?”

            “Because, that’s my father.”

            “What? How do you know? You said he died when you were little.”

            “He looks like he’s aged, but there’s no mistaking his face. That is him.”

            “What’s he doing here?”

“You heard him. He said he has to call his wife. He said he’s looking for his wife. She’s been singing to him, calling to him from the music box and now he’s here for her.”

            “What? No…”

            “Remember? What did the inscription read?”

            Jonathan cleared his throat, “It said, ‘Sing, and I’ll come calling, my love.’”

            “And now he’s here. He’s come calling.”

            Jonathan stood up and he followed his wet footprints to the bathroom. The light was on and he could hear commotion coming from behind the closed door; slight whispers and subtle movements.

            “What are you going to do?” she whispered.

            “I don’t know. I just need to know for sure.” He saw shadows moving inside the bathroom by the light under the crack of the door.

Jonathan checked the knob, it was loose, unlocked. Emily nodded her head. He twisted the knob and when he opened the bathroom door, he saw the old man was standing with his arms wrapped around the petite frame of a ghastly thin and bleachly pale woman. They looked into each other’s eyes and relished their embrace. She stood a foot shorter than he and looked up into his adorning eyes. 

            The old man told her, “My how I have missed you, my love.”

            “I’ve missed you, too. I always knew that you’d come for me.”

            “Yes, of course I would. I’ve been looking for years, but I never gave up on you. I walked this realm hither and thither searching for you, never relinquishing hope. Had I not found you, I would have walked forevermore. No journey could be complete without you, my love, lest you be the journey itself.”

            Emily and Jonathan held each other tightly, their countenances pale and bewildered, and they watched the old man reconnecting with his love—the woman tethered to his spirit, voluntarily bound to one another.

            Then the thin, pale lady asked, “Who are they?” And they turned and looked at Jonathan and Emily.

            “They are what we leave behind.”

Then the old man pulled his woman, the love of his life and thereafter, in tightly and laid a passionate kiss upon her lips as though he was a younger man. They kissed with the tenacity of younger people, their spirits, no longer barred by the physical constraints of this world, bled through and showed their true essence.

            Jonathan and Emily stood there awestruck and watched them slowly vanish into thin air as the music box’s springs crackled and burned in the fire.