14 minutes and 32 seconds. That's how long it took for me to die.
Death was not an option for me. I was set up. I know the amount of time it took me to die because I could only lie there and stare at my watch as the blood pooled around my body. I could hear the voices around me waiting for me to die. That rat bastard Dunston wanted to buy me out, now he has the business. I hope it fails.
Dunston was my partner in a small real estate company, which was on it way up. I had worked my ass off to get lucrative clients while he dabbled in fixer-uppers. I had mentioned once that I wanted to move on to something else and he must have taken it too literally.
For the most part Dunston was a schmoozer with weasel tendencies. I became partners with him because he had the capitol needed to get us up and running. We studied business together, thankfully we never dated but we did somehow maintain a friendship. Dunston didn't have many or any friends that I knew of; he was for sake of a better word, different. You could even say he was dark.
So now I lay there on the fringes of continuation only able to watch in my ethereal form. Ethereal, I never knew what it really meant until I joined the ranks. It's really not so bad now, you get used to it after a while. I don't see that white light you hear about. It's pretty much the same as when I was still alive, except the coffee doesn't stay down as well.
I would have to say that the most difficult part of being dead is not being able to interact with others. I should clarify: others, the ones that can still breathe. My fellow apparitions are easy to see and converse with but most are tormented spirits. They ruin the party.
I'm not quite sure if this is heaven or hell or if I'm trapped between dimensional planes, they don't give you a handbook. It's more of a "learn as you go" kind of thing. I've learned that yelling at the living doesn't work, they can't hear you or won't hear you, and I'm not quite sure which it is yet. I've learned to move objects. At first it was a desperate attempt to communicate now it's just for something fun to do. People don't believe in ghosts and I really can't blame them, I didn't until now. Then again, no one really plans on becoming one, you either believe you go up or down or into space.
The nice thing is that I was well dressed at the time of my demise. That's what you wear for this internment not what you are buried in so make sure you listen when mom says to wear clean underwear. I was wearing my favorite navy pinstripe suit with a power tie, my black pumps were the only thing missing. The newcomers flock to me thinking I'm a cruise director for the Great Beyond. They look so sad when I tell them I know as much as they do maybe a little more. I'm not sure what the date is, time is conceptually different now. I can make approximations based on what's going on in the living world as to seasons and holidays.
Christmas is strange in itself. Mr. Dickens' concept was close because there are the souls that are in the throes of expiation making wretched attempts to right the wrongs of their past lives. It's a different level of perdition for them but who makes the judgment calls is still unknown to me. Sometimes they are able to intervene and that leads them closer to the theoretical or theological apotheosis we've become accustomed to as humans. It's the chance for redemption before final damnation. These were bad folks in real life.
The really evil ones you learn to steer away from altogether. They are easily recognizable as ugly shapeless black entities, for a better description. You can feel them when they are close by and even in death they can make you shudder. They have no desire to be saved and move on; they are quite content to continue inflicting agony on innocent victims. And, they stink. It's like a year old Easter egg that was encased in dog shit, tossed in the compost heap and set on fire.
I stay close to my old haunts, no pun intended. Familiarity affords some comfort and seeing friends and family is some provision of solace. It can also be frustrating. You see, I can't move on to whatever the next level is since I was murdered. Until my killer is found and punished I'm stuck here. The drawback is that no one realizes I was murdered and so the hunt for the guilty is not taking place.
**********
The set up was perfect. I received a call from Dunston to meet him at an address to check out a potential sale. The house was located on the outskirts of the city and hidden from the main road. It was winter and we had a dangerous ice storm a few nights prior to my visit. I was hesitant about going there but he was insistent and I had all wheel drive.
Finding the house was easier than I anticipated. There was a long driveway that led to a foreboding old mansion. "He's got to be kidding." I thought to myself. There had better be something inside that would make the house marketable, imported wood, marble, all the embellishments one would desire in such a manor. I was glad I wore my boots when I cautiously approached the front steps. I didn't see Dunston's car so I took a chance that the front door may be opened. Soon as my hand turned the doorknob and I was able to gain entrance I felt a sense of something menacing.
Inside was dark and I had to remove my sunglasses. The sun was out today and was reflecting off of the ice-encrusted snow and creating rivers of slush. As my eyes adjusted to the light of the room I could see the house had been closed for a while but someone had begun to make minor repairs. Drop cloths shrouded furniture and a ladder stood in the center of the room. Off to the left was a staircase that wrapped around to a larger landing that led to a few doors.
I was just about to go through the main room to a doorway I assumed led to a pantry or kitchen when I heard a noise upstairs. I stopped in my tracks and listened carefully. Quiet. My adrenaline kicked in and I started to get a cold chill. Probably an animal that's just as frightened as I am, I told myself. I resumed my exploring when I heard the noise again, a shuffling sound of some sort. I was now curious as well as unnerved and decided to find the source of the noise.
I wasn't afraid of the unknown because I believe that everything can be explained. I inherited that from my father, he was an anthropologist and unlocking mysteries was his forte. He taught me everything had a cause and effect, nothing was without reason. It's ironic in a way because he didn't believe in ghosts. Here I am, proof positive that they do exist.
Climbing the staircase, I made a list of possibilities in my head of what could be making the noise. After all, the house was old and could be settling, I had already presumed the possibility of animals or maybe a vagrant had been seeking shelter. The realtor in me was rather impressed by the intricately carved staircase. It was a dark cherry wood probably imported and matched the wood panels that lined the walls.
I was looking up at the ceiling when I stepped down on a weakened board. My foot easily punched through to my ankle causing my boot to get hung up in the splintered wood. My knee jammed against the next stair and I went down hard hitting my chin off the stair above that one. I could taste the blood in my mouth and the stinging in my leg. What pissed me off the most was that I had just put on a new pair of stockings for a meeting later with a new client. I can imagine the impression I would make to him.
I was trying to get my bearings when I heard footsteps in the hallway above me. Looking up I could see nothing moving. If that bastard Dunston was playing a joke on me I was going to rip him a new asshole.
"Hey! Smartass. Jokes over come and help me, I've hurt my leg." I yelled.
There was no reply.
"This isn't funny now, my foot is stuck and I'm not sure if it's broken or not."
Still no reply.
Now I was really pissed and I had to spit out the blood welling in my mouth, I had knocked out a tooth as well as biting a hole in my lip. My tears were a mix of pain and anger streaming down my cheeks. I tried to wrench my foot from the hole and in doing so lost my boot.
