ghostbecomesyou

Ghost Becomes You

Pastor Cooper regarded himself in the rearview mirror of his black 2009 Lincoln Sedan. A smile formed over his face. It had been a fantastic day. How marvelous that in seven days of fundraising the church had been able to raise much more than they'd anticipated. Call it nothing short of a miracle. Whenever he experienced success he looked happier. He didn't know in what way, but just that his face almost seemed to shine, as a slot-player's might soon after hearing the buzzer indicating that they'd hit the jackpot.

He was nearing forty. Everyone—wife, friends and parishioners—would often tell him that he didn't look it. Though he certainly felt it. Every time for instance he'd walk up the stairs, he'd feel short of breath. Blame it on smoking—two packs a day. He was now going on his tenth year.

Then there were the stresses of running a large church—five thousand members, and still counting. Not to mention the numerous meetings, classes, and other commitments required of any member of the clergy. In the beginning—that had been a decade before, soon after he'd graduated from a well-respected university with a Master's in Theology—his job had been fun, fulfilling, and much less stressful. Those were his salad days, and he'd thought that they'd last forever. Now, into his second decade with the church, things just didn't seem as interesting—he supposed that if one ate the same thing every day, even if it were good, one would get bored eventually).

Today was the first week of December, the ideal time for fundraising. The holidays were fast approaching, and those who didn't regularly give to the church—he liked to term these folk “half-believers”—still gave, though much less than those who did so regularly.

Nonetheless, the past month had been quite good. A quarter of a million dollars. That's what he'd raised. Not a bad sum, considering that the record had been one hundred thousand. Now there was enough money to finally fulfill his lifelong dream of taking an around-the-world cruises and have that Rolex he'd always wanted.

He'd once had a friend. Michael Stanton had been his name, and he was the richest man this side of the hemisphere, with a net worth of over fifty-six million dollars. There was something Mike had told him which he'd never forgotten, and that is, never be satisfied with the successes you've achieved thus far. In other words, keep going for more. “Don't be complacent when you think you've reached the top,” he'd told him, “for there's no such thing as the summit when it comes to success.”

He was glad to be going home after such a taxing day. Finally, he'd get to rest. Soon after finishing watching a rerun of the ten o'clock news, he'd lumber to his room, lay his head on the bed, and delve into sleep. He was sure he'd sleep like a baby on this night, and for the next few ones, especially after having raised so much money. For the past several weeks his sleep had been sound—sweet and deep—uninterrupted by the dark dreams of the less financially fortunate days when at night he'd often dream of bill collectors calling him in the wee hours of the morning, making unreasonable demands of him to pay the outstanding invoices or else, they'd throw him in a bottomless pit if he didn't pay the hundreds of millions that were owed. Of course, he didn't know anyone anything—thank God—yet that did no good in ridding from within him the fear of someday finding himself in financial insolvency, very incapable of meeting money obligations.

He exited the car and shut the door. He walked several yards before reaching the front door to his condominium. At the intercom he dialed his apartment. “Honey, you there?”

No answer.

Maybe she wasn't home yet, or perhaps she was taking a shower or watching Oprah at full volume and hadn't heard the buzzer.

He tucked his hand into his pocket and retrieved the key.

He unlocked it and entered. Immediately he was greeted with a cool breeze of air. Outside it was a brutal ninety-six degrees, and then there was the humidity, which he guessed to be at least eighty percent.

He made his way through the lobby and hesitated as soon as he reached the elevator. He thought he'd left the envelope—the one with the four thousand in cash—in the car. Moments later, however, he realized that the money lay in his inside coat pocket.

He pushed the button. The door opened and he entered.

Here inside it was even cooler than in the lobby. His mind instantly wandered to one evening fifteen summers before, the night of his visit to the morgue for identification of his mother's corpse after she'd been crushed almost beyond recognition in a car accident. The temperatures had hovered around ninety-five degrees throughout most of the afternoon. By nightfall, it had cooled down somewhat, though not by much, and when he stepped into the morgue, it had felt as though he'd been instantly stepping into a refrigerator after spending time at the beach. He shuddered at the thought that the memories of that day had suddenly resurrected.

The elevator reached the third floor and he stepped out.

The hallway was just as cold as in the lift. The darn condo association. He'd wait until tomorrow to call them and vent his anger.

As he made his way towards the door, he thought he'd heard a sound coming from behind.

He turned.

No one.

He turned and continued.

Then he felt it.

A cold hand around his neck.

“Shut the hell up,” said a voice, “or else I'm gonna kill you.” Cooper noticed how much his breath stank, as though he hadn't washed his mouth in ten years, but only for a second, since he'd quickly realized the gravity of his situation.

Heart beating furiously, sweat pouring down his cheek, he was convinced that he was living the last moments of his life.

“I know you're a corrupt preacher—and you know it, too.” The assailant sighed. “I want you to do something for me today.”

Cooper felt a finger touch his lower back. A soft, gentle pinch. Then another. This time it hurt. He hadn't felt in as much pain since his wife threw an iron at him two weeks before and it landed on his arm.

He wanted to turn and look at his assailant but fought the urge; Cooper feared that he'd plunge the object further into him. Instead he said, “You're hurting me, young man.”

“Hurry—open the door.”

Cooper tucked his hand into his left pocket before remembering that the key was in his right pocket. “Let me try my other.”

“Hurry!” the assailant repeated.

Cooper fished the key seconds later. He inserted it in the lock and turned.

The door opened, and immediately he was thrown into his apartment.

He fell to the floor. He felt relieved that he'd put in carpet two weeks ago. Otherwise his head would've been crushed into pieces.

Dazed, all Cooper could said, “Please don't.”

“Just shut up, preacher boy!”

“We can talk this—”

“I won't hurt you—promise—but only if you do as I say. You understand?”

Cooper nodded.

“Good. Let's begin.”

It suddenly occurred to him that he'd seen the assailant somewhere before—perhaps an attendee at one of his sermons. About six feet tall, he couldn't have been more than eighteen. Blue denim jeans. Yellow shirt. Glasses, the lenses of which were a bit too large for his disproportionately small face. On his feet a pair of black suede shoes.

“Have we…met before?” Cooper said wearily.

“Went to a sermon of yours once. Walked to the front after you said you wanted all those who wished to repent to come forward.”

Cooper turned, and he was face to face with the assailant. He held Cooper with a hand, while holding a gun, pointed downwards, with the other.

He also noticed a bad stench coming from the young man's body, which was worse than his breath. He figured he hadn't bathed in at least twelve years.

The stranger smiled. “I have a special request to make. Do you hear me?”

Cooper nodded yet said nothing.

“My girlfriend's in the hospital.” He coughed (My God, that breath!). “Doctors say she's due to die any day now.” He paused. “What I want you to do is heal her. You hear me?”

Cooper asked, “What's your name, young man?”

“James.”

“Mind if I call you Jim?”

The assailant nodded.

“I'm going to be honest with you.”

Suddenly there was silence.

“I'm hearing you,” said Jim.

“If you heal her I won't harm you.”

“Son, I don't understand. What do you expect me to do? I can't exactly work miracles.”

“I heard you've performed many.”

He didn't want to tell the young man that they'd been merely tricks that virtually anyone with a reasonable amount of practice could do. Instead he said, “Yeah, but they don't work all the time.”

The assailant shook his head. “You let me do the talking—you hear me?!”

Cooper was silent.

“Remember when I told you I went to the front of the church?”

Cooper nodded.

“I'd killed a former friend—that's what I'd wanted to confess.”

Cooper's eyes widened. “You murdered him?”

“I sent you a three-hundred-dollar check two weeks ago,” the assailant recounted. “A good two weeks' pay for me—flip burgers at McDonald's. I only did it because I'd thought you could work miracles. Asked for your help in saving my girlfriend's health.”

“And?”

“And nothing came out of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's dead…or rather, dying in the hospital.” A pause. “Which leads me to believe that ninety-nine point nine percent of you are corrupt. But you—”

“So what is it you'd like me to do?”

“Heal her.” The assailant took out a phone from inside his pocket. He handed it to Cooper. “If you don't I'm going to kill you.” The voice was somber. “Have a look.”

The girl sat cross-legged on a bed. She was attractive, about twenty, with long silky black hair. Her complexion a wonderful tone of olive. Her eyes either blue or green, couldn't tell. Mona Lisa smile. Woman full of enigma and wonder.

Her too he'd seen somewhere, though the memory of when and where failed him.

“Handsome girlfriend you have there.”

Jim shook his head. “Yeah, man. I agree she's beautiful.” He paused. “I don't know what I'd do without her.” A tear fell down his cheek. “I'm gonna have you pray, and you'll make her well again.”

Cooper was about to say something when the assailant lifted the gun and pointed it at him. “I want you to get started now.”

Cooper noticed the effeminacy in Jim's voice, something he hadn't since he'd first spoken. In addition, there was in the air an uncanny sense of déjà vu. He was certain that he'd been in this situation before, though where and when he was unsure.

“I'm sorry about your girlfriend,” he told Jim, “but I cannot guarantee that she'll be healed.” He paused. “We can only try.”

A smile—just as much a grin as a smile—instantly appeared on the assailant's face.

Cooper bent. He shuddered at the thought of what would happen if the prayer didn't result in a miracle, what fate awaited him. He joined his hands, then raised them to his mouth. “Shall we begin?”

“Begin,” commanded Jim, the grin still on his face.

“Father, I ask that you save this young woman, this…” He paused. “What's her name, by the way?”

“Her name's Betsy—go tell the man upstairs that you want Betsy to be healed.” He was now waving the gun in circles. “Go on.”

“Please spare Betsy the pain and deliver her from the teeth of death.” Cooper closed his eyes. He bit his lower lip. “You have worked countless other miracles throughout history. May you show your presence in this act.”

“Continue.”

“I'm afraid I can't guarantee that your gir—”

“I said heal her,” Jim pressed, his tone its loudest yet.

What did this kid want—a miracle? He'd seen many during his lifetime—many in his own church. But the thing is, they'd been fixed. In one, a man sat on a chair, claiming to have one leg shorter than the other, a congenital defect that had supposedly made him the butt of countless jokes.

On the day he'd “stretched” the man's leg, making it seem to the numerous gullible folks present on that day as if it had lengthened on its own. In fact, it was an old magician's effect; the shoe had been taken off and slightly pulled out. In another, a woman claiming to have cataracts arrived on stage in the hopes of a “miracle.” Naturally, she'd had no cataracts—her vision had been perfect to begin with. This she'd told him on the day he'd recruited her from a local homeless shelter—twenty dollars and a voicemail number for a year had done the trick. She'd ended up being “healed,” too. Everything, of course, had been a fabrication. In both cases, he'd said a blessing, adding music for effect, before placing his hands on the subject and wham—mission completed. It had worked well every time—continued to work to this day.

Here he could do no miracle, however. The young man's girlfriend was dying and he had perhaps at most ten minutes to try to save her; this time, there would be no acting.

“What's her name?” Cooper asked, simultaneously eyeing the gun held tightly in the assailant's hand. “Where is she and what is she afflicted with?” Not that he cared—he just wanted to gain time.

“Her name's Elizabeth. She'd been upset with me about coming to home late one night—thought I'd been with another woman. I tried to tell her that wasn't the case, but she didn't believe me. Then, at night, while we were sleeping, she woke up, went to bathroom, where she swallowed some sleeping pills and bleach.”

“Not a good idea.”

“I agree,” said Cooper, trying to imbue his voice with sympathy.

When Cooper opened his eyes moments later, he noticed that the grin on Jim's face was gone, though a look of anger was evident in his eyes, as though he were on the brink of a nervous breakdown. Convinced that he was on the verge of death, Cooper silently said a prayer for himself, asking God to at least spare him the pain.

Jim dug into his pocket. He produced a cellphone. “I want you to call her…now.” He held it out to Cooper.

“Sure.” Cooper put the phone to his ear and listened. He heard it ring several times before someone picked up.

“Hello?” the preacher said wearily.

He heard crying, as though someone on the other end was also being the victim of an assault, yet it was a soft crying, definitely that of a woman.

“Press the speakerphone!” commanded Jim.

Cooper moved the phone away from his ear, then regarded the buttons. A novice to cellphones—he'd only had once in his life, three years before, and had renounced it shortly afterwards after the company tried to screw him on the contract—he was unsure as to which button to press.

“It's the green one.”

There was only one that was green, on the upper right-hand corner. He pressed it.

The soft cries now filled the room. But whoever was on the other line didn't—or wasn't able, perhaps—to talk. Just murmurs softly.

“She thought I was sleeping with someone else. I told her no, that I'm not. But that's the truth. She swallowed the bleach and pills anyway.”

“Son, I don't know if I can help you.”

“You listen to me, you bastard!” He saw Jim's grip on the gun tighten. “I want you to heal my woman. I want you to do it fast.”

“Son, I'm afraid you might have a case of mistaken identity.”

Moments later the line went dead.

“You see what you've done! You caused her death! You killed her!”

“No!” Cooper screamed back at him.

“You caused her death. You're a fake preacher, that's what you are!”

“So, I really tried to help”

“Now what if I shoot you right here and now? Is that what you want?” He approached Cooper. He raised the barrel of the gun to Cooper's temple. “Do you want me to blow your brains out?” he repeated. “Is that what you'd like?”

“Why I certainly wouldn't,” Cooper replied. “I'm sure you wouldn't want to, either.” He paused. “So why don't you just let me go and I'll forget this thing ever happened?”

Jim frowned as his arm dropped to the side.

Moments later Cooper knew it would happen. He'd die, and he'd die at the hands of a lunatic. Throughout his life, he'd always wondered how he'd die. Only God of course knew for sure. In any case he didn't want to die this way, didn't want to be the victim of a murder. He'd always wanted to die either in his sleep or when—if he'd ever get it—while sick, preferably on Alzheimer's so that he'd never realize what had hit him.

Jim lifted the gun to Cooper's chest, then moved it around slowly, until it was pointing at his heart. “What if I shoot at your heart right now? Would you like that?”

Of course he wouldn't. “Please…don't,” Cooper replied, his body trembling.

Jim slapped him with the free hand—a hard slam that stopped the body from shaking, but which also caused him to see dozens of floating silver dots in front of him.

“You better listen to me!”

He was.

Again, the assailant lifted his hand.

An idea occurred: there remained no chance at reasoning with the young man. Either Cooper took action or be dead soon.

Granted, he had enough time—what little there was—to push away the hand holding the gun, he was certain that he'd make a move as soon as the first opportunity presented itself.

“Now is time to kill you,” said Jim. There was a tinge of sadness and resignation to his voice. “Now is your time to go.”

Cooper grabbed the gun while moving to the right. He was half convinced that he'd be shot at that moment. Fortunately, the element of surprised often worked wonders, and it worked here, since the young man's grip hadn't been as tight on the weapon as Cooper had expected, allowing the preacher to grab it.

Cooper held it in his hand, pointing it directly at his assailant. “I'm sorry I have to do this to you, young man, but you're just too stubborn.”

He pulled the trigger.

There was a loud “No!” from Jim as he fell. Cooper knew he'd die instantly. After all—who could survive a shot at pointblank range?

Cooper diverted his attention away from his assailant for a brief moment, time during which he was convinced that the attacker would retake possession of the gun and then shoot him pointblank range. Then closed his eyes. A deep silence enveloped the room. He squirmed.

When he reopened them he saw that Jim lay on the floor, mouth wide-open, eyes half closed. Cooper thought he noticed the assailant's arm, the only which had held the gun only moments before, move slightly. It could've been a simple reflex. After all, he recalled from trips to his grandmother's house when he'd seen her slaughter chickens and ducks, it was not uncommon for them to still move their legs even after their heads had been chopped off. He was unsure as to whether such applied to humans as well, though he supposed it did.

Cooper saw the other hand move inches from the floor, and a shudder rose up his spine. Was his assailant still alive? After taking a bullet to the chest at pointblank range? Certainly not. Couldn't be possible. Not in a million years.

He considered firing another shot, but then thought how much he hated shooting. Didn't want to have to clean up a messy scene. He supposed that he could kick him in the head instead until he was incapable of ever waking up, but who knows how hard the assailant's head was.

“My God,” Cooper said to himself silently. “I just killed a man.”

He bent. He slowly reached out a hand to Jim's neck.

The young man was dead. That he could be sure…

He noticed a shadow pass over the body. It all happened quickly.

And then the room instantly became cold.

He looked at his assailant, horrified that he'd killed someone.

Still dazed and bleeding, he went to the home telephone on his desk and dialed 911.

Another shadow, this one passing over the body even more quickly. For some reason he pictured a crow; that's what passed over a body in many a horror movie. He had a phobia for birds. Never liked them, even colorful, small birds, and even parrots that talked.

“My God,” he repeated to himself.

He took a step back. His hands were shaking—his body no longer, just his hands this time. He'd forgotten that he was still holding the photo of the assailant's girlfriend in his hand.

And then something totally unexpected happened.

The body changed into someone else.

The transformation had been quick and sudden—perhaps two seconds at most. First, the body had become shorter, then the face changed, then the body. The last feature to change was the complexion.

Mouth wide open, he approached the body, in spite of the fear within him.

Then he remembered the picture in his hand.

What in the world?

He hesitated.

He'd seen many weird things during his ministry, but nothing as weird as this—a body suddenly morphing itself into someone else.

Was it the woman who'd just died?

Or someone else?

He regarded the picture in his hand.

The women in the photo and on the floor were the same.

Was this all real, a dream, or a hallucination?

Forget about a dream; this seemed too real. And forget about a hallucination. He'd never hallucinated. He considered himself of strong mind, had never drunk, never smoked, and never taken any drugs besides aspirin, so why now all of a sudden?

Most likely this was all real.

If it was all a hallucination, then he'll never forget his brush with death and his battle with a young man who'd instantly turned into a girl.

Or were they both one and the same?

Seconds later he noticed as the lines in the face slowly disappeared.

He stepped back. What the hell?

And then the body became thinner, and healthier. The color of the skin changed as well, becoming lighter, though not by much.

About a minute passed before he realized the specter before him was someone whom he knew.

It's me! It's me!

Andy Echevarria has short stories published or forthcoming in such publications and e-zines as Great Mystery and Suspense Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Blood Moon Rising, Candlelight Stories, Screams of Terror, Admit2, Static Movement, Galaxy E-zine, and Aphelion. Throughout his life he has been a clerk, cashier, telemarketer, and even spent several months on a kibbutz picking bananas. A native New Yorker, he now lives in South Florida.