The Ghost of the Gee

Crystals of sand scratch against my legs. My face feels damp as I listen to my brother’s shallow snores in the bed next to me. I shift my body among the grains of hard grit and wonder if it’s there.  

I pull the flimsy cotton bed sheet down to my chest and peer out into the blackness. My eyes focus on the zebra striped curtains wavering in the thick night air. The sound of the heavy black fan whirls in the darkness, breathing life into the patterned drapes. A slice of moonlight reveals itself behind the open jalousies in the hallway, exposed where I slit the thin fabric years ago with a razor blade. But only I know that.

The dull rumble of the fan grows louder as it directs its breeze towards me. I feel a chill as the air mingles with my perspiration. I cast my gaze towards the bathroom while clutching the bed sheet, my fingers wet against the frayed cotton ridges. Fronting the wall, not 10 feet away, it stands watching me. The foggy gray form pressed against the plaster like a smudge.

“Mike!” I whisper. “Do you see it?”

But only the sound of his sticky breath in concert with the groaning fan answers me.

I know if he hears me, he’s pretending he doesn’t. He hopes that I’ll leave him alone. That’s his way.

“What good is an older brother if he can’t protect you,” my mind cries out.  “How can he lay there sleeping? It could be a murder victim coming back to seek revenge!”

I lie there listening to the fan, trying not to think about the grim shadow resting silently against the wall.

“Mike, Mike!”

He doesn’t respond. It wouldn’t do any good if he did. He doesn’t see it. He’s never seen it. He must be blind.

Some nights it’s not there at all. The wall reveals only the reflection of the streetlight. Those times I turn in my bed contented and drift back to sleep. But not tonight. Tonight it’s there. Its shrouded form resides like the coal-gray statues that stand at a tilt in the graveyard where my grandmother lies sleeping.

I remain there lifeless knowing what I must do.

I relax my grip on the knotted bed sheet. A slight, oily breeze breaks the stillness. I move my legs, now encased in a mixture of perspiration and grit. They fuse to the sheet. I try to shake them loose from its hold, fearful that I’ll disturb the shadow that watches me.

“Now!”

I bolt up, the bed sheet still clinging to me. My shoulders stick to the moist fabric, holding me back. Somehow I reach the doorway and grope for the latch. Frantically I try pushing on the face of the sliding door but it only buckles under my pressure. A loud crack echoes from the corner of the room. My heart jumps into my throat. A rushing noise fills my head. Even the sound of the fan has disappeared. I leap back into my bed.

“Ow! That hurt!” I holler.

“Too bad,” my brother says, retracting his fist. “Go to sleep.”

I close my eyes. The moan of the spinning fan is the last sound I remember as I fall into a fitful slumber.