The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

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I drop the mostly empty glass onto the coffee table, cherry stained dark, and my
ankles flop until my body is in the bathroom. I wash my face and I still hear a hum, an
undercurrent of people, of voices. I look up into the mirror, and there is a cross behind
me, rosewood.
Why? For fuck’s sake, I’m lonely enough, aren’t I? You’ve got to do this to me? You
took Teri away, I lost Margaret somehow. What do you want from me, huh?
Fuck it. I’m going to bed.
Mornings are usually better, even now. It takes all them a little while to wake up, too, I
guess.
Brbrbrbrbrbrbrbbrbrbrbrbrbrrrrrrrrrbrbrbrbrbrbbrrbrbrbrbbrbr…
Except for whoever that little shit is. A little boy runs all around the house, room
to room, pretending he is a racecar or a motorcycle or something. He drives himself
wherever he wants, but all he does is drive me out of the house. I shave as soon as I’m
out of the shower, which is a pain cause now I’ve got to pull the skin flat. My hair is all
but gone on top, though. Red nose, green eyes bloodshot, bone thin from shoulders to
hips. I make myself an Irish coffee, put on flannel pants, a stained shirt, and my slippers,
and go outside for a little peace.
There is still a bit of dew in the grass so it nipped up at my ankles, a little sharp
almost. But the coolness is nice. I brushed off my lawn chair—red cedar and painted
against my wishes because Teri said it had to match the house—and took a seat out in
front of the house. We were on a bit of a hill, so from the right spot, you could see most
of the town moving around and starting their day.
Of course, one of the first sights is the mail truck, dirty white and fogged windshield.
It pulls up next to my mailbox, the only thing one the property I probably should’ve
replaced by now, but haven’t had the motivation. So out steps this woman, squat, with
frizzy hair pulled back in a ponytail and stumpy legs. One time, I saw her in town and
someone called her Miss Lucille, but they both giggled so I don’t know if it was a joke
or what.
I smile to her and wave.
Morning!
She doesn’t say anything. She just looks, stuffs some envelopes in the box, and turns
around to hop back into the truck.
Well, fuck you, too.
Mmm. Coffee needs more spice. It’s hot, but not quite the pep I like.
I thought about getting the mail, but I didn’t want to seem desperate if Miss Lucille
was still looking in her rearview. Besides, it was something to look forward to. And the
air was warm enough for a June morning. And warm coffee inside, even if it wasn’t
quite right. Well, shit, if I’m going inside for a bit, might as well finish it so I can pour
a full cup.