Grief Saves a Family for Christmas | 22 October 2024, @mariannewest's Freewrite Writing Prompt Day 2533 | Prompt: sympathetic ghost

Five days had passed with no sign the frigid temperature would rise. Each night for the past two nights, a man lumbered toward the kitchen. From the small window above the kitchen sink, he would pause to catch a glimpse of the flame flickering outside not more than three feet away from the exterior of his home.

This night, the man stood motionless as the wind howled, tossing snowflakes against the pane.

He was once a handsome man by society's standards. Tall and slender with dark hair. A wide smile with a hint of dimples. And his career prospects were above average. His wife wouldn't have staved off numerous admirers otherwise.

A single tear fell.

He lowered his gaze and scoured the large eating space. Tastefully decorated in her favorite warm tones of amber, it was perfect and would remain so. No one will disturb my memories, he adamantly proclaimed, simultaneously slamming his fist hard on the countertop.

No response.

To the left of the counter rested the familiar cookie jar. Instantly, he inhaled deeply, waited, then salivated. It once contained his favorite cinnamon-infused cookies.

To the right sat the automated brewing machine in which she alone knew the combination of controls to extract the perfect cup of caffeine.

Along the rest of the counter and beyond lay tools she used to master the most difficult recipes that impressed her family. Once familiar watching her work magic while engaging him, all felt foreign now as the each day sliced into his heart and melted into years.

Five years to that day to be exact.

A voice from beyond the window stirred him to the present. He listened intently while outside a male, whose name he didn't know was Arthur Johnson, apologized profusely to a female, presumably the male's wife, and to two small children, presumably theirs.

They weren't hurting his lawn, so the man allowed them to stay figuring they'd move on soon enough.

According to the information overheard, their misfortunes that led them to camp out on the man's lawn were due to the father's stubbornness and unwillingness to listen to reason. The father knew all there was to know about everything. His family apparently suffered the consequences of this knowledge in lost income.

The man stepped closer to the window and peered down the sidewalk a few feet into a patch of empty grass. The same spot that resulted from the man abandoning his duties.

It was then the man could barely see but distinctly heard the father, who was now labeled as trespasser, profess in a shaky voice, "forgive me for my shortsightedness. I've condemned us to a life of homelessness. If I get a second chance, I won't screw it up. If you can find it your hearts to stick with me, you won't regret it. I'll make everything right."

The Man Was Livid. His eyes shot blood darts while his nostrils flared. His pulse raced. He clenched his fists.

Shaking his head slowly, he berated the trespasser. Why on earth would that father apologize and ask forgiveness. He's the head of that family. His word is final. He knows what's best. Their troubles are probably his family's fault for not listening to him. Weak. He deserves his plight. I can't tolerate much, but weakness, I can't tolerate. At. All.

A sudden stab to the chest lay bare wounds the man had stomped deep.

The man backed away from the window. He turned swiftly toward the french doors, knocking over chairs in his race to distance himself. Through the hall leading to the dining room, he ran. He paused for a second and glanced at the empty fireplace mantle, then the wall calendar.

Christmas Eve. The date not yet marked out.

Pulling at his disheveled hair, he bolted around another corner and took two treads at a time up the staircase.

The door slammed behind him. He slid to the floor against a storage chest and wept until no more tears could be summoned. Afterward, he crawled toward the large gray box that sat next to the window.

The attic, who'd listened to his sobs for the past few years, offered a scintilla of comfort among the souvenirs, only to witness him exult in his manliness.

He unlatched the box and laid back the top.

Marcy, the beloved daughter he hastily disowned, flashed before his face as he stared at a photo of her high school dance dress he helped choose to match his suit for their father and daughter event. Later, her choice of a life mate, he couldn't stomach. "If my husband isn't welcome, then neither am I nor our children," was her response. "Damn her," he spat.

His hand quivered, before moving on toward a face similar to his.

Matthew, the son whose soccer career he sabotaged simply because it wasn't his ideal sport and not from his beloved Alma mater. The equipment he pushed to one side. No congratulations were sent when Matthew secured a position as a member of a coaching staff at a major university. He owed his success to tough teachings, he thought, with a slight upward curve of the lip.

His eyes tried but couldn't avoid her.

Evelyn. He stared at her photo for the longest time tracing the long eyelashes that protected the most mesmerizing eyes. Smiling coyly, she looked up at him. Clenching his jaws, he jerked the top photo from the stack held together by a rubber band. Angrily, he tore away her side of the picture. It fell gently to the floor to gather dust, just like she'd left him to navigate through the dust cloud of his future.

What he didn't reopen was the letter addressed to his church pastor. "I can't continue. I'm suffocating under this oppression. I need a private audience. Time is not on my side," Evelyn wrote, but never mailed.

At that moment, a flood of jealous memories overtook the man. After Evelyn left, he recalled sitting in the dark on the steps of his pastor's church. Finally, he rose and turned the doorknob. Why would I seek forgiveness when I couldn't forgive my own family? he thought before releasing the knob and hurrying away.

"I don't need them or anyone who won't obey my rules," his voice now lowered to a whisper, although he didn't know the reason. The next instance, his body transformed into a frenzied state.

The man tore apart photos of his family at outings. Ceremonies that marked milestones in his children's growth to adulthood. Special occasions with the woman he vowed never to leave by unnatural causes.

When the destruction ritual ended, he sobbed profusely.

The man slammed the top shut and locked the chest. His foot pushed the heavy box, leaving an empty spot where time stood still.

His self-inflicted agony was interrupted as he glimpsed a reflection of distorted shadows rising that carried with it the smell of heavy smoke. The man braced himself against the wall and stood facing the shadows. From the attic window nearby, he stared at the blazing fire roaring through the falling snow. It would not win that battle, he mused.

"Damn! those idiots are going to burn down the place!" he fumed.

Anger turned to fascination as the man continued to watch the trespasser, Arthur Johnson, gather more twigs. With cold, stiff hands, he managed to keep the small fire ablaze. His family and fellow trespassers, wife Martha, daughter Anna, and son Brandon, huddled close next to the large oak tree.

"This won't do. We'll freeze to death before morning. We need to move on and find indoor shelter," Martha pleaded with Arthur.

"You heard the lady. They're at capacity until after Christmas. We've run out of gas, and can't stay inside the freezing car. At least out here, we have a fire and a chance." Arthur's rationale didn't sit well with Martha. She'd always supported him. Now, her children's lives were at stake.

The man's ears perked. Bickering. Good! They'll be gone soon, he thought, gleeful of Arthur wife's comment; dismissive of Arthur's response.

It was when the little girl coughed several times, then announced, "my throat's sore," that the man turned away from the window. He stopped as soon as he started to leave. It was as if he were stuck in quicksand.

The past rushed back and hit him squarely in the face. Marcy's tenth birthday placed on hold due to strep throat. His pulse beat faster. That idiot of a man wouldn't know the signs of that bacterial infection and that it's contagious. She needs immediate medical care.

The man pivoted and stared at the chest he'd shoved almost into the dark. Instantly, his wife's voice echoed in his ear. "For God's sake, Horatio, for once, do the right thing."

The man whose lawn the trespassers were using as a campsite was named Horatio. As hard as he tried, he couldn't block out Evelyn's generous spirit and soft demeanor; qualities that first endeared her to him.

Horatio heaved, then walked slowly as in a trance toward the attic door. Once downstairs, he headed to the mudroom to fetch gear appropriate for a snowy night.

"Look, a ghost! From behind that house. It's headed our way!" Brandon shouted.

"There's no such thing. Animals roam those woods behind that house. Perhaps one came to investigate." Arthur's calm voice satisfied Brandon for only a moment.

Brandon screamed, "It Is A Ghost!"

The Johnson family bolted straight up as Horatio cleared his throat. He held up the lantern. Not so much to scan their faces, but to display his hunting rifle. Just in case Evelyn's intuition failed her.

Retreating, Arthur gathered his family and stepped in front.

"We meant no harm, sir," he urged while extending his hand. Unable to give a coherent reason for trespassing, he chose one of convenience. "We thought the house was abandoned. And we needed warmth. Our car ran out of gas."

Horatio pushed Evelyn aside. "I have a small amount of gas you can use to get you to the next station. Beyond that, I'm not one for charity cases. Make your bed, suffer the consequences, as I heard your discussion earlier."

Anna interrupted with several long coughing bouts. Horatio turned to her. "You're sick."

Not bashful, she nodded. "I feel horrible, sir. My name is Anna." She then pointed toward and named each of her family. What's yours?"

"Horatio Blackford. And this is my property you're trespassing on," he replied harshly as he turned to Arthur. "Didn't you see the sign?" In a matter of fact tone, he diagnosed without examining. "Your daughter's ill. Possibly strep throat. Come inside. I have medicine."

The Johnson's stared first at the rifle, then at Horatio and were slow to respond.

Finally, Arthur's eyes darted from his wife to his children, then nodded as though all were in agreement. "If we could just warm up a bit, we'll be on our way, sir. No need to bother you unnecessarily."

"The door is open. You three go inside and wait for me by the back door. He pointed at Arthur. "You come with me. We need wood."

Martha gathered the children and walked up the path trekked by Horatio. As instructed, they waited inside. Within minutes, Horatio and Arthur returned.

It didn't take long for Anna and Brandon to explore the living room, commenting how comfortable it felt, but then inquiring about the lack of family photos.

Horatio refused to answer; instead heading toward the medicine cabinet. He returned with several different type. Martha chose one and administered it to Anna.

"If you guys are hungry, I don't have anything prepared just snacks," Horatio offered.

"That's fine," Martha responded. "Our urgent need is a warm shower. We have clothing. And I thank you for the medicine."

The family took turns bathing and refreshing. Afterward, they nestled on the couch in the living room where the fireplace provided the warm they sought. Horatio then thoughtfully compiled snack food, including cheese.

Arthur felt a thaw as he watched Horatio smile weakly. Horatio noticed how cheerful the children's demeanor, despite their circumstances. He insisted they spend the night and not travel in the harsh weather. Arthur accepted.

Alone in a spare room, Arthur stated flatly, "he's worse off than we ever will be."

"How so?"

"Because he's alone."

The next morning, Martha offered to cook Christmas dinner before they depart. Horatio accepted; advising that a stocked pantry and freezer was available.

Three hours later, Arthur said prayer before dining, noticing that Horatio didn't bow his head.

To their astonishment half way through the meal, Horatio spoke hoarsely. "The most delicious meal I've had in a while." He paused, then, "I believe your family has a chance to rebound as long as you stick together."

Surprised, Martha smiled and glanced at her husband.

As they left the driveway, Martha made note of Horatio's address. They then navigated carefully down the road on to their next destination.

"He was just a ghost of a man after he suffered an unbearable life changing event and before he met us," Arthur thought, then shared with the family. "I felt a change last night."

"A sympathetic ghost," Anna blurted out.

Yes, and perhaps an empathetic one, Arthur thought. He hadn't told his family yet the contents of the envelope Horatio placed in his hand and conversation they'd had concerning Anna while loading supplies in their vehicle.

He pulled out the envelope and slipped it to Martha. She gasped, but didn't share with the children. She'd explain later.

Thoughts swirled as Martha considered their change in circumstances. Silently she vowed, when we get settled, I'm sending him a note of our progress and a monthly repayment. He'll never know how much he restored my faith in my husband. The way Arthur handled himself the last two days keeping us safe, he will succeed.

Only a half mile away, Martha looked back, not surprised to see Horatio still standing next to the road in the snow.

The Man waived. Not a full, excited one, but one that told of grief possibly melting away.

For my theme, I was inspired by and utilized the @daily.prompt's publishing of 22 october 2024, @mariannewest's Freewrite Writing Prompt Day 2533: sympathetic ghost.