Nearly Departed, Max Schlienger [the gingerbread man read aloud txt] 📗

substance made tiny clumps out of the clinging flakes of glue, and he plucked at them with a piece of wadded-up tissue. “I got the idea that she just wants someone to talk to.” He dabbed more of the fluid onto a portion of his skin that was still sticky. “Actually,” he continued, “I think what she really wanted was for someone to tell her more about her own haunt. I’m sure that there was more to her story than she told me, but since she doesn’t really believe it, it wouldn’t have been as satisfying if she had thrown all the details out there.”

“Like what?” asked Alena. Dennis could hear her doing something in the kitchen, and felt a brief stab of guilt for having missed dinner that evening.

“Well, she said that the spirit had been in her house since the Gold Rush, even though it couldn’t possibly have been that old.”

“The house, or the spirit?” asked Alena.

“The house,” Dennis replied. “But it means that she had a backstory worked out, and she didn’t tell me much of it.” He paused, trying to recall. “Or, if she did, then I wasn’t listening. Anyway, she was hoping that I would give her more material, or tell her something that she hadn’t already thought of.”

“Did you?”

Dennis tossed the used tissues at the garbage can in the corner, missed, and bent to pick them up. “No,” he replied. “If I had, then she would have been satisfied, and there wouldn’t be any reason for her to call Sam.” Samuel Harding was the name listed on the business cards that Dennis distributed. The two had met at Thoreau’s on the night of Dennis’ bachelor party, and Dennis had taken a hesitant liking to the man. He tended to be a bit overzealous in his desire to help people, whether they wanted to be helped or not, but he had a genuine concern that Dennis was both amused and impressed by.

“So, are you going to shower, or should I get started on making dinner?” came Alena’s voice from the kitchen.

Dennis paused. “You didn’t eat already?” he called back.

“I was waiting for you.”

“Oh.” He felt another pang of guilt. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Dennis, it’s fine, just don’t take too long.”

Dennis stood for a moment, then reached over and turned on the faucet. He caught the faint scent of pipe tobacco as he stripped off his clothes, and made a mental note to brush his teeth before exiting the bathroom. In another few seconds, he was standing beneath a warm cascade, which was a welcome change from the cold precipitation he had been caught in earlier. As he bathed, he played through the night’s events in his mind, augmenting them and adjusting them for later, when he would write them down, and in all likelihood, never think of them again. He let out a short sigh and ducked his head under the stream of water. The entire thing – the act, the business cards, the persona of Doctor September – had all started as a way for Dennis to get ideas for his next book. He had soon discovered that every alleged haunting he encountered was a predictable version of the same story. The details shifted and the characters went by different names, but for the most part everything else was identical. He would never admit it, except possibly to Alena (and definitely not to Sam), but when he had started with the façade he had secretly hoped that he would encounter a real ghost or specter or... something. The closest he had come had been his visit to a séance-holding psychic with an electrical problem, and that trip had only taken place because she had misinterpreted Dennis’ cryptically-worded advertisement.

There was a mild sting in Dennis’ eye as a trail of dye-laden soap passed by, and he splashed some water at his face to clear it. He occasionally wondered when he had finally become disillusioned, but always concluded that it didn’t really matter. Sam paid a small finder’s fee for each new client that Dennis brought in, but the act alone was enough to keep him interested. Granted, it wasn’t quite the exciting story of a ghost-busting adventurer that he had hoped for, but the intrigue of masquerading as a pseudo-supernatural con artist was almost as good. Dennis smiled in spite of himself as he washed the last traces of gray dye from his hair. Out of everyone he knew, his friend Luke had been the most supportive of Dennis’ idea, and that had been largely out of a sense of personal pride. When Dennis had first moved back to California after a romantic misadventure, it had been Luke’s prompting that led Dennis to experiment with schemes such as this. Although his attempts had been few and hardly profitable, they had provided him with the necessary confidence and material to pursue Alena, get his book published, and move out of Luke’s tiny apartment. It was ironic, he thought, that a man whose hobby was essentially an extended con had found his greatest degree of success in writing a novel about the subject.

The smell of spices and cooking fish greeted Dennis as he exited the bathroom. Although technically a vegetarian, Alena was nonetheless very skilled in concocting meals which Dennis found quite appetizing. He took a moment to peer into the kitchen before hurrying towards the bedroom with his armful of damp clothing, intent on dealing with the articles before sitting down to eat. He carefully hung the coats, shirt, and tie, and then tossed the remaining pieces at the hamper in the corner of the room. As with the tissues earlier, he missed, and spent a grumbling moment on his hands and knees as he tried to locate an errant sock. His search was interrupted midway through by Alena shouting that dinner was ready. He made another mental note to find the escaped clothing later and hastily pulled on a shirt and sweatpants.

The table