Some Stick Around — Part Two

The next chapter of my supernatural short story and radio play

The dramatized radio play:

READ PART ONE HERE

Greg was wrapping up a Zoom therapy session with a patient when he received a call from a previous chapter of his life. The name ‘El’ illuminated his phone’s screen, casting a glow across his face. Nearly three years had passed since their last conversation, which took place on the painful anniversary of their son’s death. Their interactions had since been relegated to a lifeline of texts, checking up on each other through a conversation that never ended, just went through increasing periods of silence. Their messages were always sparse, never daring to broach those tender subjects, never hinting at who was moving on and who would never let it go.

A wave of apprehension washed over him as he pressed the answer button. The sound that greeted him was heart-wrenching: sniffles and shuddered breaths through a tinny speaker. Instinctively, Greg stood up and began pacing his office as if the movement could somehow bridge the distance between them. “Elena? Is everything okay?”

The reply was a frail echo. “No…” Elena managed, “Greg, I need your help.”

Greg already had his keys in hand. “Alright. Just tell me where you are.”

He found Elena sitting in front of Odetta’s house, holding an old stuffed rabbit. Her hair was a mess. The streetlights etched her face with the shadows of sleepless nights and shed tears. Greg took a soft, cautious tone, “El…can I ask what you are doing?”

Elena lifted her gaze and gave a lopsided smile. “I’m not crazy.”

“I never said you were.”

“You’re wearing your ‘professionally concerned face.’”

Greg motioned toward the unfamiliar neighborhood, “It’s just that you’re here, in a strange neighborhood, with a stuffed rabbit…”

Elena shrugged in almost an infantile way, “It’s not that strange. I live here.”

Greg’s gaze shifted to the open front door of Odetta’s home, “In a crack house?”

With a heavy sigh, Elena rose, “Can you please not jump to conclusions until I give you the full context?”

She took him inside, trying to figure out how to broach the subject as they walked into the living room. An LED TV played Blues Clues on top of the old analog console, and an alley cat lay sprawled, surrounded by toys. Greg looked around, taking in the photos of Odetta along with the newest addition to the gallery: Elena posing next to a basket full of Easter eggs. That was at least two months ago.

“El… This isn’t your house. How long have you been living here?”

“I don’t know, four… five months.” Elena said, quickly breezing past the topic, “You need to meet Eugene.”

Greg faced the only other living thing in the room and cocked an eyebrow. “I need to meet a… cat?”

The stray woke as its sunspot abruptly disappeared. It shot out the door, hissing as it passed Greg.

Elena wobbled as if something just clung to her leg. She sighed, “I need you to humor me for a second, okay?” Greg nodded, but Elena shook her head, “No, I mean, you really need to humor me here. This will sound insane, and I know how insane it sounds, but it’s important.”

Greg scratched the back of his neck, his brow furrowed. “Can I get some sort of explanation?”

“Yes. After you humor me,” Elena insisted, her eyes pleading. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, then said, “Take a knee and call Eugene over.”

Greg’s expression shifted from professionally concerned to ‘Are you screwing with me?’ This was the first time he’d seen Elena in years, and she was pulling… something, but Greg had no idea what.

“Please, Greg. Just do it. Call Eugene over.” Elena said.

On one knee, Greg called out softly, “Uh, Eugene? Can you come here?”

Elena felt Eugene detach from her leg. “Okay, now play peek-a-boo.”

“Peek-a-boo?”

“Yes. Like with a baby. Cover your eyes, then — “

“I know what peek-a-boo is,” Greg snorted. He complied and reluctantly mumbled, “Peek-a-boo,” feeling foolish. He then looked up at Elena and pocketed his initial response. Her eyes were so wide and desperate. He gently asked instead, “El, what am I doing here?”

Elena clenched her jaw and fought the urge to snap. “Don’t half-ass it. Be excited. Play it… Play it how you used to play it with Mateo.”

With a sigh, Greg gave in, his voice lifting in a forced cheer. “Annnnd peek-a-boo!”

The room remained silent, charged with a strange energy. Mateo’s old tablet — the one Greg loaded up with Pixar movies and games to keep him entertained while he wasted away, turned on. Rising balloons began popping on the screen. Elena quickly picked it up, keeping it out of reach. She bit her lip, growing anxious. “Do it again and be more silly. Like you’re trying to keep his attention.”

Greg threw up his hands. “Keep who’s attention, El?”

Elena couldn’t say, knowing Greg wouldn’t listen if she was upfront about it. Instead, she just murmured, “Please.”

Greg let out a chuckle that morphed into a groan and covered his eyes again. He took an over-excited, deeply sarcastic tone. “Hey, who’s dere!? Izzit nobody? No! It’s… Peek-a-boo!”

Greg pulled his hands away and faced the dead child with scooped-out eyes. Eugene giggled. He shrieked, scrabbling backward until he was in the corner, knocking over one of Odetta’s hummel figurines. “What the fuck — What was that?!”

Elena felt Eugene hide behind her. She softly said, “It’s okay, baby. Everything is okay.”

“That — That is not okay!” Greg sputtered, “It has no fucking eyes!”

Elena glared at him, “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to Eugene, the child you’re currently scaring.”

Greg shot straight up and pressed against the wall, eyes darting around. “Oh God. It’s still here? Where is it?”

Elena knelt and pulled out a small remote with a single red button. “Eugene, do you wanna push the smokey clicker? Go on. Push it.”

The button pressed itself, and a fog machine kicked on. It worked far better than Odetta’s cigarettes and caused far less cancer. Elena gently rolled a tennis ball toward Greg. A valley carved through the fog, chasing after it, and he fought the urge to scream.

Greg slowly de-escalated from a tremor to a faint tremble, though Eugene settling into his lap did little to ease his unsettled mind. “I thought touching a ghost was supposed to make you shiver, but Eugene’s warm — Why is he warm?”

Elena shrugged. “It’s weird, I know. Eugene doesn’t work like Casper, which is a big part of the problem. I don’t think anyone actually knows the rules.”

She handed over a list of crossed-out tropes, and Greg’s eyebrows rose. “He can’t walk through walls?”

“Or float,” Elena confirmed. “I suppose Ouija boards would work if he knew how to spell. Oh, also, he isn’t stuck in the clothes he died in. Eugene changes them. Regularly.”

Greg blinked several times, trying to process that. “How?”

“I thought it was strange that Eugene had a dresser until I opened it, and he started poking around,” Elena explained. “I unfolded some overalls and showed them to him, then the next time I saw him, he was wearing those overalls, or at least a projection of them. Sometimes, I catch him in my scrubs.”

Greg’s brow furrowed. “How does any of this even work?”

Elena scratched her neck. “At first, I thought Eugene existed in our world but could only manifest himself inside our heads. There’s a lot about him that feels mental, like a hallucination, except real. Now?” She blew air through her lips. “I’m actually starting to think Eugene is his own hallucination. He’s manifesting himself. Does that make sense?”

“Not one bit.” Greg winced and shifted uncomfortably, “And it doesn’t explain how he’s currently pulling on my beard hair. How do I get him off?”

“Just move,” Elena replied, “He’ll pop up somewhere else.”

Greg stood up, rubbing the ick out of his hands. “You’re living with a ghost, El.”

“That’s been established.”

Greg rapidly shook his head, “Are you sure this house doesn’t have a gas leak?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Elena started bouncing her legs, staring at the ceiling, and taking little peeks at her periphery, where a silent cackling child clung on like she was a bucking bronco. “I figured it would be a comfort for you. I mean, if Eugene’s here, then Mateo — “

“ — Don’t, El. I can’t. He’s gone,” Greg said, cutting her off, the pain straining his voice. Simply moving ghosts off his personal ‘Things That Do Not Exist’ list threatened to collapse his entire belief structure. The last thing he wanted to do was extrapolate.

But Elena held onto that sliver of hope. “Or maybe he’s somewhere else. That’s an option now because of Eugene.” She stopped bouncing and looked down at her knees, “It’s also why I need your help. They’re demolishing this house in five days, and I don’t know what will happen to Eugene when he has nowhere to haunt.”

Greg started pacing, a bad habit that Elena used to love and then grew to hate. It was reassuring at first, giving the appearance he was on top of a problem, grinding away until he came up with a solution, but he didn’t stop if no fix was found. “Wait, is this place haunted? I mean, why can’t he just leave the house?”

“Oh, he can,” Elena explained, “He loves going outside to play in the backyard, but for whatever reason, he won’t or can’t cross the threshold of the front door.”

Greg gestured with his finger. “That’s why you were outside with the rabbit.”

“Yeah, I’ve been trying to coax him out,” Elena nodded. “I’m running out of options. Greg, you’re not the first person I called. Not by a long shot. I consulted lawyers and city counselors, hoping to find a way to delay the demolition, but I was told in no uncertain terms that I had no legal recourse. I can’t even claim squatters’ rights.” She paused, taking a breath. “I went to social media, thinking I could share the hours of video I’ve recorded of Eugene and maybe build up a public outcry, but there is an entire industry of content creators making fake ghost videos, and everything I post gets mixed in with them.” Elena swallowed, fighting against the lump that came from her only other option. “Now, I’ve realized that if he is tied to this house, then the only thing I can do is help him move on before it’s destroyed, and I need your help with that, Greg.”

Greg stopped pacing, not liking where this was going. “Why me? You don’t need a psychologist. You need a psychic.”

“I’ve already had two psychics visit,” Elena countered. “The first one managed to contact Mateo after looking at my Facebook page, then pissed herself when she saw Eugene, the only real spirit she’s ever me. The other one offered to cut me in if I allowed her to host séances in the kitchen.”

“So then get a priest.”

“Three priests did four exorcisms, and Eugene had a grand old time pulling off their stoles and trying to drink their bulbs of holy water. I’ve also consulted a rabbi, imam, wiccan, Shinto priest, Buddhist monk, and a Vodou Manbo who decapitated a live chicken in his bedroom, and I’m still picking up the feathers. I’ve smudged this house every day and asked every single person I know with a superstitious grandparent what to do. Nothing has worked. Nothing. It’s why I need you.”

“But why me, El?” Greg asked. His arm reflexively went to the space where his son’s name used to lay. Elena couldn’t help but notice that he had it lasered off, no doubt calling it part of his ‘healing process.’

Her breath hitched. The tears came, and she couldn’t stop them. “The only theory I have left is that Eugene is too young to understand that he’s dead, but maybe, just maybe, you could reach him — help him understand, help him find peace. You’re a child therapist — “

“ — No. Not anymore. Not after — “

“But you were, Greg. And you did it once before. You helped Mateo with the end.”

“STOP,” Greg snapped. Elena went silent, her eyes searching for any sign of the man who once held their son’s hand as he took his last breath. Greg’s face contorted, ugly with emotion as he struggled to speak. He broke, his voice gurgling as he muttered, “God damn it, Elena.” He turned and left.

Greg stormed to his car. Elena followed him, pleading, “Wait! I know what I’m asking is fucked up.”

“No, you don’t. You have no idea. I can’t help Eugene. I couldn’t even help him.”

“You did. You told Mateo about the bridge and how it would stop hurting once he crossed.”

Greg spun around, revealing the bitter truth he had tried so hard to bury, “I lied to him, El! My last words to my son were a fucking lie, one he was too young to even comprehend.”

“No.” Elena wiped her eyes, conscious of the neighbors watching, “Mateo understood. On some level, he did. I gotta believe you’re why he’s not stuck like Eugene.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” Greg said firmly, opening his car door and climbing inside.

Over the ensuing days, Greg threw himself into his work, seeking refuge in unpacking his patient’s trauma rather than his own. Yet, between each session, he found himself pacing, picturing Elena in that dimly lit house, grieving the impending loss of another child. The silence on her end was palpable; she didn’t try to reach out to him and left Greg on ‘read’ when he tried to apologize and check up on her. So Greg grew increasingly worried and kept on pacing.

Then, on the morning of the demolition, he received a reply:

“Greg, I’m sorry I brought you back to that place you try so hard to avoid. I guess that’s always been the difference between us. You need to move on while I need to linger. I never blamed you for the distance. You’ve always been there for me, even when we were just too far apart. Don’t worry about Eugene. I found a solution.

Thanks.”

Greg stared at the text, hoping he was just reading too much into it, injecting intention that simply wasn’t there — anything to make the text seem other than what it was: a farewell.

Greg interrupted an accountant waxing on about his self-diagnosed work-induced PTSD and ended the call. He raced to Odetta’s house, still trying to convince himself that he was overreacting while going sixty in a forty-five and screaming at every red light along the way. He burst through the front door expecting the worst: Elena staring blankly at the ceiling, lying in a pool of her own blood, with Eugene trying to get her to wake up.

Instead, Elena was sitting on the floor, rolling a ball back and forth with Eugene. Raffi played. For a brief moment, Greg could see Eugene pushing the ball with his black eyes and perpetual grin. He blinked, and Eugene was gone. It was just Elena looking at him like nothing was wrong.

Greg scanned the room, a sense of relief washing over him when he found no sharp objects or open bottles of medication. “How are you going to do it?”

Elena cocked her head, feigning ignorance, “Do what?”

Greg’s gaze hardened. “I’m trained to recognize these things. Don’t bullshit me.”

Elena stood, wearing the tranquility of a foregone conclusion. “I shouldn’t have sent that text.”

“I’m glad you did because it brought me here to stop you. El, what are you thinking?”

Elena pointed to Odetta’s pictures on the wall. “She planned to die here in this house so she could ‘hold his hand and show him how to move on.’ It was just bad luck that she never had that chance, but it makes sense.”

“And so you’re just going to end it on the hope that there is some light, and you can take Eugene along for the ride?” Greg shook his head. “You don’t know how any of this works. No one does!”

“What am I ending, Greg? Us? My job waiting for patients to crash so I can change the sheets?” Elena stared at him, eyes rimmed with desperation. “I have nothing to end, but if I go now, I can help him. The demolition crew is coming at any moment. It’s the only option left.”

“No, you have another option,” Greg paused. Even with Elena’s life on the line, he still needed to work himself up to make the offer. “I will do everything to help Eugene in the time we have, but I need you to swear this won’t end in you taking your own life.”

“Thank you,” Elena said, as the tension in her shoulders released. She glanced past his head. “It’s over there.”

Greg took a black hardshell case off a shelf. A snub-nose .45 was inside.

“It’s Odetta’s,” Elena admitted. “It’s either for home defense… or she was contemplating the same thing. I’m not sure.”

“Right,” Greg said, for lack of a better response. He carefully closed the case. “I’ll take care of this. Gather Eugene’s favorite toys. We need to keep him engaged and in one place.”

Greg secured the revolver in the trunk of his car. Elena formed a circle with toys in an almost ritualistic arrangement and mused, “All we’re missing are candles and a pentagram.”

Greg stopped watching his shoes untie themselves and looked up, “Would that actually help?”

Elena shook her head, “Only in setting the ambiance.”

“Ah. Gotcha,” Greg scratched his head and grappled with the enormity of their task. “So, explaining death to a child who doesn’t have the cognitive ability to fully grasp the concept is hard, but communicating this to a toddler who’s been deceased for over a century? That’s entirely new ground.”

Elena grew worried, “But you have at least some idea of what to do, right?”

“Yeah”, Greg chuckled, “We start by summoning Carl Jung with a Ouija board.” An idea hit him, and he sat up straight. There was something to that. From the Jungian perspective, symbols play a vital part in a child’s learning and understanding of the world. Greg turned to Elena, “Wait… We could actually use a Ouija board for this.”