Ghost in the (Washing) Machine [pt. 5]

"It's worse than we thought."

"No—please—tell me she's going to pull through—"

I blink at the underside of my coffee table, the television blaring an old episode of some hospital drama.

"Doctor—what if—she could have my brain—"

I lay there for a moment trying to remember what's going on, why I might be on the floor, and why the television is sideways on the carpet next to me.

Someone really needs to vacuum.

"Oh! Good, you're awake, we're ready to interview you now. I made you this."

the Aussie flips her ponytailed head down to look under the table and hands me a plate with a sandwich on it.

"Gave us a scare, dropped like a sack of doorknobs! Low blood sugar?"

"I don't—" I close my eyes for a second and then just take the sandwich she's hovering over my face. She bounces away and I reach my arm up and search for the tv remote on the table above me, and then wonder what the hell is wrong with me and extract myself from beneath the furniture.

The crew is milling about my apartment, some of them still fiddling with instruments, others in small groups with hands wrapped around coffee mugs in rapt conversation.

"What the hell happened, and why was I under the table?" I demand of the room at large.

"I don't think they want you to leave," Heather the owl says, drifting towards me and reaching out a pale hand before drawing it away again.

"Who doesn't want me to leave?"

"Who?" she she hoots back, eyes wide, as an older man in a timeless suit and mustache peels off of a coffee-drinking amoeba and joins us.

"Why the spirits, my dear," he says in a velvety tone, eyes glimmering with the sort of mischief only retirees are capable of, what with their wealth of worldly knowledge and their not giving a shit what anyone thinks.

"So there is a ghost!"

Everybody scoffs.

"What?"

"Calling those who have crossed over ghosts… it's just a bit gauche." The Gentleman says, giving me a patronizing smile.

"Interview time!" Clipboard calls, setting one of our kitchen chairs in the center of the room.

…

Thanks for reading,

HARTWELL