Vintage: A Ghost Story by Steve Berman Page A

sleeping but instead packed so I could leave before my parents woke. I was so afraid of what would happen when I walked out the door, not completely sure my aunt would take me. If not for her, I’d be alone. Homeless. Was that what happened to him? There had to be something wrong that made him want to go. “Why do you think he left?”
Trace shrugged. I wondered how hard it was for her to talk about First Mike. “It nearly killed my mother. She stayed in bed for days, not crying, not sleeping, just lying there in the same clothes, the same curled-up position. My father had to stay home to watch over both of us; he lost a good job because she just gave up.
“My earliest memories are all of him and the closed door of my parents’ room. I would have nightmares about that door.”
I slid down the slide and went over to Trace. I knelt down in the patch of sand underneath the swing and rested my head on her shin. She slid her fingers through my hair.
“About a year later my mother must have fooled them into thinking she was better, and told my father she wanted another son. I don’t think he knew what she planned to do. But he should have never let her name the baby Mike again. Things got worse. She wouldn’t let the baby out of her sight. She became paranoid something was going to happen to him.” Trace sighed deeply. “This went on for years. He couldn’t go outdoors unless she went with him. Mom even refused to let him go to nursery school. Dad finally stepped in, and she went berserk.”
Which was worse, a mother who despised her son or one that was insane and smothering? Mine or hers? “What happened?”
“She had to be committed. Ancora. It’s been nearly ten years since last I saw her—that’s fine with me. Second Mike goes up there every so often with Dad. I think he feels responsible.”
    The neighborhoods I walked through were quiet at night. I saw few cars pass by. As I cut through the parking lot of a darkened strip mall, I glanced up at the windows at my huddled reflection. Lightning flashed, making the glass opaque for a second. After I blinked, I saw in the glass a faint figure standing right next to me. I jumped.
Josh’s pale skin seemed to glow against the darkness. His face, his full lips, those lashes, all captured my eyes. I realized he would always stay that way, eternally beautiful. How couldn’t I envy such a fate?
“I want you to come along with me.” He reached out and wrapped his fingers around my hand, turning it cold.
I swallowed hard, a little frightened at his touch. “Where to?”
He smiled but remained quiet as he led me outside.
I don’t remember much of the walk, how long it took or the direction we went. Nothing we passed looked familiar, as if he found some secret route through the deserted town. I felt like I sleepwalked the entire way, noticing little other than Josh holding my hand, slowly turning my arm and side to ice. No pain, just a seductive loss of body warmth.
We stopped at a crumbling stone wall. Standing on my toes and pulling myself up with my hands, I could see over the edge. Rows of stone markers. My ghost had brought me to a cemetery.
“Why are we here?” I waited for an answer but there was none. I looked back and Josh was gone.
“Great,” I muttered and started walking beside the wall until it ended in a wide gap that may have once had a gate. The paved road leading into the grounds was choked with weeds.
Another bout of thunder and lightning startled me. I caught a glimpse of someone walking through the cemetery. Josh. He must have slipped through the wall, like ghosts in movies do, and wanted me to catch up.
The graves hadn’t been tended in years, which saddened me. It was disrespectful to the dead. Was it any wonder there were so many unhappy spirits out there? Some stones were overgrown or toppled and a few were scarred by vandalism. Josh moved faster than I did, but then he must know where he was headed and didn’t need to worry about tripping