Clear spring water rushed over Francine’s toes. Summer had finally arrived, yet the mornings were still cool enough for the fat worms and frogs to laze about on the muddy bank. On the other side of the creek, the German chamomile’s delicate flowers were swaying in the wind with their petals turned back like little umbrellas. Francine found it surreal to be standing in a place she hadn’t visited since she was a young child and finding nothing had changed but the weeds had grown a bit higher.
“Aren’t you glad we decided to visit?” Julian asked, looking terribly smug before taking a sip of his lemonade.
“Yes, but I’ve never seen a ghost in the daytime. I might feel differently tonight,” Francine said.
When it was lunchtime, Francine and Julian made the walk back up to their Aunt Martha’s house. It was a Victorian house that had grown rickety in its old age, bordered with magnolia trees that had been around far longer than Francine’s seventeen years. There was a perpetual shadow cast over the yard, so the ferns and mosses had taken over. Aunt Martha hadn’t seemed to mind
They passed through the pale-pink front door and inside waiting for them were peach-mint milkshakes and grilled cheeses. Francine considered peach-mint to be an old-fashioned flavor combination, probably quite appealing to the tastes of ghosts. The kitchen table was set with a glass of blue cornflowers and Aunt Martha was at the sink getting suds everywhere. She looked over at her niece and nephew and muttered, “Your heads have gotten so dark, used to be little blonde things.”
By the time the light outside had turned golden, Aunt Martha had already drunk almost an entire bottle of muscadine wine. It’s dangerous, she had said, because it tastes just like grape juice. She played the piano and sang while her niece and nephew sat poised as prisoners on the red leather couch, the lace curtains casting odd patterns on the walls. She ended her tune on a dramatic low key. With D minor still ringing throughout the room, she looked at Francine and Julian and asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?”
Francine tried to read her expression but doubted how much her aunt truly knew. Julian said, “Don’t start with that nonsense, or it’ll be another eight years before I get Francine through that door again!”
Aunt Martha looked at him through her quaint green gaze. “I only ask because I’ve been noticing strange sounds at night, odd banging and things like that. If there is a ghost, it sure is getting restless,” she said.
“Great,” Francine replied dryly.
“It’s probably only the sounds that come from living in an old house, if I’m being honest and true. I just prefer a bit of mystery here and there, when I can find it,” Aunt Martha said.
They enjoyed a large spread of various jams, meats, fruits, and cheeses, and before long the wine had gotten a hold of Aunt Martha and carried her off to bed. The sun was long set now, and Francine found the air of the house to be more eerie without its owner around. She wondered how Julian could be so imperceptive when even their aunt had noticed something off about the place. She was in no mood to be brushed off about the whole thing, so she headed upstairs to the same guest room she’d stayed in eight years before, the same room in which she’d seen the ghost.
It was decorated just the same as it was before, which made Francine feel as though she’d fallen into a time slip. Eight years feels like an eternity when one is only seventeen, but the room remaining so untouched truly was impressive. Even the same dried flowers stood crisp in the empty vase, dear old Black Eyed Susans. She surprised herself with the indifference she felt folding back the sheets in the same room as the encounter happened. Crawling into the stiff bed, she turned out the green banker’s lamp on the nightstand, and was pleased to see the suffocating rose wallpaper disappear.
The clock read 3:38am when the closet door busted open and woke Francine. She sat up to face the ghost, knowing he would be there. He was dressed exactly like a working man of the 1930’s. Francine knew, because since her last encounter with this ghost eight years prior, she’d done her research. She’d scoured old actors and movies looking to find a match to this apparition. No such luck. She hated to admit it to herself, but if the ghost haunting her Aunt Martha’s house had been the Hollywood type, she probably would have been back to visit sooner.
“I hardly recognized you,” the ghost said. He looked just like an ordinary man, yet he was transparent and misty and had a bluish glow about him. When he spoke, he sounded far away, like AM radio.
“Unfortunately, I recognized you straight away. You’re the reason that I’ve avoided this place for so long. Now please, mister ghost, let me slumber. It might do you some good to do the same. Forever.”
Francine looked at the ghost and saw pain in his eyes, but he had a hat and a briefcase and he was glowing, so she could not take him very seriously.
“How about a dance by the pond?” the ghost pleaded.
“You’re a sordid old ghost, I don’t need a dance, I need a good night’s sleep,” Francine said.
“Please, just allow me the chance to explain myself,” the ghost began. “I only have a matter of hours before the sun rises and I won’t have the strength to project myself this way in the daylight. Please, just come outside with me.”
Francine quickly realized that if she didn’t help the ghost now, the rest of her stay at Aunt Martha’s would be ruined. Best to take care of it before it gets out of hand, she thought, so she followed the ghost barefoot into the June night. The moon was almost full, and it put out silvery pools of light on the dewy grass.
“I don’t even know your name,” Francine said.
“You will soon enough,” the ghost replied.
Francine didn’t much like the sound of that, but she followed anyway. She appreciated the stillness of the hour. Girl and ghost were the only things stirring.
They reached a small private cemetery enclosed by a black wrought iron fence. The posts were pointed, and there were iron ravens on either side of the gate. The ghost walked around and opened it, motioning Francine inside. The ghost pointed to a grave in the center.
“Grisly,” Francine said.
“Actually, it’s John. John Oliver Lockheart. The other ones are my family. My wife Betty, God rest her soul, and our four children. They were alright. That one Jeffery did give me a bit of trouble. Anyhow, they all got sick and died. I outlived them for a little while, but I reckon it was my broken heart that got me in the end,” John said.
Francine felt a growing sense of dread at being in this derelict graveyard, with a ghost nonetheless. She said, “I don’t want to be rude, John, but why must I be the one to help you? In all this time, why haven’t you asked my Aunt Martha? It’s her house, after all, and she’s said it herself, she’s always on the lookout for a mystery.”
He let out a big sigh. “I’ve tried, dear. She can’t see me at all. Neither can your brother. I tried approaching him first the last time you were here. I thought since he was a bit older, he would get less of a scare. But he couldn’t see me at all, I was like nothing to him. Perhaps nothing more than a faint breeze. It ain’t good for a man’s self-esteem,” John said.
Francine was quiet.
“Anyway, it’s as they say. A man can’t lay to rest if he’s got unpaid debts. And I’ve certainly got mine,” John said.
“Let’s hear it,” Francine said.
“Alright. You ever played billiards, girl?”
“No.”
“That don’t surprise me none. At any rate, that’s what all this boils down to. It was 1933, and I had been winning. Winning left and right. Most people didn’t even want to go up against me anymore. They even had a name for me, started calling me Johnny 8-Ball. Anyhow, that’s how my trouble started. I had done a little gambling before Betty and those kids died, but it won’t anything like it was after they were gone. I had nothing to keep my head on straight, you see. So when Billy Gloat came in, that’s what they called him, I was already drunk as a loon. He put a hundred dollars on the table and I lost, I lost bad. It was so humiliating, and the whole bar was hooting and hollering for old Billy Gloat, so I took my chance and pulled the fastest escape of my life. I can say that with certainty now,” John said, glancing at his grave.
“So you were a gambler. I was right, you are a seedy ghost. And to think you had nearly changed my mind. Why should I help you?” Francine asked.
“I suppose you are right about that. And I suppose I should be a little more nervous pleading with the person that seems to be my only chance at eternal rest. But I just tell the story as it happened, there ain’t nothing I can change about the facts. But I must say, it ain’t easy to trust a barefoot girl in a silly nightgown with my fate. It wouldn’t be too much trouble to stay in Martha’s closet for another fifty years.”
Francine thought the ghost was rather haughty.
“You haven’t even told me what it is that needs to be done,” she said.
“It’s quite simple. Sneak into the old billiard hall, place this hundred-dollar bill on the table in the left corner, and be done with it. Once it’s there, I’ll be gone,” John said, holding up the dingy money.
“Where did you get that?” Francine asked.
“It’s probably best we don’t discuss the matter,” John said.
“Did you steal this from my Aunt Martha?”
“No, never that, girl. I picked it up off your Uncle Charles before he died. 1988, I believe.”
“That doesn’t bother me, then. I never did care much for Uncle Charles. Will that stolen money affect your eternal rest?”
“Oh no,” John started, “ghosts can’t acquire more debts. We’re past that. I would take care of this business myself, would much prefer it, but ghosts are bound to the land that they died on. I could have gotten a lot less lucky than dying at home, though I suppose if Billy had shot me dead on my way out, I could have dealt with this a lot quicker.”
By this time, the stars had faded and the dark sky had lightened to periwinkle, so John knew it was nearly time for him to return to the house. He quickly gave Francine directions to the old pool hall, and she drew out a little map for herself at his instruction. As the earliest birds began to chirp, he vanished in the fog without a trace.
Francine and Julian spent the morning down at the creek, wading in the clear-green water. Francine’s mind rarely drifted from her moonlight task, but when it did, it was to thoughts of wildflowers and dragonflies and other mysteries.
“So, did you see any ghosts last night?” Julian asked.
“No.”
“See, you’re ridiculous.”
The afternoon was filled with more piano tunes by Aunt Martha, more muscadine wine, the beginnings of a thousand-piece puzzle, and a lemon meringue pie. Aunt Martha told Francine and Julian all about her horse-riding escapades, dating since Uncle Charles had died, the drama within her knitting group, and a hundred other things. It seemed women in their 60’s had a lot more going on than Francine had imagined. In a way, she found it comforting. She was relieved that there were no more mentions of ghosts.
As the afternoon drew on, Francine began to worry. The gambling incident had occurred more than fifty years ago, what if the bar had changed hands and repurposed? What if the billiard tables had been moved, or were completely gone? Or else, what if the bar was still functioning, and full of patrons who would jump at the chance to snag a hundred dollars from the table?
When the moon had risen and Aunt Martha and Julian had gone off to bed, Francine put on a long black dress and black poncho and headed out into the night. She looked at the map she’d drawn out before the sun had risen and estimated the pool hall to be about two miles away. She guided her way with a lantern she had found in Aunt Martha’s woodshed, and its dusty glow made the wind-blown trees cast ghastly shadows all around her. The air was thick, like a storm was rolling in.
After passing a dozen dark houses, three stray cats, and countless soybean fields, she could see what was left of the bar in the distance. As she approached it, she saw just how forlorn it was. Thick vines of ivy and Virginia creeper swallowed the little building. The sight of it made Francine think of how relentless the passage of time was, and it made her sad for John. She walked around and searched for a way to enter.
The door was locked and wouldn’t budge, but on the other side, there were two small windows. They seemed to be painted shut, and Francine resolved to break the glass. She searched for rocks to throw and came up with seven that were nicely sized. She backed up and turned her face away and began to throw them. She didn’t worry about the sound of the shattering glass, for there was no one around to hear it.
The rocks had knocked out most of the window, but there was still too much glass around the edges to climb through. She took off her thick black poncho, wrapped it around her right hand, and began punching out the rest of the glass. Her hand was bleeding as she climbed through the window, pushing the heavy velvet curtains aside. Francine felt like she was dreaming.
She shined the lantern around the old room. The walls were wood paneled and covered with broken mirrors and mementos. Half-drank bottles of liquor still lined the shelf, catching the shaky light in honeyed amber fragments. Francine was relieved to see the billiard tables, though their felt had turned a dingy moss green with age and moisture. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see mushrooms pushing up out of them.
Francine oriented herself, facing inwards from the door. She picked out the table in the left corner. The floor was covered in a layer of dust an inch thick, and it kicked up with every step she took. As she placed the hundred-dollar bill on the pool table, she heard a sudden blow of thunder, then the steady patter of rain.
Francine walked back to her aunt’s house in the storm, holding the poncho she had shaken the glass bits out of over her head for warmth. The lantern didn’t do her much good on the journey back, and she felt bittersweet about her ghostly situation. Seeing the old bar, so lost in time and forgotten, had made her see things differently. One day, she thought, maybe I’ll be the ghost in need.
She slipped in through the pink front door, certain that the rain would drown out the sound of her return. Making her way back up the old oak stairs to the guest room, she had intended to catch a bit more sleep before the others woke up. Though after finding the little note underneath the light of the desk lamp, she knew sleep would be impossible. It read:
Dearest Francine,
I can never thank you enough for your help. If you are reading this, I’m where I belong. When I find my family, I will be sure to tell them the reunion is all thanks to you, the barefoot girl in the silly nightgown. If you could do me one last favor, dear, and never set out gambling, and never leave any debts unpaid. You never know what could happen. You could end up like old fool Johnny 8 Ball!
Yours eternally,
John Oliver Lockheart
P.S. There ain’t no billiards in heaven.
In the following years, she picked up a billiards habit much to the chagrin of those who considered it unladylike, though she never once bet money or accrued a penny of debt to her name for fear of getting stuck like John. She visited his grave every year, long after her aunt had died and the property changed hands. Long evenings were spent in the tall grass telling John about all about her billiards ventures and asking him about his family. John never did make a peep at those visitations, but Francine knew he was there, only now free as a spirit, not chained as a ghost.
Mary Honeycutt 
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