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John tapped his fingers rhymically on the wheel, humming to himself. He stared ahead at the neverending road that seemed to go on forever.
It was exhausting.
Next to him, an urn was belted to the passenger's seat. In the back of the car, a blue tinted figure leaned over John's shoulder, watching the road with him. "...Angie..." John breathed, trying to catch her attention. He could feel a cold breeze hit his shoulder; it was not pleasant.
"What do a hamster and a cig-"
"Angie!" John's irritation was clearer than a pane of glass. Angie retreated from the back of his seat and grumbled, rolling her eyes.
Angie hated that John was growing old. It seemed the older he got, the more upset he would become. There were so many reasons for his terrible aging... Angie could've gone on forever on what her idea was. One one of them was her death, which, she was pretty sure was her own fault.
After an hour passed, Angie groaned.
"John?" Angie spoke, peeking out of the window.
"What?" John's response was so icy, it made Angie wonder if he was actually the ghost.
"In about three minutes, this car is gonna lose fuel," she gave a thumbs up. John muttered something incomprehensible, and pulled over. "There's a tank in the trunk."
John picked up his walking stick, and slowly climbed out of the vehicle. He closed the door behind him and walked towards the rear of his car, the clacking of his cane on the tarmac following behind. Angie phased through the car door, and watched as John opened the trunk, and picked up a tank of fuel. He had to steal it from the Ghostbuster's firehouse unfortunately.
He started to fill up the car, and eventually put the tank back into the trunk and made his way back inside. As he sat down, something didn't feel right. He turned to look at the urn, and noticed something on its surface. Was it a crack? John really hoped not. He removed the seatbelt and picked up the urn carefully. He inspected it over, but suddenly, it managed to slip out of his hands. It landed with a crash onto the hard-shoulder's ground, and ash started to get blown into the wind.
"Shit!" John quickly stepped out of the car and picked up the pieces of the urn, cutting his finger in the process. He was shocked. Completely shocked.
Did this mean Angie would be gone? She's been haunting this urn since she died back in 1995... John's idea of how the dead moved on wasn't refined enough.
He couldn't help but start to sob. He knelt down, and watched as the rest of the ashes blew away, over the road.
"I'm so sorry-" he managed to say in between his choked sobs, tears running down his wrinkled face.
"I'm so fucking sorry."
He didn't mean for this to happen. He was always a clumsy man, he couldn't help it.
Suddenly, he felt pathetic. It's been 26 years since Angie died, and he, not even once, considered trying to move on. He just clung onto what was left of her; her ghost, and her ashes. And now, both had left.
John suddenly heard a cough.
"ahem"
He turned, and his eyes widened. Angie stood there, unamused, whilst he was a complete mess on the ground.
"Angie? B-but- your ashes- the urn-"
"I'm haunting you, butterfingers." Angie grinned. John's lip quivered as it curled up into a small smile.