Chapter Text
A statistician would say: of all the millions of ghost stories ever told, what percentage would have to be true for ghosts to exist?
The answer is that only one story would have to be true.
- Burial
The weather had been unremarkable the day he died – cold, grey, entirely uncompelling – and though he couldn’t tell why, it was the one truth that bothered James Webb most of all. For when he had contemplated his own death before, it had been anything but. That was not to say that he imagined it to be heroic or anything of that nature. On the contrary. He envisioned it as a quiet thing, soft and perhaps kind, like sinking underneath the surface of a warm body of water. What he had gotten, ironically, had been the furthest removed from all of that. Frankly, it was the reason why James believed he had gotten a do-over. Because he had died, this part held true, but he had also lived again, though the weather that day had been nothing worthy of note either.
And now, after waking up that dreary day in early September, neon lights assaulting and burning his retina, and losing another month to rehabilitation, James was back on his feet. He had to be, considering nobody was going to pick him up from that hospital anyways, not after being gone for such a long time. Over and over he had been told how lucky he had gotten – no lasting cognitive impact despite the coma, likely no permanent outside markers except for the scar on his head – but waiting for a taxi inside the foyer of St. Nicholas Hospital, he didn’t feel very fortunate at all.
“Your lucky day,” he was told.
The nurse behind the reception, an elderly woman who looked like she was nearing the end of an exhausting shift, peered at him from behind her glasses. James was sure they had interacted before but couldn't recall when exactly and for what purpose. He wondered if this was going to become a constant; the not remembering. Hesitantly he gave her a fake smile – the kind he was practised in (though currently out of practice, in a way), no teeth – and nodded.
“I suppose,” he said curtly.
“Well, don’t you come back,” she said jokingly, but her expression gave away a more serious intention. “I hate to see you young people around here. Got anyone waiting for you?”
“Not really.”
“But you’re feeling alright?”
He knew what this was, she was doing one last checkup, one last reassurance for the hospital. Not for his sake, but for theirs. Again, James gave a polite smile and nodded. Yes . But it wasn’t quite true, because the main thing he felt was anticipation, perhaps anxiety, and slight annoyance as well. James wanted to get home, not because he defined himself or his status via his flat, but because he just knew what the inside of his fridge must have evolved into by now, and he rather wanted to get to fixing that mess.
Eventually his driver arrived – an unusually upbeat man in his thirties – and carried his belongings for him to put them in the boot. There wasn’t much, only an oversized plastic bag and a valise containing some items, both looked comically small lying in the back by itself. The driver – John as he introduced himself – thankfully had a talent for adjusting his mood and demeanour for his passenger, meaning that while still cheerful, he mainly let the radio do the talking as James watched London pass by his window. His heart was beating in a way it usually didn’t (or used to, at least) as they approached his building. This, too, he hoped would not become a new normal.
Once the ride ended, James had to realise that St. Nicholas had paid for his escort, and having no money on him currently, he couldn’t leave a tip. It was one of those things he disliked immensely – being seen as lacking or, in this case, as a cheapskate – though John didn’t seem to mind. James decided to not mind either, considering that there were more pressing issues at hand.
Upon entry James knew he was right (he usually was) to be anxious. Not only did the faint smell of something rotten penetrate the air inside his home, an even layer of dust coated the furniture making it somewhat look like a haunted house scene in a subpar movie. James didn’t believe in ghosts, of course he didn’t, but if there was any truth to them this was where you might find one. In this case, however, the ghost was him in his long grey coat, dust particles trailing him as he went to take inventory of the kitchen. At some point a member of St. Nicholas’ staff had been sent to fetch some things for him, hence his clothes, but whoever that was, had been in and out as quickly as humanly possible.
The flat was cold, the heating never turned on for the duration of the past year. Though what he had saved in terms of costs on that end, the fridge made up for, running despite being largely empty.
James liked to keep things clean and neat, that included himself or, in this instance, the inside of his fridge. Obviously, he didn’t recall its contents, only grabbed the thankfully empty bin to fill it up with leftovers of dubious origin and some plastic containers he didn’t dare open. He made it downstairs without running into any neighbours, then took to some light dusting and vacuuming. After all, it was the middle of the day and nobody could complain. But while carpet and furniture began to get their shine back, he was taken aback by how mundane it all felt. Not a day ago he’d been in hospital, now he was here. Like nothing had ever happened, except that everything had happened. The world had kept turning quite cheerfully, welcoming a new year and new elected officials in the process.
And James couldn’t help wondering who had even been aware of his absence, who had learned only of his presumed demise without ever discovering the additional footnotes. Really he didn’t care, there was no one here for him anyways. London was big, busy and unconcerned with individual fates like his own. On most days he enjoyed it, enjoyed finding himself in the heart of a metropole, living on the fifth floor of a nice building complex. The flat was expensive but not excessively so, the people here were well off but not wealthy, an eternal difference. Not that he knew any of the other tenants, not really, it wasn’t like you made a round and introduced yourself when moving in anymore. For some reason that reminded him of his damaged phone.
When leaving St. Nicholas they had handed him a plastic bag containing his remaining belongings, much like an inmate. The jacket he had worn on the day of his death was largely intact, though he presumed the bloodstains had made a home of the material and he’d have to throw it out eventually. Inside one of its pockets had been his flat key, inside the other the car keys, which was another thing he had to take care of at some point. And then there was the phone; a relatively new model with a shattered screen that could easily get repaired.
Which is how James Webb found himself inside the Electronics Enterprises repair shop of one Mister Lester who he knew was ripping him off only slightly, a bit of charity extended to him only when the old man had spotted the scar on his side. While Lester or, rather, his much more capable son went about fixing the screen, James sat by the shop window and watched all kinds of people pass. Every once in a while someone would look in his direction, or look through him to use the reflective glass to fix their hair, and it felt odd. He couldn’t tell why.
That night, repaired phone charging by the bedside table, James found out that sleeping was hard when you had just spent the better part of the last year motionless inside a hospital bed. They said you couldn’t make up for lost sleep, but maybe you could get in some hours in advance. Or, in his case, months. That’s what it felt like as he stared up at the dark ceiling, closing his eyes for prolonged periods of time. It became the sort of sleep where you lost the ability to tell whether two minutes or two hours had passed, and since October was very much a time of year when darkness had a leg up on daylight, no outside factors could indicate how right or wrong the estimate was. It was during the early morning hours, when James gave up on any hope of finding rest, and ventured back into his living room. He did it under the guise of needing a glass of water and using the bathroom, but really he preferred the silence of his sofa to that of his bed. Less official and damning somehow.
With the television on its lowest volume, lights flickering across the room, James lay down on the sofa, occupying the same position he had earlier and, coincidentally, for many months. With the white noise of an early morning show, he felt an odd sense of comfort flood his chest. It made him wonder whether during his coma, a nurse had sat with him from time to time, flipping through the channels, perhaps during a night shift break. The image seemed familiar enough for him to conclude that must have been why. Inbetween those shaky memories, James’ eyes began to drift shut again, the urge to sleep much heavier all of the sudden.
Once he gave in, the glowing TV lights on the ceiling above turned into white dots, then falling snow, then a gust of wind blew the tiny flakes away and revealed a car park. James found himself standing in front of the scene as an observer, a third person that had never been there, watching his body hit the floor. As blood covered the cement, his vision cut out, causing him to blink rapidly. Then a set of dark eyes stared at him, furiously, changing colour to a much lighter hue, less angry and more downturned, melancholic in nature. He couldn’t make sense of it, but in a far removed way he understood this was a dream and dreams didn’t kill people or change what had already transpired. In a wave of lucidity James willed himself to look away from whoever was staring at him, eventually finding himself standing in the driveway of an old house.
The knowledge of being stuck in a dream somehow began to vanish while the air grew heavy and sweet, lilacs and green hedges flooding his field of vision. He’d known the house for such a long time, the rust brown and red facade, the white columns by the entrance and the tree branches knocking on the roof as they swayed in the wind. In the doorway, a short figure stood waiting. He couldn’t make out who it was – short, blonde, pale – but felt like he simply had to get closer. But as he tried, the shape disappeared and so did the dream, leaving only a whisper in his ear that broke apart, the last syllables ringing out –
Go back.
After getting some semblance of sleep, James knew he had about thirty minutes before he’d starve. In the past, he was the type to get black coffee and run on that until lunch time, but in hospital a new routine had been established, mainly because the coffee there was shit. What he craved now was some sort of tea and anything remotely edible, preferably something freshly baked. Still lying on his sofa with the TV running – still some morning show – he remembered throwing out all his food and cursed himself for not taking care of groceries yesterday. So, he had little choice but seek out one of those coffee shops that littered the neighbourhood, littered any neighbourhood these days, and hoped it would be a quick run. And though his thoughts for the entire trip circled that odd dream and how much he didn’t want to be up and running right now, James prevailed.
When he got back, which really wasn’t that much later, he found his newly recharged phone vibrating with a few missed calls. Placing down his paper teacup and brown bag containing an overpriced croissant on the living room table, he ventured to the bedroom where he unplugged the phone and sat on the unmade bed to check his messages. Not much to see, only one name over and over again, dating all the way back to last November.
Mother , the screen read, and James would have laughed if it hadn’t been for the shiver running down his spine. Yes, it had been cold outside, but come to think of it he hadn’t been warm in a long time. Couldn’t get warm, no matter the blankets or heating or steaming tea.
James scanned the shiny new phone screen once more, and as he did the outline of a Georgian house with rust coloured stones seemed to appear on it, an inviting light burning brightly by the entrance. Was he really going to do this, James wondered as his thumb hovered over the call button. Memory, experience and better judgement were raging at him like a Greek Choir to reconsider. Unfortunately his curiosity won out over all three. It was settled then.
He would go back.