Goodghost
Flash fiction horror.
My daddy came at me with the scissors. He closed them to a shiny point, held like a knife in his shaking fist, and he swung at me with big milky eyes narrowed and lost.
Goodghost stopped the sharp shiny silver point before it hit me. He always stopped Daddy before it was too late, even though ghosts aren't real good at moving. They can only turn so fast. They can't really grip things, not really, even though they usually have all their fingers and thumbs. Goodghost had all his fingers, but he was slow. Fortunately, Daddy was slow, too.
So the scissors hit Goodghost in the arm. And stuck there, for a second, and Daddy stared at the trembling meat that began to bleed. The Goodghost and him were one again; I could see it in his eyes as they cleared, that he realized he'd hurt himself. He'd hit Goodghost. He'd hit himself.
Daddy's arms had been thick with muscle when he was younger, but over the years, they'd had grown fatty and fatigued instead. Thin but jiggly, like a banana gone to rot. He grabbed the scissors back and instead of coming at me, he hit himself in the arm again. And again. And again. He stabbed and stabbed and stabbed his upper arm like he was making some kind of ground pork.
Daddy had never done that before.
I could see Goodghost going pale under his skin; even more pale than normal for a ghost. I didn't ever think Daddy would try to kill someone, anyone, for real.
Am I lying? I guess I knew it was possible that he'd hurt someone for real. He'd been angry and violent and blinded by it before. But I didn't think it would happen then. His arm was ruined, bleeding brackish red, and it dribbled from his fingertips onto the faded gray hardwood floor of our old creaky farm house.
I couldn't move. I knew he had the potential to hurt me. To hurt Goodghost. To go too far. That's why Goodghost was there, because Daddy would go too far, and Goodghost would have to step in to stop him, and he had. But what happened when Goodghost died?
I stared. I stopped breathing. I only realized it because my chest started to hurt real bad, and I needed air. Maybe, a little, my heart hurt too. I sucked in a gasp as I went dizzy, more a compulsion than anything else, and Goodghost and Daddy both turned to me together, and I could see it.
Goodghost was dying.
"Daddy," I said, and it wasn't just my breath I'd been holding. Tears started, too, breaking free from me. And once I started, I couldn't stop. I cried, and my voice went shrill and frantic and I'd be humiliated any other time, but not this time. "Daddy, please stop. Daddy, don't. You're killing yourself. You're dying."
"You got to run," said Goodghost. "Go, baby."
I screamed, "You're gonna die!"
"And then I'm gonna get you next. You got to go." His voice went bubbly and wet. "Go," he said. And then the sound was dark. Daddy's roar, Goodghost's voice, was nearly unintelligible as he shrieked, "GO."
I struggled to breathe through the tears and snot and the thick feeling in my throat. It made it hard to run. But I had to run. I had to run. I had to run.
I made it out the screen door and it screamed on the hinges as I passed. Maybe the house was scared, too. Maybe it didn't want to be left alone with him. I made it down those saggy wood steps off the porch and they groaned a sad sound. Oh, this poor house. I made it to the sidewalk, crumbling from years of the pecan roots dancing beneath. And it was there that I looked back. I had to look back.
I stopped running and looked back as the screen door screamed again.
Daddy walked out the house and down those steps like he'd never been sick a day in his life, confident and strong. His arm still bled. It sat limp at his side, through the ripped sleeve of the stretched out gray sweatshirt I'd thrifted years ago. It'd fit him tight, once. Now it hung off him like he was a striding corpse.
There was blood on his face, splattered chaotic from how he'd jammed the scissors into his flesh, and there was a flashing wild dog rage in his eyes. He stormed forward, big brown boots stomping my way.
"No, Daddy," I said. I didn't see Goodghost in there; in him. The scissors were all red in his hand as he ran to me.
My daddy came at me with the scissors.
Maybe it was wrong of me, but I decided to fight back. I was younger and faster and stronger, even half his size, because all his strength had atrophied in the last few years at my side, in our weathered gray house.
So I pushed him away when he got to me. I didn't even have to try hard to send him crashing down, and he tripped on a piece of that fucked-up pavement. The scissors skittered away, cling-clang-crush from the sidewalk to the dry summer grass. He laid out, breathing heavy, and didn't move.
The sun began to set behind me and it set his silhouette ablaze in a vibrant peach yellow. He squinted and cussed and I took a minute to let the tears dry on my face. I straightened myself up and when I looked down at him like this, I was surprised he'd ever scared me. I was surprised I'd ever even needed Goodghost.
Daddy looked at me, eyes milky again, face sunken. Not sunken from all this, no. It'd been sunken for a long time now. Deep and weathered from years and years in the mean hot sun, with knife-carved lines across his forehead, by his eyes, and down each cheek. His silver beard was speckled in red gore, too, from what he'd done to himself.
"Oh, Daddy," I said, exhaling. "What were you doing?"
"Killing me," he said, chest heaving.
"Why were you doing that? Why'd you even have the scissors, Daddy?" I hid them real good months ago. How’d he even get into that locked drawer?
He said, "Gotta end me before it's too late."
I sighed and it sounded like a humorless laugh. Daddy was scared. Truly. I could see it. I could feel it. His legs, clad in this blood-stained denim, trembled like nothing else. "I'll Bandaid your arm up and tomorrow, we'll go see a doctor. Alright?"
He shook his head. And continued to shake it. It swung back and forth and back and forth, going faster with each turn. "No," he said. "No, nah, no, nah, ah, ah, ah."
"Forget you," I said, letting the tension go from my shoulders. The sun left us in hazy orange dusk. "Forget it." I turned to pick up the scissors, to clean them up, clean him up, clean me up.
Goodghost stood there, behind me, and he had the scissors.
Except I figured out real quick that it wasn't Goodghost. This one was real dark, like a shadow, and I could barely see his face. But I could see the scissors. Even with the sun sinking away, they flashed a warning of what was to come.
I hadn't ever seen Badghost before. I hadn't ever seen a ghost outside of Daddy before.
"I tried to end me," Daddy said from behind me, voice gone hoarse and high and scared. "I tried to end me."
About Goodghost
I originally wrote this piece for a Halloween horror contest and received the first place prize. My inspiration came from a nightmare—which, if you didn’t know, are a relatively rare occurrence for most people. I used to suffer 2-3 nightmares per week and I had no idea that was abnormal. I’ve since sought treatment and enjoy much better sleep!
The basis of this dream was no doubt my personal experience with my father, who died of Lewy Body Dementia in 2022, after 8 grueling years of managing delusions, hallucinations, erratic and inappropriate behavior, and eventual hospitalization. In a lot of ways, he seemed possessed.
This idea is something I would like to explore in longer form eventually. Until then… Cozy fantasy keeps me warm.
Thank you for reading!