There was a long time where it didn’t matter.

I died and the furor around the body and cleanup and then the house went on the market… and sat there… and sat there… and sat there. It was just me and the gathering dust. It wasn’t lonely, per se, it was just… boring. I roamed the dark halls and through the rooms and I didn’t care that my passage didn’t draw eddies in the dust, or that I could pass through walls without budging the few pictures that hung precariously at odd angles on their half-pulled out nails.

But then the living man moved in.

And that was fine, too… until it wasn’t. I overheard him talking to the neighbor who told him this place is haunted – which is great! That means I’ve made an impression!

But this new tenant of my house replies, “Oh that’s okay, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Don’t believe in… Oh, that’s rich. That’s… Okay, I was determined that this unbeliever was not only going to see a ghost, but I was going to scare the ectoplasm out of him! (Living people have ectoplasm, right? It’s been so long…).

That night, I followed behind him as he turned off the lights and started upstairs. When I say I was behind him, I was his shadow. And it looked like I was being effective – he shivered more than once and checked the thermostat more than once before finally putting a sweater on.

Then the moment came – he had finally settled into a deep sleep and started to snore a little. I moved to the foot of his bed and yelled, “Boo!” at the top of my not-lungs, my arms raised in what I felt was a menacing gesture.

He kept snoring.

“Boo!” I bellowed again. Nothing. As I lowered my arms, though, I noticed something – I could see the bedspread through my hand. Oh man, of course he couldn’t hear me – I was totally incorporeal! Sure, I could give him the chills, but actually manifesting? Nope.

In my mind, “Eye of the Tiger” started playing and I started my training montage.

I focused on sound: every night, standing beside the man I focused and spoke a single syllable. “Buh!”… “Buh!”… “Buh!” until finally, one night, I said, “Buh!” and he paused the television show he was watching and listened hard. That was a start!

Then I focused on substance: I directed all my energy to the very tip of my finger and I stabbed it at the edge of the couch cushion. It went right through it. Again; straight through. Again; straight through… finally after so much effort, I watched my finger dimple the cushion fabric. I jumped up and danced around. I poked again and again dimpled the cushion… until I poked a little harder and my entire hand went through the cushion. There was work to do…

Next I worked on visibility: I directed my mind to thinking I was solid, visible, corporeal. I emptied my mind, pictured solid things – brick walls… other walls. I moved my hand in front of the man watching television – he didn’t budge. I kept it up – even more solid walls! Maybe ones made of metal – iron! I was iron! Hand in front of the man… and he squinted and turned his head slightly to see around my hand!

I kept practicing all three elements of being substantial. Could he hear me? Could I touch him? Could he see me? It took some time, but eventually I perfected every element required. I was like an Airbender but a ghost – Ghostbender! Yes, Ghostbender! Sadly, I could not find a ghost flying buffalo (I’m still looking).

When I definitively felt like there was no way he wouldn’t be scared by my terrifying-ness, I again waited for him to fall asleep. I waited for the snores to start. I crept to the side of the bed – better to be closer for maximum terror!

I counted to ten and then I bellowed, “Boo!” My arms raised menacingly, my body absolutely corporeal.

The man startled awake, saw my shape, and punched me so hard I fell backwards, lost my concentration, and fell through the wall into the next room.

I groaned as I lay on my back and I heard him frantically turn the light on and fumble for his glasses. “Who’s there? Hello? Who’s there?!” he demanded, a distinct element of fear in his voice.

I smiled.

Now it mattered, and I had just begun to haunt.

Today 5:46pm

Alexander, we need to talk.

Dad?

Yes, it’s your father. Who else would it be?

But… you’re… dead.

Yes, I understand that. But there’s something very important we need to talk about.

Yes, dad. What do you want to talk about?

There’s a mistake on my death certificate and I need you to change it.

…That’s it? A mistake on your death certificate?

It’s a very important document, Alexander.

Dad, you’re literally texting me from beyond the grave and this is what you want to talk about?

What else would I want to talk about?

ANYTHING? You love me? You’re proud of me? You have a secret Swiss Bank account you want to give me the access code do… I don’t know, dad, anything but a mistake on your death certificate! Like, seriously, you came back for this?

No, nevermind, this makes perfect sense. This is very you.

Alexander, I can see how this might make you upset.

Upset? No, I’m just breaking the laws of the universe by texting my dead father. Why would that make me upset?

Look, I don’t know how much time I have here. Can I explain the issue?

How much time you have? Is heaven like prison? Do you get timed earth calls?

No… Alexander, this is important.

Yeah, of course it is. You’re talking to me from beyond the veil. What is it, dad?

On my death certificate, the “Usual Occupation” lists me as “Retired” instead of “Teacher.”

Yeah, dad, you were retired for ten years before you died. Do you not remember that part?

No, son, the instructions clearly state that “Usual Occupation” the job the person held for the greatest number of working years – it explicitly says not to use “retired.”

Dad, I love you. I miss you so much. But how does this matter?

Alexander, I was a teacher for 40 years! That was the defining aspect of my life! Of course it’s important!

What am I? Chopped liver?

Stop it, Alexander – you know you and your sister are precious to me. But this is important, too. And this is the last document of my life – I want it to be an accurate record of who I was.

And you were retired, dad.

Alexander, it specifically says you can’t put that.

Dad, I just buried you. I closed your accounts. I dealt with the house. I filled out seventeen forms. I am not reopening this whole process because one box says “Retired.”

It was a very beautiful service, too. Thank you. But could you just take care of this last thing?

I love you, Dad. And I miss you terribly. Julie misses you. We wish you were here still.

I love you, Alex.

Agent: You have reached the California Department of Public Health, Vital Records department. I am an automated agent. How may I help you?

User: Hi, I need to correct a death certificate.

Agent: You need to correct a death certificate. Is this right?

User: Yes. That is right.

Agent: What is your relationship to the deceased?

User: It’s me. I’m the deceased.

Agent: Invalid response. Please provide your relationship to the deceased.

User: I am the deceased.

Agent: Invalid response. Please provide your relationship to the deceased.

User: That’s me. I’m dead. I’m the one on the death certificate.

Agent: … Please wait while I attempt to connect you with a live agent…

User: That’s ironic…

…

Agent: Thank you for contacting the California Department of Public Health, Vital Records. I’m Elaine, may I get your name?

User: Hi Elaine. I’m Charlie. Charlie Andrews.

Agent: Okay, thank you Mr. Andrews. How may I help you today?

User: I need to fix an error on a death certificate.

Agent: Alright. Just letting you know up front that we may need supporting documents, but first, what is the name of the deceased?

User: Charlie Andrews. Well, Charles Lemont Andrews.

Agent: Thank you, Mr. Andrews. And what is your relationship with the deceased?

User: It’s me. I’m Charles Lemont Andrews.

Agent: So, the deceased is your father? You’re Charles Lemont Andrews Junior?

User: No, there’s no junior or senior – that’s me. I’m the deceased.

Agent: Sir, maybe I’m not being clear…

User: I’m dead, Elaine. I need to get my death certificate fixed.

Agent:

User: Hello?

Agent: I’m sorry, sir, let me get you over to one of my supervisors…

…

Agent: Hi, Charlie, this is Marisol. I’m a supervisor here. Elaine provided me with your details. You’re claiming to be the decedent?

User: Hi Marisol. Yes, that’s correct. I’m the dead guy on the form.

Agent: Well, Charlie, we don’t get a lot of requests from the other side. You indicated you needed something changed on a… on your death certificate. Is that right?

User: Yes, that’s correct.

Agent: What exactly did you need changed?

User: The “Usual Occupation” field is incorrect. It says “retired,” but it should read “Teacher.”

Agent: I’m pulling it up right now… Oh… yes, I see it does say “retired.” …That shouldn’t have been accepted that way…

User: That’s what I tried to tell my son!

Agent: You contacted your son about this?

User: Yes, I texted him.

Agent: I see… and what did he say?

User: That it wasn’t important.

Agent: I guess when he’s being contacted by his late father, correcting a clerical error might seem a little insignificant.

User: Yes, I suppose you’re right.

Agent: The bad news is, I’m not sure how much we can help you from here. There’s a form that needs to be completed and submitted with corroborating evidence.

User: Yeah, that’s going to be a little difficult from where I’m sitting…

Agent: Oh, you’re sitting?

User: Oh yes – on a cloud. I had to set my harp down to message you.

Agent: Really?

User: Not really.

Agent: This form really shouldn’t have been accepted without that field correctly filled out. You say you were a teacher?

User: Yes, for forty years.

Agent: I had a Mr. Andrews in high school, so I appreciate that.

User: Where did you go to High School?

Agent: Mission Ridge over in Bellweather.

User: When did you graduate?

Agent: Class of 2002.

User: Marisol Rodriguez?

Agent: Now you’re messing with me.

User: I’m not. There aren’t any harps here, but my memory is crystal clear. You wrote your final term paper on the role of fate in Romeo and Juliet.

User: Marisol?

Agent: Mr. Andrews… I’m so sorry you’re dead.

User: Thank you, Marisol. I am too, for what it’s worth.

Agent: You were a great English teacher.

User: And you were an excellent student – I recall you got an A-

Agent: And I rightfully deserved a B+

User: Eh, teacher’s discretion – you were an excellent student.

Agent: I’ve changed the death certificate, Mr. Andrews. “Usual Occupation” now reads “Teacher.”

User: Thank you, Marisol. You have no idea how much that means to me.

Agent: I’m glad I could help you… find peace?

User: Oh my God, I see a bright light…

Agent: Really?

User: No, not really. But, thank you, Marisol.

Agent: Get some rest, Mr. Andrews.

User: I will, Marisol. I will.

When I go out of town for work I’m usually gone on Wednesdays. I mean, I’m gone other days during the week, too, but why does Wednesday matter? Because Wednesday around here is Trash Night and it’s my job to put the trashes out Wednesday night ahead of the early morning Thursday pickup – unless I’m not here. So, now I’ve been accused of deliberately planning my work trips to keep me away on Wednesdays. It’s all in good humor… or is it?

Have you heard of the broken windows theory? The basic idea is that visible signs of neglect – broken windows, abandoned buildings, trash, unrepaired damage – signal that nobody is maintaining or watching a place, which can encourage more disorder and crime.

I noticed the house across the street was very noticeably abandoned – the yard was completely overgrown, one of the shutters hung askew on one hinge, cobwebs covered parts of the front door. One day shortly after we moved into the neighborhood, I finished mowing our lawn and as I was having some water I looked across the street at the high weeds. I went into our garage and came out with the weed whacker, crossed the street and went to town.

That was just the start.

I brought the weeds down to a manageable height before I brought in the lawn mower. I completely filled the sun-bleached green compost bin that had been left in front of the side gate. Then fixed the shutter. The next weekend, I took my portable pressure washer to the front of the house before cleaning the outside of the windows.

While I was working, I’d thought about the broken windows theory, but that wasn’t the reason I spent hours on a house I have no attachment to. It was just because it looked like crap and I could make a difference. So, I did.

My neighbor, Tim, asked what I was doing and I told him exactly that – it looked awful, so I cleaned it up. I asked if he knew who the owner was, and he said an older couple lived there but passed away a year or so before my wife and I moved in. Allegedly there was some drawn out court fight between the children that’s been going back and forth and in the meantime the house sits empty and neglected. I say “allegedly” because Tim never spoke to any of these warring progeny – he’d heard it from a different neighbor who’d heard it from another neighbor whose wife worked with one of the adult children’s best friend or something like that.

Did it matter? Not at all.

The idea of the neighborhood gossip about the abandoned house made me chuckle as I dragged our garbage bin, and recycling bin to the curb. I filled the abandoned house’s green bin with weeds and lawn clippings, and as I set down our own green bin next to our other bins I was about to go put the abandoned house’s green bin on the curb, when I heard the gate across the street open. I looked up at the now-well-trimmed yard and noticed warm lights in the windows. From the side yard, I noticed the green bin being wheeled out by an older gentleman. He set the bin against the curb and looked over at me. Our eyes met and he waved hello before turning and heading wordlessly back to the side yard. I watched him close the side yard gate from inside wondering who this old guy was? And I had never seen anyone there – it was 10 o’clock at night, after all. There were no cars in the driveway… it bothered me, but I took one last look across the street at the warmly lit house and let it go as I turned and went back inside.

When I got home from work the next day, I brought our bins up to our side yard and noticed the abandoned house’s bin was still at the curb. Maybe the old guy only came by once a week? I crossed the street and dragged the bin up to the side yard where I reached out to open the gate and noticed it was locked with a rust-encrusted padlock that had clearly been there undisturbed for quite some time. I stared at the lock and finally decided I didn’t want to know. So, I left the bin in front of the locked gate and went home.

The next morning the bin was no longer in front of the gate.

I crossed and stood on my tip toes to peek over the still-locked gate and saw the green bin in the side yard, right next to the trash bin and recycling bin. I looked through the front window – I could look through it since I took several years of grime off the week before – and saw the inside still deserted, a layer of dust on the floor thick enough to resemble fresh snow after a storm.

The following weekend I went out to mow my yard and looked across at the abandoned house to see if it needed a trim. It did, but I also noticed the green bin out in front of the side yard gate, as if waiting for me to fill it. I laughed and dragged my mower across the street.

That Wednesday night as I put our bins out on the curb, the abandoned house shone and I heard the side gate open and the old man wheel the green bin out. He set the bin at the curb and again our eyes met and again he waved hello before turning and heading back through the side gate.

I smiled and said to myself, “So, this is how it’s going to be?”

Two weeks later I mowed the lawns again – the green bin was waiting for me in front of the gate again – before I packed and left the next morning for business. When I got back on Friday my wife said, “Did you know we have new neighbors across the street?”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes – when I put the garbage bin out Wednesday night while you were away,” she gave me a playful side-eye, “I saw an older man putting their green bin out. He seemed nice – he waved to me and I waved back.”

I nodded with a smile. “Yeah, they keep to themselves pretty much.”