"Muse" by Rebecca Rupp

 rebeccarupp@gmail.com

MUSE

Morgan had failed repeatedly to finish writing chapter 6 and was wishing for a miracle to save him from a forced return to his job in retail sales. This was a condition imposed with an ominously pending deadline by his wife Elizabeth who felt that he was wasting time that might be better spent bringing home a regular paycheck with a healthcare plan.

Elizabeth was a computer systems analyst. Morgan didn’t understand what she did, but whatever it was always sounded vaguely sinister. She believed in fiscal responsibility, daily exercise, meatless diets, decaffeinated coffee, and nonfiction literature.

It was then that he saw the ghost.

It looked like a shadow with a bit of something misty and transparent in the middle and not much of anything in the way of face. It seemed to ooze up out of the floorboards in the corner of the room and wavered there uncertainly, as if not sure what to do next.

Morgan, whose passion was tales of the supernatural, was surprisingly startled. His experience with ghost stories had led him to expect eerie wailings, mysterious footsteps, or oddly rocking cradles. Besides he’d never expected to encounter a ghost himself.

Being unprepared, Morgan did none of the things that the New England Paranormal Society suggested in approaching a ghost.

He said, “What the…?” and turned on the overhead light, at which point the ghost disappeared.

Morgan went downstairs and told Elizabeth that he’d seen a ghost.

Elizabeth, who was in the kitchen making vegetarian quesadillas, told him not to be silly. “Forty-five percent of American adults believe in ghosts,” Morgan said. “That’s 94 million people. Thirty-six percent say they’ve actually seen a ghost.”

“Forty-five percent of Americans can’t name the three branches of the federal government,” Elizabeth said. “Twenty-five percent of Americans think the Sun goes around the Earth. Pass me the can opener.”

“It wasn’t a scary ghost,” Morgan said. “I didn’t get one of those cold creepy feelings.”

“Ninety-five percent of Americans don’t know the reason for seasons,” Elizabeth said.

Morgan suspected that he was one of them.

“Axial tilt,” said Elizabeth. “Pass me the spatula.”

“Wouldn’t it change your life if you knew you’d seen a ghost?” Morgan said. “I mean, that’s a big deal. That’s proof of life after death.”

“That’s proof that a lot of people are uncritical thinkers,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t be ridiculous, Morgan. Do you want to eat at the table?”

The next day the ghost was back. This time Morgan could see more of it, though it kept drifting in and out of focus.

“Confront the ghost, acknowledge its presence, and encourage it to move on,” were the directions from the Paranormal Society.

Morgan had looked them up.

Not that he had much faith in the Paranormal Society. He’d seen their smudgy photographs.

Still it seemed worth a try.

“Hey,” he said feebly to the ghost. “I see you.”

The ghost flickered.

Encourage it to move on, Morgan remembered.

“You should move on,” he said firmly.

The ghost dissolved, leaving in Morgan’s mind an impression of deep disappointment.

“Lots of houses are haunted,” Morgan told Elizabeth. “Abraham Lincoln haunts the White House. Winston Churchill saw him. He’d just gotten out of the bath and was standing there naked smoking a cigar when he saw Lincoln by the fireplace. Churchill said, ‘Good evening, Mr. President. You seem to have me at a disadvantage.’”

“What a thrill for Abraham Lincoln,” Elizabeth said.

“There are three reasons for ghosts,” Morgan said.

After failing again to complete chapter 6, he had spent some profitable time on Google. “One: unfinished business, as in something the ghost needs to communicate to the living. Like where to find grandpa’s will. Two: revenge, as in the ghost has been murdered and he or she is really annoyed about it. And three: the ghost is just scared and confused, and so can’t move on to wherever ghosts are supposed to move on to.”

“And four: there’s no such thing as ghosts,” said Elizabeth. “Pass the salt.”

“I saw it,” said Morgan.

“There’s a woman in Texas who saw the face of Jesus Christ in a taco,” said Elizabeth. “Pareidolia.”

“Para what?” said Morgan.

“Pareidolia,” said Elizabeth. “It’s a tendency to perceive meaningful images in ambiguous random patterns when actually there’s nothing there.”

“You are an ambiguous random pattern,” Morgan said to the ghost.

The ghost settled sadly to the floor at his feet.

Morgan was reminded of the dog he’d had as a child. He’d always felt self-confident around that dog. Dogs were faithful friends who dispensed unconditional love. Unlike people, some of whom continually harped on about fiscal responsibility and the unwisdom of wearing socks with sandals.

He smiled approvingly at the ghost.

The ghost radiated affection.

The next day Morgan finished chapter 6. His characters, he noticed, now had well-developed personalities and were exchanging snappier and more meaningful dialogue.

“I think it’s a muse,” he said to Elizabeth. “The ghost. I think it appears to help writers in despair.”

“If it really wanted to be helpful,” Elizabeth said, “it would tell writers in despair to get a paying job.”

“A mysterious presence appeared to Edgar Allen Poe,” Morgan said. “It helped him finish ‘The Telltale Heart.’”

“Poe suffered from alcoholism and recurrent depression,” Elizabeth said.

Morgan wondered if Poe had ever had a dog.

The next day he finished chapter 7, introduced dramatic tension in chapter 8, and added a startling plot twist in chapter 9. He realized that he was writing unusually well. Even his vocabulary had improved. He was now tossing around words like “obdurate” and “polymorphism,” and he had stopped misspelling “accommodate.”

The ghost seemed increasingly contented. Morgan began to look forward to its manifestations.

Elizabeth began to discuss Prozac, therapy sessions, and the benefits of cold baths and long-distance walks.

When Elizabeth’s name was mentioned, Morgan noticed that the ghost bristled and turned faintly pink.

He sympathized, but found this worrisome.

“Somebody pushed me,” Elizabeth said. “I was standing at the top of the stairs and if I hadn’t grabbed the banister in time, I could have broken my neck.”

“You think it was the ghost?” Morgan said.

“I don’t,” said Elizabeth, giving him a hard look. “I said somebody.”

“Well, it wasn’t me,” Morgan said. “Maybe you just tripped?”

“Absolutely not,” Elizabeth said.

She went into the bedroom and locked the door.

That evening the ghost seemed particularly cheerful.

The next day Morgan finished chapter 10 and wrote a brilliant proposal for turning the forthcoming book into a screenplay. There was a role in it for Dakota Fanning, whom Morgan had admired since he saw her screaming in the 2005 film version of “War of the Worlds.”

Morgan appreciated a good scream, having recently described several.

He had never, however, heard one before from Elizabeth who, unlike Morgan, was invariably calm in the face of mice, spiders, snakes, funny noises from the furnace, and the IRS.

He found her lying on the kitchen floor next to a broken chair.

“The legs were sawed through,” Elizabeth said from the floor. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Morgan?”

“It wasn’t me,” Morgan said. “I think it was the ghost. Can you get up?”

“No,” Elizabeth said. “Call 911.”

The hospital kept Elizabeth overnight for observation. When Morgan mentioned the ghost, the admissions department filed a police report and the emergency room doctor gave him a flier about mental health support. He recommended that Elizabeth and Morgan live apart until their problems were resolved and suggested that Elizabeth move in with a relative or friend.

Morgan found that this did not upset him as much as he had expected.

He went home and confronted the ghost. “You can’t go around pushing people,” he said sternly. “Or sabotaging household furniture.”

The ghost curled lazily around the floor lamp, indicating that yes, it could.

“Well, don’t do it again,” Morgan said.

He reflected on how peaceful life would be without Elizabeth.

He thought about lack of exercise and eating hamburgers.

The ghost settled itself comfortably in an armchair.

That evening Morgan solved an annoying problem involving a locked closet and a piano in chapter 14 and came up with a scintillating plan for a sequel.

He and Elizabeth divorced, citing irreconcilable differences, after which Elizabeth moved to New Jersey. She later married a chemical engineer.

Morgan’s subsequently published novel, Seeing is Believing, was wildly successful.

It was dedicated to the ghost.

END