The boardwalk arcade, which stank like rotting driftwood, is where Trish first saw the ghost.
At first, she thought it was a dirty smudge on the wall in the corner arcade where no one went but her. During summer break, all the other 6th graders hung out at the glitzier game center a block down, but Trish preferred to weave through the small labyrinth of carnival-like stalls, dodging people clutching stuffed animals of questionable integrity. There, amidst the ancient consoles flashing lights in hopes of a player, she could be alone. She had beaten all the games except for one.
When she looked up again, the ghost appeared, the height of an 8-year-old. Sand-streaked hair with a sagging bow of seaweed. A fluffy white dress, that was more tears than fabric. The rest of her blurred in a way that was hard to see next to Mortal Kombat.
The ghost’s mouth moved silently, a slash darker than the sea at night. She pointed at the floor and then the ceiling.
Trish snatched her coin cup and ran all the way back to the vacation rental several blocks away.
“It was a friggin’ ghost.” Trish lifted a hand to show her parents. “This tall. Standing right there.”
Her mom’s eyes narrowed, her irritation at Trish’s antics eclipsing the pain that had settled there since the funeral. “You’re spending too much time alone again. Go find some friends.”
Trish wandered the boardwalk through the throng of burnt shoulders, scanning her phone for any accounts of ghost stories on the boardwalk, of tragedies. She bookmarked one story, about a foster girl who had hid on the boardwalk during a hurricane. Her body was never found.
“Sad,” Trish said aloud, studying the black-and-white photo of wreckage from the boardwalk collapse.
Curiosity got the better of her, but the old arcade was silent except for the machines’ beeps. After she checked every corner for shadows, she started to play. Her tokens dwindled in their plastic cup. When she looked up from the pixelated X-Men, the ghost was standing next to her, its eyes gleaming the palest blue, like a shell bleached too long in the sun. The girl’s mouth gaped open like a fish.
“Are you…” Trish tried to be brave. The mournful yearning in the ghost’s eyes reminded her of her younger brother before he died, after his cells rebelled in destructive protest. “…sad?”
The ghost pointed at something on the floor. A long extension cable. Trish’s eyes followed the ghost’s gesture up toward the ceiling fan.
Trish bent down to grip the brown cable and shuddered, picturing a homemade noose. “What, you want me to join you?” One of the games blared to life next to her, as if someone was playing. Agreeing.
“I get it. We could play video games forever. Not be bothered by anyone.”
It was tempting. To not have to face another school year, the pitying looks of her teachers, the whispers of her classmates. Her parents. They were so burdened already, maybe it would be easier for them if Trish wasn’t around. They could have a fresh start.
A kid squealed outside and Trish thought for a second it might be her brother, clutching one of the cheap stuffed lions from a boardwalk game she had won last year.
But he’s gone.
She wiped the wetness from her cheeks.
“I get you’re lonely,” Trish whispered. “I am too. But I can’t stay…” she gestured to the games. “Here. I have to move on.”
The ghost watched her as she backed up and out of the dingy arcade. Outside, she sucked in a lungful of sea breeze threaded with vinegar and popcorn. She walked toward the new game center a block away, her step a little lighter.
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Learn more at www.KCGrifant.com or on social media at @kcgrifant.
If you enjoyed this story, be sure to check out KC Grifant’s previous appearance in our virtual pages, “The Sighting.”
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