Sightseeing

A woman is trapped in a bathroom with a ghost. Speculative fiction that's a little scary, but not violent, and things end well. 

Always free. But if you wish to support this project, you can contribute via Venmo or Bandcamp. Thank you!

Transcript

Copy Transcript Copied

Welcome to Bo-Rev. I'm Bodine Boling, and what I'm about to read to you will repeat. This is Sightseeing, speculative fiction that's a little scary, but not violent, and things end well. 

My friend Elliot can see ghosts. According to him, we are constantly surrounded by dead people who can't pass through for some reason. The spirits know he can see them, so crowd around Elliot. But they speak a different language, even the way they motion with their hands is confusing, and aggressive. Elliot leaves his apartment in heavy clothing, big watches, baseball caps with the visor pulled down. It helps, he says. We live near each other in Brooklyn, and Elliot says wherever he goes, it's crowded. 

Once he was on an empty subway car, filled with spirits. Stuck underground for an hour. The ghosts swarmed Elliot, desperate for him to understand a message they were powerless to communicate. He said that was the worst, being trapped and being alone, while also realizing there's no such thing as being alone. 

And before you say he's making this up for attention, understand Elliot tells no one about this. Well, not exactly no one, but the circle is small. His parents (his mom believes a little, his dad not at all) and one ex-girlfriend (me). We were only together our freshman year of high school, 20 years ago. When he told me then that he saw dead people all the time, I didn't react well. I thought he was making it up, then that he was crazy, and I'm sorry to say his telling me was why I broke up with him. But I've apologized for that. I was wrong. The truth is there's much more going on than most people can see, and Elliot has the gift of deeper vision. 

And if it's a gift, why not share it?  

I didn't know what the angle would be for a TV show, only that Elliot had to be the host. He could connect living people to dead ones, or help people pass over, or just what it's like to be him. Elliot can be intense, but he's attractive, smart, and nice in a way that feels sincere. I'd worked at reality show production companies since my first college internship. I could sell an Elliot show in a second. 

Of course Elliot said absolutely not, he'd never make a TV show about his life. He didn't even like talking about it with me. I said he could be famous, and help people, and have a big, important life. But Elliot said he liked his life small, working from home as an audio engineer, lifting weights in his living room, having everything delivered. 

There's a ghost in his apartment, by the way, which kept itself confined to a small second bathroom Elliot never used. I dared myself to peek in once, and saw only a windowless closet with toilet and sink, plus gorgeous blue tile. I remember thinking, what a shame no one sees this. 

I never believed Elliot was happy, but I also didn't push him. And so for years and years, I had dozens of opportunities to tell some producer at whatever party that I had the perfect show idea, and the main character was a friend, so I could get full access. Instead I kept my mouth shut, except to pitch shows about cults and sex trafficking, research that ruined my sleep and made me feel unsafe everywhere. 

But then production started drying up. First there was less work, then not even that, just nothing, no work at all. So when I ran into a producer at a party, I didn't have my normal defenses, protecting me from the best idea I'll ever have. I pitched a dozen other things first, but of course Elliot was the one he liked. 

"Bring him in," the producer said. "Thursday at 4." I suggested a coffee shop to keep things casual. Then I called Elliot. We were friends who normally texted, never called, but he answered on the first ring. 

What I mostly told myself was that Elliot needed this. I figured he'd be annoyed at first, but once he saw the impact, and felt the relief of not needing to hide, he'd rise to it, and rise and rise and rise, and have the epic life he deserved, with all the love he'd shut himself off from finding. Back then I really thought I knew him better than he knew himself. I also believed our friendship was important enough, nothing could stop us from circling back to the connection we'd shared for 20 years, and how lucky that we got dating out of the way first, so it never had to come up again. 

What I said to Elliot on the phone was, "I sold a show. Meet me Thursday at 3:30 to celebrate." 

I got to the coffee shop early, so I saw Elliot the moment he walked in, as his eyes widened, taking in whatever ghosts he spotted among the few customers. An over the top reaction if I was being honest, I had the thought that he should tone it down, but then his gaze immediately met mine, as if he'd only had that reaction because he knew there was an audience. 

For a second, it looked fake. 

Had I ever doubted Elliot's ability to see ghosts? Sure, often, but how much it limited his life always kept me believing. But what if he was performing it for some reason, or he was mentally ill? 

I forced these thoughts from my head. Because just behind Elliot was the producer, who'd arrived very early. They reached my table together. 

"You must be Elliot," the producer said. "I've heard so much about you." 

When Elliot glared at the producer, I could tell he knew what I'd done, since next he turned that glare on me. The force of it made me shrink back in my seat. 

On my other side, the producer tried to catch my eye, and I realized how close I was to losing both my friendship with Elliot and also the final crumbs of my career. I grabbed Elliot's hand. 

"It's a show about you," I said. "But hear me out. We work together to find the way in, the creative vision is yours, it's whatever you're comfortable with, whatever you want." 

Elliot said nothing, his hand limp in mine. 

"He believes you," I said, motioning to the producer, who gave a reluctant nod. "You're safe." 

But Elliot shook himself free of my hand. 

"I'm sorry she wasted your time," Elliot said to the producer. "But I can't see ghosts. That was a lie I told her as a kid so she'd break up with me, and I thought it was hilarious to keep it going." Then Elliot turned and left. 

The producer gave me a look of such deep pity, I wanted to die and be a ghost myself. I had to hope he wouldn't share this with anyone we both knew. 

Weeks passed. I wasn't working, but I didn't text Elliot, and he didn't reach out to me. 

The more I thought about it, the more I realized of course he'd always been lying. Nothing Elliot said could be verified, like if someone had died in a place, that wasn't necessarily the ghost he saw, which had always seemed a little convenient. I became so angry that I didn't even feel bad about the producer or lying about the meeting at the coffee shop. My intention was always to help him, I kept telling myself. Elliot had been the one to do real harm. 

But then after a month of silence, Elliot texted me. He said he was sorry, but the truth was complicated, and I should come over so he could explain. My relief made me realize how guilty I'd been feeling. I said I'd be right there. 

When I got to Elliot's apartment, it was filthy, and reeked of unwashed laundry and spoiled food. He said he'd felt so bad about lying to me for so long, the shame triggered a depressive episode, and he was only now surfacing. I sat Elliot down on the couch with a glass of water and turned on some music, while I washed every dish I could find. Coming out of the kitchen, I saw Elliot still on the couch staring at the wall, the water untouched. 

I sat beside him. "Why did you lie about seeing ghosts? Was it really to laugh at me?" 

"No," Elliot said. "I wanted you to think I was interesting. Even now it's all you ever want to talk about. Would you want my friendship without the ghosts?" 

"Yes," I said. "I care about you. I always have." 

"I'm in love with you," Elliot said. 

I managed to keep my face frozen, the smile still on. Elliot's vulnerability pierced me, but so did a desire to flee this dirty apartment and never look back. But I didn't want to be that kind of person. I wanted to help. 

"That is so flattering," I said. "But I love you as a friend." 

Elliot's face fell, disappointment he didn't try to hide. 

I felt hot suddenly, and needed to escape the room. "I'm going to the bathroom," I said, standing so fast it made me dizzy. 

Elliot's cheeks reddened with shame. "Toilet's clogged in the main bathroom, you have to use the other one." 

I tried to say, no worries, that's fine, please don't be embarrassed. But revulsion prickled my throat, and for five unpleasant seconds I almost threw up. But I saw Elliot watching me, and composed myself. 

"Not a problem," I said. 

It occurred to me how many times Elliot had mentioned the ghost in the second bathroom, how he apparently always stood in front of the sink, staring into the mirror. Elliot called the ghost his roommate. 

A lie, I knew now. Demented but not dangerous. I forced myself to head for the bathroom. 

"Let's watch a movie," I called over my shoulder. "Whatever you want." 

"You mind if it's scary?" Elliot asked. 

Something about his tone made me stop and look back at him. But he was only sad, and lonely, and my oldest friend. When I smiled at him, I meant it. 

"Yeah, that's fine," I said. 

Once inside the bathroom, I carefully locked the door. Inside I found the counter and towel rack bare, no toilet paper or soap. Just the sink and toilet and beautiful blue tile. I decided I would tell Elliot I needed to leave, and drafted excuses while rinsing my hands and drying them on my jeans, the whole time leaning a wide berth around the center of the room, where a person at the sink would be standing. I figured I'd tell Elliot I didn't feel well, I needed to think about things, I forgot I had other plans. Because staying a second longer, especially to watch some violent movie, was not possible. 

But I couldn't unlock the door. 

"Hey, Elliot?" I called out. "I think I'm stuck." 

The music in the living room had stopped. Maybe Elliot was looking for a movie, too distracted to hear me. 

"Elliot? Hello? Can you help me, please?"
 "I was never lying," Elliot whispered.
 I jerked back a step, realizing Elliot was only on the other side of the door. 

Then the lights in the bathroom went out. 

"It's your fault I'm like this," Elliot said from the other side of the door. "You proved I can never tell a woman the truth about my life." 

"Listen," I said. "If I hurt you, I'm sorry. But you have to let me out." 

That was when I heard a sound from inside the room with me. A thin wail of pain, too high-pitched to be human. 

"What you hear is audio I designed," Elliot said. "Closest I can get to what the ghosts sound like when they haunt me. You were always so curious what it felt like. Now you get to feel it, too." 

I noticed a faint sliver of light on my feet, coming in from under the door. I focused there to steady my breath. 

"The audio runs for an hour," Elliot said. "Same amount of time I was stuck underground on the subway. Say hi to my roommate for me." 

That's when Elliot turned out the lights in the rest of the apartment, and the sliver of light on my feet disappeared. The darkness became total, like I'd been swallowed. For the rest of my life, I would never again lock a bathroom door. 

I clamped my eyes shut, then covered them with my hands, which made the darkness easier to bear. I heard Elliot's footsteps diminishing, as in the room, the high pitched wailing was joined by a thumping sound, like a body falling down stairs. 

And then, my eyes still covered, I felt with my entire body the presence of another person in the room, like they'd just teleported in. 

To stand right next to me— 

Exactly where someone would stand if they were at the sink, gazing at the mirror. 

I shrieked, my back pressed against the closed door, hands still over my eyes. The body in front of me was still, but I could feel it there, I could sense it with everything but my senses. 

"Please don't hurt me," I whispered. The noises from the speakers got louder and more insistent. 

I lowered my hands from my eyes, but kept them closed. 

And I could see him. The ghost, spirit, body, whatever. The man in the room with me, close enough to dance with. I couldn't tell age, or what he looked like, or what he was wearing. It was more like seeing someone through smudged glass, or peripherally, the edge of a glance only. 

My eyes flew open and I screamed, and the ghost disappeared, returning me to the horror of total darkness. But if I blinked, or otherwise closed my eyes, the ghost returned. 

I tried to keep my eyes open. I tried. But finally I couldn't, and then I was looking at the ghost, and he was looking at me, both of us tight together in this tiny room. Almost at once, the ghost's face became clear to me, no longer smudged or peripheral. He was ageless, 20 or 50, smooth and glowing, with kind eyes. 

The ghost made a noise, although his mouth didn't move. I heard it in my body, reverberating up my chest, and to Elliot's credit, it did sound like the high wail coming from the speakers. 

But the ghost didn't feel scary. The fact of him was scary, but he was not. 

And I realized, I had always wanted to see a ghost. To prove they were real. To know what they wanted. Now here I was. 

My curiosity worked like a key. 

I could suddenly understand the ghost. The high wailing shaped itself into language, without involving anything as obvious as words. More like a stunning rush of gratitude, awareness for the first time ever of what it meant to have a body. To occupy physical space, to lose myself in sensation of any kind. I even felt the slippery way time worked for the ghost, how decades spent in a bathroom could feel like no time at all. But most of all I sensed delight, that I could see him, that I cared to see him. 

The horror I'd felt dissolved, leaving me calm and quiet, and far from alone. 

"What do you want?" I whispered. 

And I felt the answer. All the ghost wanted was another ride on this plane, or at least a glimpse of it, smudged through glass. It was never about the location, or the people here now, or the ones from before. Hauntings were stops on a sightseeing tour. Simple as a wave hello.

So I smiled in the darkness, and waved back. 

This has been Bo-Rev. Written, read, and edited by Bodine Boling. Music composed by Brian Rodvien. From one human to another—dream big.