The Visitor
WD February Flash Fiction Challenge — Day 8
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John Meadows, newly minted CEO of Exeter Oil and Petroleum International, sat upright in his bed, his heart racing, and his ears straining to hear the noise again. Something had pulled him from his sleep, a tapping sound. He waited to determine whether it had just been a dream.
Sandra, his wife, was away with her sister for some gallery opening in New York and the kids were all enrolled in the best New England boarding schools money could buy. With no pets, and no neighbors for a long stretch, he was alone in the house. Or should be.
There it was again, a tapping, together with a scratching sound. It came from the next room. His study adjoined the bedroom, and he’d left the door open. When it sounded again, for the third time, he arose from bed, not bothering to grab his robe. Who would see him?
He covered the distance in a few long strides and reached for the light switch. Nothing. No light. He turned to look at the clock on the nightstand. It’s red glowing numbers reassuring him that the power was not out.
The sharp tapping on the window pane brought him around again. Tonight’s moon shone brightly through the window, a strange, almost orange hue. Silhouetted against the glass was the figure of a large bird, all black as far as he could tell. It saw him, and tapped again, as though it were knocking on a door.
“Go away and give me peace!” he said aloud.
The bird cocked its head and cawed in response.
“Go away, I said!” and with that, he flapped his arms, attempting to scare it off. He made quite a figure, standing in the middle of the room without a stitch on, pumping his arms up and down, as though he were wanting to join the bird in flight.
The visitor paid him no mind. It cawed again, and took to tapping in earnest. I guess I’ll have to get physical with it, John thought, walking over to the window and looking for the handle to open it.
The house was old, a rambling country mansion owned by a railroad tycoon of a bygone error. He and Sandra had the place renovated from peak to basement, but she loved the old casement windows, so they left them in place. As this one was on the second floor, there was no sensor attached, like were attached to all the downstairs windows. So, with no fear of setting off an alarm, he twisted the lever and threw the window wide.
The bird fluttered off the casement, momentarily, avoiding the swinging window, then plunged through the opening, it’s wings flapping loudly. It was a crow, but unlike any John had ever seen. From beak to tail, from foot to crown, it was encased in a slick, black, oily substance. It could open only one eye, and when it opened its mouth, more of the substance oozed out.
John leapt backward, stumbling and fell sprawling on his butt, his arms thrown back to catch his fall. The crow settled on the sill and fixed him with a cold stare from its single eye.
They remained that way for moment, just looking at each other, John on the floor, the crow on the sill, a pool of oil, if that was what it was, spreading beneath it.
The crow broke the silence first.
“You don’t recognize me, do you, John?
John blinked stupidly, saying nothing. What the hell is this? he thought. Am I dreaming? Or just losing my mind?
“Speak, man, don’t just sit there!” the bird spoke, it’s voice raspy, but oddly familiar.
“I’ve heard that voice before. Do I know you?”
The crow cawed in what must have been a laugh.
“Do you know me? I would think so. You worked beneath me for your entire career!”
“Sterling? Richard Sterling? You’re dead!” John said, matter-of-factly, not stopping to wonder why he would attempt to reason with a crow at his office window in the middle of the night.
“If only I were,” Sterling complained. “It’s not that simple.”
“What do you mean, I saw you in the coffin. I stood at the graveside when they lowered you into the ground. I know you’re dead!”
“My body is dead, to be sure, but my spirit lives on, if you can call this living!” Sterling replied woefully. “I am here on a mission.”
“And what is that?” John inquired.
“To save your soul.”
“I have no need of that, I can assure you. I’m a practicing Catholic, baptized as a baby, confirmed, and confessed. I rarely miss Mass and go to Reconciliation twice a year. I have no need for salvation from such as the likes of you. You’re Lutheran, for God’s sake!”
“Lutheran, Catholic, what does it matter? I did terrible things in my life, things I must make amends for, starting with you. I must keep you from repeating my sins while there’s till time.”
“And what are those sins, Sterling? You created a world premier oil and gas company from scratch and grew it into an international juggernaut, going chin to chin with the big boys and holding your own. Unless you were a pedophile in secret, or maybe a liberal, I don’t know what you have to repent of.”
“See me, do you, John? Look closely. What is it that you see?”
“I see a disgusting, filthy crow, making a mess all over the floor of my study.”
“And what do you suppose this filth is? I’ll give you a hint, it’s not chocolate syrup.”
“It looks like oil, to me.”
“And where do you suppose this oil comes from? Think carefully.”
“I suppose you’re going to say it comes from Exeter, but that’s not fair. We’ve never had an oil spill in 35 years of operation, not once.”
“True enough. But Exeter is part of a global problem. We have contributed to an industry that is responsible for polluting the Earth in many more ways than one, from its first days to its last. There is no environmentally friendly way to pump oil, transform it to its various products, and consume those products. Everything about it from start to finish is an abomination to Mother Earth.”
“What the hell, Sterling! You’ve died and come back as a friggin’ environmentalist Democrat? Cut the crap, you never cared for any of that bull while you were alive. Why are you sweating it now? We do what we do for our shareholders, right? That’s what you always told me.”
“I did. I did tell you that, and for that, I will be eternally sorry. When one dies… when one sheds this mortal flesh, one gets a glimpse from a different perspective. Suddenly, things that were not clear fall into sharp focus. I can not say anything was revealed to me that I didn’t already know, nor can you say that, for we both have heard the truth our entire adult lives. We simply have chosen not to listen, not to believe.
“But the truth is, John. The Earth is fragile. There’s only one. Let me say it again, there’s only one Earth. Oh, there might be something similar somewhere, but nowhere we will ever reach in time. Besides, why would God allow us, who are destroying our own planet, to leave it a mess and go screw with another world?
“We have only this one, fragile planet, and we are responsible to care for it. It’s already too late to avoid some of the worse consequences. They have begun even now. But John, for the sake of your soul, for the sake of your children, and their children, and their children’s children, you must do what you can now, while you are still alive, to save the planet, to change your mind, and the minds of others.
“Otherwise, you will end up like me, and the Earth will perish, it’s death placed at our feet.”
John, speechless, sat upon the floor, a vision of terror forming in his mind. The Earth blighted, death everywhere, and his own children, at every age, calling out to him, “Daddy, help us! Help us, Daddy!”
“John, you are CEO of one of the most influential companies on the planet. You are in a singular position to change things for good. Use that power to turn things around, or at least, exhaust yourself trying. Maybe then, you can lay your head to rest in peace.”
“What about you, Sterling? What happens to you?”
“That will depend on what you do going forward. It matters not what you pledge to me tonight while you sprawl on your floor in terror. It matters only what you do when you get up tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that. If you heed me tonight and move forward a changed man, then I may find peace. If not, then I must find another way to make amends, or live like this until the end.”
John gathered himself, pulling his legs around so that he was now on his knees.
“I will do it. I will change. The board will fire me in a heart beat no doubt, and my wife will probably divorce me when we find ourselves out on the street, but I will do what I can to make a difference, for my children, for the planet, and for you, friend. May you find peace.”
The crow that was Richard Sterling, deceased former CEO of Exeter Oil and Petroleum International, cawed raucously, then turned and flapped away into the night, leaving only an oily puddle upon the sill, dripping down the wall to the carpeted floor.
John remained on his knees for several minutes, staring at the spreading stain. If it’s there in the morning, I’ll know this really happened and I will have to do all that I promised to do.
With that, he got up, pulled the window shut, and returned to bed, where he slept terribly for what remained of the night. In the morning, with the sun peaking through the window, he arose and padded into the study straight away. There on the floor beneath the window, a black, gooey stain on the carpet set his agenda for the rest of that day — indeed, for the rest of his life.
This is my Day Eight entry to the Writer’s Digest February Flash Fiction Challenge. The prompt is to “write a story about a ghost finding a new purpose in the afterlife.” We are encouraged to go where it takes us, and so I have. I wrote it on the 13th.
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