#teaaddictedghosthunter

Hirota couldn’t quite discern this peculiar feeling in his chest. Davis had entrusted a task to him, which left Hirota feeling both honored and yet mortified to be told what to do by a younger individual.

He supposed most of the SPR crew felt that way.

Mr. Oshii was a sinewy man with a broad forehead and skeptical eyes. As Hirota approached the client, he made a show of readjusting his tie and straightening his jacket. He could be cool, he could be suave… he would make this a professional meeting and wouldn’t let himself be bossed around by a non-believer. Although Hirota was only about three-quarters of a believer, he still wouldn’t be pushed around.

Unfortunately, Mr. Oshii spoke before he could. “I have a grandson the same age as you.”

“I, uh, thank you. I mean, is that so?”

How was he supposed to respond to that kind of statement, anyway?

Hirota cleared his throat. “Sir, do not be alarmed or worried. We’re only doing a check of the area to see if you have ghosts on the premises or something natural that could be causing the same issue.”

“Apparitions,” said Mr. Oshii.

“Excuse me?”

“They don’t like to be called ‘ghosts’, they prefer the term ‘apparitions’. It’s a respect thing, you know, like how it is less offensive to call dwarves a midget.”

“I…. okay.”

 Apparently this man was a full-time believer.

“Besides, as I told your little brown haired missy friend over there, it’s not apparitions.” Mr. Oshii leaned very close, forcing Hirota to bend forward to hear him. “It’s the aliens.”

Hirota stood up so straight so fast it was a wonder that his spine didn’t snap.

“I see,” he said, face blank and mouth in a thin line. Hirota had only recently started to accept that ghosts… apparitions… could be real. Mr. Oshii beliefs were basically incomprehensible.

Davis was doing this to him on purpose, wasn’t he? Probably because he didn’t want to deal with someone of this certain caliber, so he would make Hirota do it. It was very mature of him. Very. Mature.

“Daughter tries to tell me that the lights in the field are only tricks of my eyes,” Mr. Oshii said, “And the lights in the sky are stars. To outright say that I don’t know what my own eyes are seeing is ignorance. I know they were not stars because they were moving.”

“Perhaps they were… planes?”

Mr. Oshii let out a sigh that was a mixture of disappointment and exasperation. “You young folks think you can tell older people that they don’t understand and don’t know what’s going on.  I have more knowledge in my head than you have in your little toe, what do you think about that?” He folded his arms, sizing Hirota up. “You modern kids with your electronic thingies… I might not understand them, but at least I come from the land. At least I can milk a cow. You on the other hand don’t look like you’ve ever stepped on dirt before, much less a farm.”

“I – of course I have.” Hirota gave his suit jacket a dignified tug.

Of course you have.” The old farmer folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “You. You’re probably one of those people who believe the egg yolk is actually the baby chick.”

“I – no, I mean – isn’t it?”

The old man growled underneath his breath. “Why are you here anyway? Are you not a cop? What kind of cop follows around apparition researchers? Are you going to arrest the apparition… or something…”

“Of course not, sir.” Hirota pinched the bridge of his nose, and released a breath. “Okay, okay, I need to report your… sightings to the… boss… Please excuse me. Thank you for your time.”

Davis had told him to talk to Mr. Oshii for other reasons, hadn’t he? But Hirota could not remember the reasons. Davis was probably going to tell him to go and finish the job but Hirota didn’t think he could handle it. Ghosts – apparitions – aliens, baby chickens… This was why city life was much more comfortable.

“What did you find out?” Davis asked him, after seeing Hirota sitting on a lone straw bale.

“That the aliens are coming,” Hirota mumbled. “And ghosts don’t like to be called ghosts.”

“I see,” Davis said raising his eyebrows. “And you didn’t find out when the house was built.”

They desired a sense of intimacy, one that technology left behind in its encoding and decoding. With handwriting, it provided an accurate glance into the person writing. If it were sloppy, perhaps they cared not but of the message. If it were neat and well written, there was likely drafts behind and hours upon hours of careful thought dedicated to each word.  

Due to time constraints, he preferred not to burn through pages of paper for perfection. So while his scrawl was unappealing, at least they received letters with his handwriting.

Though, he wondered, could they even read it? Deciphering the language was one thing, but his handwriting?

It did not matter, the mail continued for an entire year before it suddenly ceased.

It had always struck him odd, but perhaps they had moved on to better things in the world. He was nothing more than a short fling with them all and to an extent he viewed them as such too.

But today, peering into a mirror that only reflected his terse, worn expression, he sighs. It no longer held much youth, or a glimmering smile of a familiar past. He tended to not dwell on it much anymore.

Wishing never did him any service.

It does not bring back the things you wish you had never lost.

He drums his fingers on his desk, awaiting his assistant to enter through the door with his mail.

She steps in, deposits the stack and leaves without a word.

Conversation had been lacking in his office. His assistants carried themselves in silence, always avoiding eye contact and spoken word with their boss.

Flipping through the mail, he sees bills, tax collection inquiries, and business related envelopes he dares not to open.

Yet, not a single such letter.

The letters are no more.

His mail has been empty of them for quite some time.

Decades without a single post card. As if his existence was wiped clean from their minds. As if he were a dream disguised as a nightmare.  

He remembers fleshing out his final letter to them.

Perhaps he should have been more proactive in pursuing conversation.

He piles the mail and picks it up to deposit into his study.

An envelope, small and pale blue falls from the stack.

His eyes meander to the peculiar postage.

He picks it up, notes that it is indeed addressed to him, and rips it open. He need not worry about appearing uncivilized at his attempt to view the contents inside. A part of him felt his life depended on it.

Sweat drips from his forehead and he bites his lip in anticipation.

In dead, bold black ink, he reads.

Happy Forty-Fourth Birthday.

He exhales while wondering if that was all. Though, at least it was something.

He looks down to see the signature.

Blank.

It could be from anyone.

Who would he write back to?

Unless…

And so he places the places the letter inside his bag and stands. Something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye, or is it the chill that settled in his room?

His eyebrows furrow as he veers his vision to the mirror once again.

With a somber smile, hands pressed to the cold surface, is him. The past.

He mouths something as he approaches. That sad smile turning into a full onslaught grin.

He looks away, waving his ghostly hand over as other forms appear in this window to the other side.

His jaw tightens, his fists clenching as his body freezes in place.

There, staring at him with such fondness as to ache his heart…

His family and friends. Those people who had written him letters filled with such kindness he was unable to reciprocate.  

Unable to send a letter now because they were no longer corporeal.

He laughs, hand smacking his forehead as his knees buckle and he collapses to the floor.