Fred, Again
It was around this time last year when he showed up. I remember because Halloween was creeping closer, and I was already feeling a little spooked. Living way out here by myself will do that to you.
I was standing right here, just about to slip into bed, when I heard something scratching at the window. At first I thought it was a branch, or maybe a bug tapping the glass, but there was something about it that felt… deliberate.
Truth is, I was far too terrified to go over and check. I’d recently hung thick green curtains, and I couldn’t see a thing outside anyway.
Far west corner of the woman's backyard
I decided to let it go, chalk it up to my imagination acting up again. But just as I pulled back the bedsheets, it happened again—scratching on the glass, followed by a double tap. Tap. Tap.
I swear the blood in my head went cold. I felt sick.
I sat there frozen, halfway under the blankets, telling myself it wasn’t real. And then, in a brief and reckless burst of courage, I leapt out of bed, ran to the window, and yanked the curtains open.
Staring straight at me through my second‑story window was the strangest fellow I’d ever seen—floating there, a good fifteen feet off the ground, his yellow‑green eyes level with mine. I could see his features perfectly. I couldn’t tell whether the moonlight was hitting him just right or if he truly glowed from the inside out.
The frightened woman sees Fred
Once the shock wore off, I stumbled backward screaming, slammed my heel into the bedframe, and collapsed onto the floor.
“Oh dear. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I appear to be lost.”
He glanced down toward his feet, considered this, and added, “Again.”
The woman nurses her injury
As I sat there clutching my throbbing foot, I couldn’t take my eyes off him—his deep‑set, sunken stare; his gaunt, skeletal frame; his formal black suit that seemed wildly out of place and out of time. Around his neck hung a gold western bow tie, and from his right ear dangled a jeweled pendant that caught the light like a tiny sun burning in the dead of night.
Fred
When my throat finally decided to cooperate, I asked him who he was.
“My name’s Fred,” he said. “I’m dead—well, deceased. Dead sounds a bit final. I’m looking for my wife, Astrid. She’s also dead, but currently misplaced.”
He paused, as if weighing whether this was oversharing.
“It’s not unpleasant,” he added. “Just poorly signposted.”
He lifted his right hand and pressed something flat against the glass.
“Have you seen my Astrid?”
The photograph in question
I don’t know what came over me next, but as if guided by some unseen force, I stood up, walked to the window, unlocked the latch, and slid it open. Cold air rushed in, heavy with the smell of carnations, damp earth, and wet wool.
Fred’s spidery arm reached through the frame and handed me the photograph.
“Have you seen my Astrid?”
I told him I was sorry—truly sorry—but that I’d never seen her before in my life.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he said. “Could you point me toward Adam’s Cemetery and Crematorium? That’s where my Astrid was laid to rest. Statistically speaking, it seems like a good place to start.”
Not once in my life did I expect to be giving directions to an exceedingly polite, well‑dressed specter, but I did my best.
Fred, Again
“Head up the hill to your left,” I said. “Go straight down the dirt road about a mile. Just before Copper Creek, take the fork to the right. You’ll see the iron gates a little farther on.”
"Thank you kindly. I will not soon forget your hospitality and graciousness."
Before I could say another word, he spun neatly around, floated down toward the grass below, and began gliding in the exact opposite direction of the cemetery.
I waved my arms, trying to get his attention, but he only drifted farther down the road, whistling to himself, growing more distant with every second.
Just before he disappeared around the last blind corner, he suddenly turned back and waved cheerfully. I frantically pointed the other way, trying to correct him, but he simply smiled—and promptly ran straight into a tree.
The collision startled him terribly, despite the fact that he passed right through it.
Godspeed, Fred.
You’re going to need it.
Selfie of the woman, taken soon after Fred's departure
I locked the window, drew the curtains, and spent the rest of the night sitting upright in bed, holding an ice pack to my foot and wondering whether ghosts could sue for giving bad directions.
I didn’t sleep much.
The next morning, just as I was pouring my coffee, there came a familiar sound at the kitchen window.
Scratch. Scratch.
Tap. Tap.
I didn’t scream this time. I didn’t even jump.
I just sighed, walked over, and pulled back the curtain.
Fred hovered there, looking rumpled and apologetic, his bow tie crooked.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said. “I regret to report that I am lost again.”
I took a long sip of my coffee.
“Fred,” I said, “why don’t you come in and sit down. And this time, I’ll draw you a map.”
He brightened immediately.
“That would be most helpful,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added, “Do you know how difficult it is to read street signs when one does not blink?”
I slid a piece of paper across the table and started sketching roads, creeks, and the cemetery gates.
Fred leaned over my shoulder, nodding thoughtfully.
“You know,” he said, “I believe I’ve been wandering this way since 1948. Everyone has been very kind. No one has ever corrected me.”
I paused, pen hovering mid‑air.
“Well,” I said, “that explains a lot.”
Fred smiled, tucked the map carefully into his suit pocket, and drifted toward the door.
Godspeed, Fred.
This time, I think you might actually make it.
—The End—