Ghost Family Christmas: Queer Ghost Stories, #12

Ghost Family Christmas

from the

Queer Ghost Stories

series

By Foxglove Lee

Chapter One

HI THERE.  I’M DEBORAH.  Guess you’re gonna be living in our house for a while.  I hope you like it.  I hope you stay.  Most people don’t.  Most people are outta here within—what would you say, Carl, two years?

Carl shrugged.  Give or take.

Oh, sorry, I started the introductions but I didn’t get past me.  This here’s my brother Carl.  He calls me Debbie.  Or Deb.

Or dingbat, Carl added.

Deb kicked him in the shin, which was much more satisfying a move back when he could feel it.  Anyway, you can call me whatever you like.  Just don’t call me late for dinner! Haha.  That’s a joke.  It’s not very funny.  I don’t know why I said it.  Now I’m embarrassed.  Forget I exist, okay?

How can he forget? Carl asked, circling one brazen arm around the young man as they sat side by side on the sofa.  He doesn’t even know you’re here.  None of them know we exist.  Look at this guy.  He’s staring right through you, watching TV.

Debbie glared at her brother as he rested his head on the cute guy’s shoulder.  Would you quit perving on every teenage boy who sets foot in this house?  You’re the reason the last family left!

Me? Carl shot back.  You’re the one who kept changing the radio station!

I couldn’t help it.  They were playing classical music.  Who wants to listen to Mozart for all eternity?  Anyway, we both know what really put them over the edge.  It was when that kid came over—that cousin of theirs—and she saw Ricky and Mother in the corner.

Carl turned momentarily to take in the sight of their mother, still sobbing despite being shot through the head.  She clung desperately to their younger brother, Ricky, whose spirits remained high for a kid who was missing half his face.

How’s Mother holding up today? Carl asked, though the answer was obvious.

Young Ricky rolled his one remaining eye and said, Just peachy. Maybe later she’ll take us out for sodey-pops.

To the young man on the couch, Debbie said, That’s my brother, Tricky-Ricky.  He was only thirteen years old when he... when we... when this happened.  He was the first to go.

Are you sure you want to get into this? Carl asked.  You know the living can’t hear you.

"Maybe he can, Debbie considered.  On some level.  Maybe he won’t hear me talking, but the words... the words’ll get in somehow, I’m sure."

You’re sure? Carl asked, dubiously.  You’ve tried talking to everyone who’s moved into our house since 1978 and nobody’s heard you yet.

That kid saw Mother and Ricky.

But she still couldn’t hear you.

That’s only because she was crying so loud.

Wouldn’t you cry? Carl challenged.  If you were five years old and you saw two people who’d been shot through the face in the corner of your aunt’s living room?  Wouldn’t you cry too?

From the corner, Ricky sang, You would cry too if it happened to you, ba-ba-ba-da-da!

Carl rubbed the ear that hadn’t been utterly annihilated by a bullet.  Now I’m never gonna get that song out of my head.

Or what’s left of it, Debbie teased.

Ricky sang, Big girls don’t cry!

Hardy-har-har! Carl shot back.  At least I don’t have a crying mother permanently affixed to my incorporeal form.

Low blow, Debbie chastised.  It’s not Ricky’s fault Mother’s clinging to him.  He’s the baby of the family, and he was the first to go.  She paused momentarily to take in her mother’s low sobs. 

In all these years, Mother hadn’t released her grip on Ricky’s bloodstained brown plaid shirt.  Now that fashion had moved on, their outfits embarrassed Deb.  Was this really what they’d spend all of eternity wearing?  She’d loved her yellow sweater with the embroidered blue flowers back when her mother bought it for her, but that had to be more than forty years ago.  She was never quite sure of the exact date. 

They watched television as much