A Ghost in His New Home
“Well, this is some bullshit.” That was the first coherent, sensible conclusion Alex came to when he woke up. “Woke up” was probably not the right phrase, considering he was unquestionably, quite definitively, dead.
Alex spent his youth questioning religion, but in his early twenties, he determined that God was real and he should go to church, pray for salvation, and of course, be nice to people. Well, be nice to most of them. God would forgive him, he was sure. As he took his last breath, he felt peace and excitement about his final destination.
“This,” he observed, “can't be right.” He looked around at the scene. The Main Street train station wasn't busy, being a less populated stop along the way into the city. The usuals were standing on the platform, staring into their phones or gazing absently at the odd collection of art and posters hung on either side of the tracks.
Alex woke up standing on the familiar platform, uncomfortably close to Suitcase Lady, who was there every morning around the same time he was. In fact, he seemed to be standing directly in her boots, and the shock of that realization sent him stumbling backwards to get out of her way. He watched a hazy mist trail after him. As he regained his balance he muttered, “Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am!” He was struck with the sudden awareness that he couldn't hear his own voice, and Suitcase Lady was completely unaware of – and untroubled by – his presence.
And that mist was weird.