The Duck Pond

True to its name, ducks paddle around the Duck Pond, even though Silas is no longer able to see beyond the water’s edge. Ever since he died four years prior, his perception reaches only twenty feet beyond wherever he stands. Other ghosts have told him that this is his “veil.” A barrier that surrounds his incorporeal form wherever he goes. The dark, foggy curtain shifts with a few dots of light beyond, like stars beckoning him to find their source and abandon his presence forever. All ghosts seem to have an innate sense that reaching these stars will allow one to cross the veil and move along to a permanent, selfless, detached afterlife. 

The possibility tempts him the same way looking down the edge of a cliff tempts one to jump. He misses being able to ground himself with the view of the Sandia Mountains and their rocky cliffs. So, he wanders the partially familiar grounds of the University of New Mexico campus, stuck between the infinite potential of life and the inevitable eternity of the afterlife.

A ghost is not a spirit, Silas reminds himself. You are still you, only lacking flesh.

Despite his ghostly figure, Silas can still see his reflection wherever one is possible. In the light reflecting off the Duck Pond’s waters, he sees his buzzed brown hair, his wide-set eyes, large ears, and his brown leather jacket. As a twenty-two-year-old, this is how he always appears. However, he has confirmed with other ghosts that he died much older than twenty-two. 

His first clue is this very pond. Back when he went to this university, there wasn’t a pond. There was just an old dormitory. His first memory as a college student with this pond was almost four years ago. With that in mind, he can assume that he was at least seventy years old when he died. But, at this particular location, he takes the appearance and memories of his university years with only the assumption that other ages of himself are tied to lingering attachments outside of his current veil. 

Silas stares at the ducks paddling across the murky water, wondering what keeps him attached to this spot at this age. 

For the past four years, he has asked numerous other ghosts. Conversation with them is easy once they enter within the space of each other’s veils. They are only helpful if they have spent a long time as a ghost. Most are just as new to their recent mortality as Silas is. 

A living woman enters Silas’s veil without acknowledging his presence. The island at the center of the Duck Pond is accessible by two bridges, with local flora surrounding a single metallic bench. The woman who walks around this island has a pixie cut of mahogany hair and thin eyebrows furrowed in concentration. She holds a camera in both hands with a strap wrapped around her neck. For several minutes, she inspects her surroundings before locking onto a subject, adjusting her posture, and taking a few photos. Silas avoids standing in front of that camera when the shutters flick open, just in case the suspicions about the black box are true.

Few visitors to the Duck Pond notice Silas. Aside from a few environmental interactions, he rarely has a reason to communicate with the living. Sometimes, primarily out of loneliness, he will make more of an effort to converse. Whether it is through whispers in the wind, shapes in the dirt, or an errant reflection, these visitors would describe their experience as peculiar, but insignificant as far as ghost experiences can go. 

The only visitor to make a true effort to encourage and prolong communication was a student named Franky. He has long black hair, large gauges hanging from his earlobes, and always wears a multicolored beanie to add a splash of color to his otherwise gray attire.

Even though it has been nice to make a friend, Silas knows that Franky will age and abandon this place. Meanwhile, Silas will remain with the appearance and memories of his twenty-two-year-old self. He does remember every year he spends as a ghost, but the future of his living years will remain a mystery until he decides to reunite with the stars of the veil.

For now, Silas observes the woman, likely a student approaching graduation, as she takes more pictures of the ducks in the pond and the flowers by the bench. The focus on her task draws Silas into the same attention to whatever detail she is trying to capture. He wonders if she is content with a picture of the whole duck or a particularly shiny feather, the bundle of flowers or a vibrant petal, the sand underfoot or the reflection of one grain. 

Silas forgets about his presence as the woman turns to a tree that stands behind the bench. Her thin brows relax and raise with surprise. Something about this tree must really stand out to her, Silas thinks. He glances at it, noting nothing in particular. He acknowledges that he may not have her eye for detail.

As Silas turns back to face the woman, she slowly raises her camera to her face while maintaining a locked gaze in his direction.

No, he realizes. She’s looking at me. More importantly, she adjusts the camera lens to match its focus with her subject. Silas first heard about the black box from Puebloan and Navajo ghosts. They state that the flash of a camera blinds a ghost so that they are unaware of the black box trapping their soul within its walls. The veil is already a restrictive area of perception, but the black box implies an eternity of darkness. 

There are very few ways a ghost can interact with the living. The most consistent is an environmental change within the veil. Usually, this takes the form of shifting winds. If one is lucky or exceptionally perceptive, the living can hear the voice of the dead as a whisper in the shifting winds. The gust Silas produces brushes tufts of dark red hair away from her forehead and temples. He hopes that this woman hears his whisper before she presses that button.

“Wait!” Silas shouts in his own perception, even though it may only reach her as a whisper. Her reaction, however, is odd. She flinches as if hearing the full volume of his voice. 

The pixie-cut woman responds with a calming, outstretched hand. “Don’t worry! I know that ghosts are sensitive to bright lights. Here, you can see the flash is off.” She walks to Silas’s side and holds the camera’s screen before his eyes. He pays no attention to whether the flash is on or off. All he can think about is how she is interacting with him like a living and breathing person. “I’m sorry. I should have asked you for a picture first.”

“You can see me,” Silas mutters. This is mostly a test in his mind to see if his ability to communicate as a ghost is improving or if this woman is abnormally perceptive.

“I can see you,” she says with a smile and a light nod. 

“You can hear me, too. How?”

“I’m an esper. My whole life, I’ve been able to perceive and interact with ghosts more easily than most people.”

Silas has no memory of this term. Perhaps an older, wiser version of himself learned about espers. His current self does not share the memories. He only wonders why he has never heard of the term amongst other ghosts and draws the conclusion that espers must be rare. 

The woman asks, “Is this your first time interacting with a living person?”

“No. It’s never been this easy, though.” Silas checks his hands to confirm any sudden physical appearance. As always, he is able to see straight through them, with only a vague outline to determine his existence. “How often do you talk to ghosts?”

“Pretty much every day,” the pixie-cut woman says. She lets her camera hang from her neck and approaches Silas with raised hands. As if trying to catch smoke, she cups one hand under Silas’s and hovers the other atop his upturned palm. 

Even though both are still in this moment, Silas can tell his hand is phasing through hers. She is trying to feel the subtle physiological reactions that the living have when in contact with the incorporeal. In the calmest conditions, one might be able to experience a phantom sense.

For the first time in his four years of death, Silas feels something. On the back of his hand, he can sense heat from the woman’s hand and the tips of her fingers tapping his wrist. I never thought that a phantom sense would affect the phantom as well. Who is this girl?

“Most people don’t believe my ghost stories. I find you all fascinating and want the world to know how beautiful your existence is.” She looks up to him with green eyes pierced with light blue shards like frozen grapes. 

Since Silas has no physical body, he finds it bizarre that some part of his upper abdomen seems to tighten or strain. This is the closest I’ve felt to being alive these past few years. 

“That’s very kind of you,” Silas says, “If there’s anything I can do to help you…Miss.”

“Oh! I’m Morgan. What’s your name?”

“Silas.”

Morgan squints and asks, “Do you remember your last name? Maybe you’re still in some of the archives here.” 

The archives? Silas thinks. Was I really that old? It immediately makes sense to Silas that someone who can regularly interact with ghosts would commit to scholarly research in the field.

 “Let me guess. You’re getting a parapsychology degree?”

Morgan hangs her head and lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Nursing, actually. I’ve been told several times that the ghost and photography stuff is more of a hobby.”

“Who told you that?” 

She shrugs. “People that know me best, I guess.”

As much as Silas wants to protest and say Morgan is best suited to studying parapsychology, he also remembers how limited that field is. Since ghosts tend to move along within their first year of becoming one, they have never posed much of a problem to the living. Every ghost he has interacted with seemed to lose themselves in a trance, faithfully wandering towards those stars on the other side of the veil. There are very few things to do in the provisional afterlife besides finding the quickest way to whatever eternity lies beyond. Silas has only met one ghost who prefers to be one, and it seems she is already talking to Morgan.

“Well, you still seem passionate about it. I’d be happy to help with anything ghost-related.”

“Thanks, Silas. Actually, there is something you can help me with. You said you’ve interacted with living people before. How did you do it?”

“There’s another student who would sit around here with a pen and paper, asking any nearby ghosts to guide their hand. I could only help him write a few words at a time and simple phrases at best. But we’ve actually talked a lot over the past few years. You should ask them for that journal. His name is Franky. He’s got long hair and wears a beanie, even when it’s hot out.”

“Franky Miller? Oh my God, we went to high school together in Portland! How is he?”

“He’s good. I mean, the last time I talked to him was before spring break. Apparently, he took the week to drive up to Portland.”

“A road trip. That’s a great idea! I’ve been talking to my friends about taking a trip once we graduate. I’ll have to talk to Franky about it when he gets back.”

Up until this point, Morgan has kept a strict attention on Silas. However, something outside of the veil causes her to turn with an aggravated expression. As she looks away, Silas wonders how she must look to someone standing at the edges of the Duck Pond. Do people think it’s normal for her to stand in random spots talking to the air? Morgan scoffs and turns back.

Silas asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing.” Her sour expression implies the opposite. As if flipping a switch, she brightens up with a grin of small, straight teeth. “Hey, do you know why Franky decided to drive instead of fly to Portland? Even for the holidays, I always take a flight. Did he want to stop somewhere along the way?”

“Actually, he’s helping me look for my echoes.”

“Really? Those are your copies. Right?”

“They’re more like echoes of myself through time. Split versions of myself attached to different points in my life. Franky asked me where I would have lived after graduating back in my time. I said I always wanted to move somewhere along the Rocky Mountains, and he said he would look for ‘Old Man Silas’ there. But he’s never seen my face, so I don’t know how he would find any other version of me.”

Morgan sighs, “That sounds like Franky. Always considerate of others before ultimately doing his own thing.” Whatever is outside of the veil catches her attention again. She holds up a finger, urging patience to the caller, then turns back with a contemplative furrow in her brow. “Have you tried looking for your echoes on your own?”

“I can’t see anything past the Duck Pond,” Silas says, shrugging. For the first time in a while, he is aware of his physical gestures. Since the living cannot see and the ghosts do not care, he has gotten used to standing and staring in stoic stillness. He still laments the primary limitation for all ghosts. “It’s possible to follow these stars I can see in the distance. But that’s a road I’d rather not walk alone. My echoes don’t seem to be in a rush to find me, so neither am I to find them.”

“You shouldn’t have to do it alone. I’d imagine that moving along would require a bit of help from the living.” 

“Yeah. I think so, too.”

Morgan nods, “Let me talk to my friends about a northbound road trip. We might be able to give you a ride.”

“You don’t have to–”

Morgan glances over her shoulder and scoffs, “Sorry, I’ve got to go. My boyfriend keeps calling me stupid names in front of everyone.” She lifts her camera’s strap over her neck and rests it on one shoulder before walking across one of the island’s bridges. “I’ll come back to this spot later! It was nice meeting you, Silas!”

Morgan departs from Silas’s veil with a rushed pace. He takes note of the fact that the spot where she crosses the veil lines up perfectly with one of the stars beyond. After dismissing a strange pang in his spectral mass after hearing the word “boyfriend,” Silas considers her use of the phrase “moving along.” Either she was talking about a generic move from one location on Earth to another, or she meant the spiritual moving along of a ghost to the afterlife. Either way, something about Morgan makes him eager to accept any help she is willing to give.

For several days after this conversation, Silas waits for his new living friend to visit their island on the Duck Pond to talk about more ghost-related information. During the same amount of time, he grows concerned over the absence of his first living friend, Franky. He said he would check on me after he got back from Portland. Did he forget? He even asks Morgan if she has seen him. Still no sign of the guy anywhere.

One week after meeting Morgan, Silas returns from his daily roam around the UNM campus to stare at the ducks paddling through their waters, quacking at each other. Silas had noticed that dogs could see him, or at least sense his presence. But they would always turn aggressive, barking and pulling against their leashes. He imagines most pets would react the same way to a ghost. However, the ducks do not seem to notice or care. They will hang out in their waters, eat the fries left on the grass, and fly away whenever they need to without paying any mind to the ghosts in the air. Silas still thinks this is a good thing. But talking to someone living like Morgan is even better. The acknowledgement and appreciation of his existence, even post-mortem, adds vitality to his days. 

A familiar voice asks, “Is that you, Silas?” This voice is higher-toned, but chest-heavy and relaxed with the occasional drawn-out vowel. 

The voice relieves Silas for only half a second before it sends a chill down his back. How does he know I’m here? Silas turns from the water and spots his old friend. Long hair, large gauges hanging from his ears, a septum piercing, and a beanie in the spring heat of the desert. He looks exactly the same as he did two weeks ago when he left on a solo road trip to Portland. Silas continues to wonder why this familiar face can see his ghostly form so easily.

“Franky?” Silas asks, mostly out of confirmation that this is not some illusory trick that ghosts have to deal with.

“Hey, man,” Franky says, “It’s trippy to actually see your face. But, um, listen. I kind of need some help. This whole thing is kind of new to me.” 

As Silas looks to the north where Franky is standing, he can see the distant star through Franky’s body and past the veil. The edges blur and fade in varied pockets of translucence. Silas widens his eyes at the realization of what must be happening. 

Franky left for his trip two weeks ago and died somewhere on the road. This is the ghost of him that is still attached to whatever he left between Albuquerque and Portland.