In Tune

 Harold the ghost wanted to be in tune with birds. He thought that sense he was a ghost, he could fly. Casper the ghost could fly, so why couldn’t he?

The cabin that Harold shared with Miles the pack rat had stairs leading to the top room, which housed the batteries to the new solar panels. Harold went outside on a moonlit night. The trees created a shadow that looked like a jester. Harold floated; the sensation made him feel like he had power and control. He laughed, which sounded like coyotes baying at the moon, and his laughter broke his concentration. Harold fell through the roof, and he continued his descent down the floor of the attic. His entire body hit one of the steps in the staircase, and he let go of his head, which rolled down the stairs with a crash.

He screamed ouch, a natural reflex I suppose. I mean, I don’t think ghosts should feel any pain, but Harold did like to carry on, and his head made a noise with every bounce, and as his body came unglued from the step, it did flips all the way down the stairs.

Miles, nestled in the new oak bookcase he won on EBay, awoke with a groan. “Am I having a nightmare? No, Harold is up to his no good shenanigans.”

Harold’s head rolled to the base of the bookcase. His eyes, two hallow holes, seemed to look up into eternity. His body, a crumpled heap, lie motionless at the bottom of the stairs.

“Good evening, Miles,” Harold said.

“Having a bad head evening, hmm, Harold,” Miles replied.

“I think I’m stuck,” Harold said, his empty eye sockets filling with blood.

“Oh, Harold. Don’t cry on the new bookcase.”

Miles had watched as the wonderful and professional Rex Mayo unpackaged the bookcase and set it up against the wall, right in front of what used to be Miles floor hidey-hole. When Rex repaired the floor, Miles had moved up the wall to his corner nook. The bookcase, however, smelled, and looked, brand new. The wonderful oak shelves would soon be filled with books, and Miles looked forward to reading the pages. “I’ll be sleeping with all my favorite authors,” Miles mumbled.

“What?” Harold shouted, which sounded like thunder and rattled the new double paned windows.

Miles sighed. “Concentrate, Harold. Like we practiced, yesterday. Think a happy thought.”

Harold thought about Lilith, his wife, but that seemed to make him angry, so he thought about his book of poems and winning a Pulitzer Prize, instead.

“Do you have a happy thought,” Miles asked.

Harold’s eyes shifted from blood red to brilliant blue. Skin materialized in splotches, and for a moment, his face resembled a patchwork quilt. Before Miles could say, “Bob’s your uncle,” Harold’s face had materialized.

“Good job, Harold,” Miles said with a yawn. “Now command your body to collect your head, and go back to bed.”