It started on a Wednesday.
For a second, my world flickered. I felt a little off, but I figured it was just due to my abominable lack of hydration (I tended to blame everything in my life on that).
But then he arrived.
It was precisely 5:37 at night; I know, because I was halfway between the almond flour and bananas in my recipe for banana bread. I’d checked the time to make sure I was on schedule; I needed to be mopping the floors by 6.
He came in, escorted by a blonde woman who looked like she ate air for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I had the weirdest feeling that she was real estate agent.
I set my spatula down, much irked.
“Excuse me,” I snapped. “But this is a private residence? What in the world are you guys doing here?”
But they just breezed past me. I couldn’t believe it; a shiver went down my spine. I grabbed a wooden spoon, knowing full well of its power in the face of disobedience.
“You guys have to get on.”
But they continued roaming through my house—my house. I chased them around the house, screeching like a banshee.
But it was no use—it was as if I were invisible.
This continued on for a week—a whole week.
The blonde woman would appear every evening at various times, toting ooey gooey newlywed couples, nervous single people, cat ladies that made my skin crawl, and even a world champion skier . . . whom I’d never heard of before.
I called the police, but they never answered. I attempted to drive down to their headquarters, but my car wouldn’t start.
A week after the peculiarities had started, I’d sought solace in making yet more banana bread. This time I aggressively threw in strawberries, dark chocolate, and cinnamon.
The blonde woman brought in a fairy-like looking woman who’d probably never frowned in her life. Her smile was permanently plastered in between a smattering of freckles and dimples the size of a respectable meteor.
“What happened to the owner?” The fairy asked.
“Oh, tragic story,” the real estate agent said. “She tripped on the steps going to her car about a week and a half ago.”
I froze, clinging my dish rag to my chest.
. . . dead?
I looked at my hands. They weren’t white; I wasn’t levitating.
No, surely this was a joke.
I ran out to the living room. “I’m alive, I’m alive!” I called.
But, as usual, I was thoroughly ignored.
And that’s how I, unfortunately, discovered that I . . . I was dead.
Who knew I could still make banana bread in the afterlife? This wouldn’t be nearly as bad as I had figured it would be.
Inspired by a Pinterest prompt, as all good short stories are.