Short Story: Maggie
image source: Pinterest
They call me Ghost Girl. Sometimes affectionately, except for when they assume that I am angry. Although I am not angry all the time, they don’t know that I am protecting them. It upsets me to watch them make stupid decisions for themselves. Take Liza, she is one of the most beautiful creatures I have ever set my eyes on. If Frida Kahlo had secretly birthed a daughter and gave it up for adoption, it could be Liza. Eyebrows thick, almost rectangular, an elongated roman nose that falls with a button at the end puts enough of her own Mexican and Italian heritage on center stage. Liza is in love with an English major at Hunter who will never agree to a romantic commitment simply because her family name is not decorated on any of the fine institutional buildings around the city. Even though he is the black sheep of his old money family, the Upper East Side heir clings on to Liza mostly on cold nights to let the pub crawlers know that he can make it with common people.
Emme is the more troubled one in my honest opinion. Raised by her grandmother, which to an outsider can sound endearing, but having overheard a dozen phone calls with her being berated by the only maternal figure in her life, Emme allows her grandmother to mentally abuse her. She knows of Emme’s sexual orientation and uses it against her, as the reason why she will not be receiving any part of her will once she dies. Emme doesn’t care to inherit, she’s so used to this behavior that what makes her happiest is that her grandmother is 3,000 miles away from her. The next time she will see her grandmother will be at her funeral.
Out of the two, I try to help Emme the most. In the mornings, I will open the door for her while she busily prepares for the 6am shift at the diner. She works harder and more than Liza, because she has to. Liza is the one with the family in New Jersey, her dad is the guarantor for their West Village apartment. They visit once a month, arrive on Saturday and leave by Sunday evening. They even invite Emme out with them for dinner at John’s in the East Village, which Emme wonders if they at all know about her situation. Mother dead, father never in the picture, grandmother cruel by nature.
“This morning when I was getting ready to leave, my door slowly swung open,” Emme said, handing the joint to Florence. “By itself.”
“Is this a new ghost story?” Florence asked. She passed on the joint to Liza who sat legs crossed on a floor pillow with Yellow Cat nestled on her lap.
“I think GG likes to taunt you more than me. It’s rare that anything happens when I’m alone, but it’s always when we’re home together.”
“Who is GG?” Florence asked.
“Ghost Girl, Liza named her.”
“How do you know it’s a female?”
The first time I had made myself known it was meant to be very obvious. I left a gorgeous vintage coat of Liza’s on Emme’s bed. I waited for an empty apartment to do it and the way I had laid it out on Emme’s bed was — if I can boast, was cinematic. I did it to send a message, that I was going to be around and to not be so startled, although they were. There is only so much I can do in the form of communication. I have only been at this for almost a year, but I am getting better at moving objects, opening and closing doors, beginner stuff.
A short story told in the narrative of Maggie, the ghost who once lived in the apartment currently resided by Emme, Liza and Yellow Cat.
*This is a PDF download (image found on Pinterest)
*Sale is final, no refunds.
Originally published on our Substack, Dear City Girl, this short story is written solely by a human. Subscribe if you’d like to read more essays and short stories.
