Story 97 of 100

Elena Tucker
7 min readMay 23, 2023
This dog does not appear in this story. Photo by Karsten Winegeart on Unsplash

Not About a Ghost

They say (like there are “experts” in this field of pseudoscience) that in order for there to be ghosts, a person has to die in a violent or sudden death, or not be able to move on for some vital reason. Like, if someone has unfinished business, or wants to be avenged, or simply cannot let go of the pain or longing or some intense hate or intense love.

This makes sense — to the living. But it makes zero sense — if one is dead. The dead have no reasons to complete anything. They have no goals.

I know — I’m dead.

I’m kidding. I’d have no way to write this if I were dead, of course. And why would I want to? Why would I care for the world of the living? All y’alls would be on your own.

This is just a little something I was thinking while I was rotting in my prison.

All right, it wasn’t prison so much as it was jail of some sorts.

OK, not jail, per se, as I was “in the doghouse.” OK, I give up on these metaphors.

I was lying in the dark, late at night on a sofa — the comfy, cushy downstairs sofa — kicked out of my own marital bed by my bride of two years, Connie.

I, one Barry Woodlock, was contemplating ghosts and goblins at around 1 o’clock in the morning, because I forgot how to sleep…



Elena Tucker

Writer and storyteller, immigrant, wife, mom, knitter, collector of jokes, lover of cheap, sweet wine.