The Dark Moment

The door slammed shut. The jazz music cut off abruptly. The purple lights snapped back to a sterile, bright white.

Barnaby materialized near the dining table, holding the cocktail shaker and looking immensely pleased with himself. "Well! I think that went swimmingly! The old boy practically flew out the door, but he left his bag, which means he simply must return—"

"Enough!"

Arthur’s voice cracked like a whip. He gripped the edge of the dining table, his knuckles turning white. He was shaking, a lifetime of repressed emotions bubbling over into raw, unfiltered fury.

Barnaby blinked, his glowing smile faltering. "Artie...?"

"My name is Arthur. And you ruined it. You ruined my dinner, you ruined my promotion, and you are ruining my life!" Arthur stepped forward, his fear of the supernatural entirely eclipsed by his anger. "I don't want jazz. I don't want floating cocktails. I built this life so I wouldn't have to deal with chaos, and you are nothing but chaos!"

Barnaby lowered the shaker. The bright, pearlescent glow of his ethereal form dimmed to a sad, washed-out gray. "I just... you looked so dreadfully bored, Arthur. I was only trying to give you a little life."

"I didn't ask for your help," Arthur snapped, gesturing wildly toward the door. "You are a nuisance. You are a stalker. I demand that you leave my home and never come back. Get out!"

For the first time since he had appeared, Barnaby looked completely serious. His shoulders slumped. He tipped the brim of his fedora downward, hiding his eyes.

"As you wish, Mr. Pendelton," Barnaby whispered. "My apologies for the intrusion."

With a faint *pop*, Barnaby vanished.

Arthur stood alone in the kitchen, his chest heaving. He waited for the jazz to start again. He waited for a book to slide off the table. But nothing happened.

The apartment was perfectly, utterly silent.

Arthur spent the next twenty-four hours relishing his victory. He cleaned the kitchen. He realigned the sofa. He sat down to review his spreadsheets. The environment was entirely under his control. It was exactly what he wanted.

By Sunday night, the silence was deafening.

Arthur sat on his perfectly firm sofa, staring at the blank white wall. The ticking of the wall clock sounded like a sledgehammer. He looked over at the coffee table books, sitting at their perfect ninety-degree angles. They looked boring. His spreadsheets looked meaningless.

Without Barnaby’s running commentary, without the threat of a floating martini, the apartment didn't feel like a sanctuary anymore. It felt like a tomb. Arthur realized, with a sickening drop in his stomach, that the ghost hadn't been disrupting his life. The ghost had been keeping him company.