Lonely Whisper

By Jason DeMatteo

I died out there on the beached ship of the SS Morro Castle in 1934, but I only remember the engulfing flames and plumes of smoke consuming my hair and clothes. Whenever others are near me, they complain of feeling a chill and the nauseating smell of burning meat. I am alone sitting on this bench, watching the distant waves slide in and out. I see the Morro and others who refuse to believe they’re dead, waiting for rescue to continue to New York City. They were trapped in the stateroom, where we all had our last meal. It happened so quick that by the time we stood up to run to the outside deck, many of us died from smoke inhalation. I refuse to move on to the rising sunrise until something rescues them. 

A van pulls up and I turn from facing the evening empty beach to see three men with the words Spectral Sleuths on their shirts in bright green lettering. They bring a cart with electronics and set up a table, including a keyboard. A small hum of a generator feeds their computers and three monitors. I know the names of these things because one of them sits on top of me, unaware that the ghost they yearn to find evidence of is underneath them.

“Cold night boys. Let’s get the cameras and microphones set up,” said Troy he stands up from the bench. 

I move over and peer over their shoulders while hunched in front of their computers, staring into screens. What are they looking for? They cannot see the Morro Castle, only waves slithering in and out with the occasional couple walking hand in hand. This makes Troy upset because it throws off their evidence. 

They are listening for spirits to communicate with them and to type a response on the keyboard. I hesitated while thinking of something to say, but then I surprised myself and made my hands corporeal. I type the words “I am here.”

The three of them read my words out loud and are excited. They ask for my name and if I am from the Morro Castle. I type yes. More questions about what happened onto the ship that anyone could find out in a book or newspaper make me uninterested. They inquire about further responses and details, like the exact moment it happened and whether the crew helped evacuate us from the ship on time. They want scandal to make what they’re doing appear exciting. There is no intention from them of wanting to help my friends and I move on from this realm. Instead, these sleuths thrive on the dopamine from strangers fascinated by our exile from the living. 

“Order a pizza would you? Ask that they deliver it to Madame Mary’s. It is the closest landmark,” one says while changing batteries in his flashlight.  

“Damn phone isn’t getting a signal. Give me a minute.”

My friends are still out there, which gave me an idea. I tamper with their infrared camera to reveal the three others still stranded on the ethereal version of the ship. They scramble with their cameras and run to the shoreline. I watch as they call out to my dinner guests who make their presence known, a technique which if not done carefully, could make a ghost fade away to oblivion. The glowing apparitions intrigue the Spectral Sleuths, causing them to swim towards it, not realizing it’s too far. They lose their bearings and perish minutes after. 

After five minutes, their bodies wash up on the beach, but I know they are not the same people inside. The Spectral Sleuths remain on the Morro Castle, destined to never be rescued while my friends on the ship inhabit their bodies.

“The air is crisp, and I want to eat,” one says while the other two examine their inhabiting flesh. 

They see me while their former ghost abilities fade away and offer to find someone that I may inhabit. I refuse. They nod and thank me for helping. I turn toward the sunrise that shall appear in a few hours, the coastline beyond the Morro Castle. 

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