I was a carefree lad — with all of fifteen youthful years behind me — until that day when my father beckoned me to join him in on a solemn visit: the funeral of a dear friend who had passed away that day. Intrigued by the prospect of witnessing death for the first time, I decided to accompany my father, unaware that this single day would irredeemably alter the course of my life.
The atmosphere in the dead man’s home was quiet and reverential — befitting such an occasion. In the center of the room lay the casket containing the mortal remains of the deceased man. Queuing alongside my father, we meandered around the coffin — in which he rested with closed eyes and a look of peaceful tranquillity on his face — paying our final respects to the departed soul. We stepped aside, allowing others their farewell.
As we were about to leave, my father excused himself — an urgent phone call demanded his immediate attention. Left alone in the foyer of the dead man’s house, I looked around; it was cold and a little spooky as I stood there alone in the empty and silent room in the glow of a single light bulb. With its eerie stillness, the room had an an unsettling atmosphere about it. With little else to do as I waited for my father, I pondered my first encounter with mortality and a cold shiver ran down my spine. I was starting to wonder about the delay in my father’s return when suddenly an apparition materialized before me — a figure draped in a long overcoat. At first the face was obscured by the light from the bulb behind; as the apparition approached closer, however, a feeling of sheer horror and cold fear paralyzed me — it was the dead man himself. As I stood there, rooted to the spot with no life seemingly left in my legs, the apparition approached me and with profoundly sorrowful eyes fixed upon mine spoke words that resonated deep within my very being: “Always be good, son. Life is short.” Tousling my hair, the spirit’s egress from the room was as abrupt as its entry, leaving me terrified and bewildered. Even though it was cold, I could feel beads of sweat running down my temples and my neck. Mercifully, my father arrived soon after and we left the house.
During the journey back home, my father — finding my uncharacteristic silence unusual — tried to cheer me up, but nothing could take that apparition of the dead man coming close to me and advising me to be good out of my head. I was still quiet after we reached home, and I retired to bed early that evening. My mother, both inquisitive and worried about my sudden change in demeanor, had a long conversation with my father well into the night, with both eventually arriving at the conclusion that my first encounter with death had left an unexpected impact. That night was difficult as sleep eluded me, even as I was plagued by visions of the apparition urging me to be virtuous. The next day — determined to unravel the mystery behind why that spirit chose to reveal itself exclusively to me — I sought solace in books at the local library. My research was intense, and days turned into weeks and months as I delved into morbid literature about ghosts and spirits. Visions of ghouls and zombies filled my curious mind even after I had left the library and tried to get some sleep. Every evening as I returned home weary, my quest for the answer I sought remained unfulfilled: Why did that dead man’s apparition single me out amidst all the other mourners that day?
Years ensued, and I dedicated every waking moment after school to furthering my research on the dead and the realm of the departed. My expertise on all things morbid gradually garnered recognition in my community, albeit sparking concern within my parents. This dubious fame came at a cost: an unrelenting toll on my mental well-being. Anxiety and sleepless nights became my companions, haunted by the apparition’s return. The burden became insurmountable as I became a mental wreck, leading me to seek psychiatric help. By the age of twenty-five, a full decade after that fateful encounter during that surreal evening, I had become an aberration in the eyes of society; while my peers planned for their futures, I remained tethered to that haunting moment, unable to break free from the spirit’s haunting words: Be good, son. Life is short.
The culmination arrived one night when a nightmare haunted me. I woke up with a start, and for some inexplicable reason, I now had an intense fear that something portentous was about to happen: would it be that the spectre would soon come to lay claim on my soul? Drenched in sweat and chilled by an unseen presence, I was incapable of any sleep that night. The next day, paralyzed by fear, I remained cloistered within my home, unable to face the world outside, and fearful of the dark forces that awaited me there.
It was as I was sitting fearfully in my room that morning that the doorbell rang. A sinister premonition gripped me as I approached the door: something ominous and dark awaited me on the other side, ready to seize my very being. Que sera sera, I thought, I was now ready for the inevitable. My hands now drenched with my perspiration, I bravely clenched the doorknob and yanked it open.
Standing before me was the same apparition, appearing for the second time in ten years.
I stood there, frozen, not knowing how these final moments of my life would play out as the ghost before me would stake claim to my soul and take it away.
Fortunately, my father intervened once again, stepping forth to greet the visitor. Turning to me, he smiled and remarked, “Do you recall attending his twin brother’s funeral a decade ago?”
Always be good, son. Life is short. But its lessons endure.
