"The Ghosts of Us," Daniela Barzallo

Today on Midwest Weird: “The Ghosts of Us” by Daniela Barzallo.

An Ecuadorian-American writer from Peoria, Illinois, Daniela Barzallo is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Missouri - Kansas City. She has a special love for speculative fiction, but she enjoys writing poetry and autofiction as well. You can find some of her work in Broadside Literary Journal, Kansas City Magazine, and in the forthcoming Fall issue of Pleiades Magazine.

Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.

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Episode Transcript:

This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.

We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.

Today’s episode: “The Ghosts of Us,” by Daniela Barzallo. Read by the author.

The first time I saw you, you were wearing my favorite pajamas, the ones with the fluffy white bottoms and the cute little bunny on the top. We were both seven then, and as soon as we locked eyes, we screamed. You because you’d never seen a ghost before. Me because I’d never been one before, I guess.

Mami–your mami I mean–heard and came running, and for a moment I actually thought she was coming to me before she wrapped her arms around you. You didn’t seem to notice, your big eyes overflowing with massive tears as you looked at me. I wiped my own on my sleeve.

“Mami, look,” you cried. “Look!”

But she didn’t spare me a glance as she held your face gently with both hands. I resisted the urge to scream again. “There’s nothing there, Carolina. Just a bad dream.”

You looked at me again. I waved. You blinked and sniffled.

We figured out later that I’d somehow gotten run over by a car on the street right outside the neighborhood.

“Are you going to haunt me forever?” You asked.

So yes, we got off to a bad start, you and me, but it got better.

Like the time you brought that cute little stuffed duck, the one with the purple eyes? You were nearly thirteen then, I think. You had given up trying to convince Mami that I was real. And I had the feeling that if you were being honest (and you never were, at least not with me), you would have had to admit that you weren’t convinced yourself. But real or not, it was clear I wasn’t going anywhere.

That day, you threw the toy at me, and I just barely managed to catch it before it hit the ground. You’d never brought me anything before.

“Is this for—for me?”

You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. You’d been doing that a lot lately. “Figured you’d like it. Got it in a claw machine, but I’m too old for that stuff.”

I pressed the soft skin of the stuffed animal to my chest, memorizing the delicate feel of cotton and plush. I smiled so wide I felt the phantom pain in my cheek. You tried to seem disinterested, but I could tell you were holding back a grin too.

“Play with me?” I whispered.

You hesitated, then shook your head, “Maybe later.”

On one of the last days before you moved out, you tried to teach me how to french braid my hair.

“No, no, look, honey, it’s easy,” you said. “You just need to pull this section here and then this section and—no not like that, honey.”

It was all honey and sweetheart now. Like you were trying to make up for the rude names you called me when we’d first met. Or all the days you spent ignoring me as I cried miserably in the corner. Or all the breakdowns you had when you screamed at me, desperately trying to convince yourself I wasn’t there. The last time had only been a few years ago, but you apologized to me the next day.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I spend a lot of time wondering if I’m just imagining you too.”

So that was the last time you questioned my existence. Out loud, at least.

But now that you really were leaving me, you hardly ever left my side. I think you might even have considered trying to take me with you if the thought of leaving the bedroom hadn’t filled me with indescribable horror. I think you were starting to forget why you hated me.

I think I was starting to realize why I hated you.

“Honey,” you said, tugging harder on my hair. “It’s really not that hard. If you would just try.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Don’t wanna,” I said.

“Don’t you want to know how?”

I giggled, “Why would a dead girl want to learn anything?”

You grit your teeth, jumping away from me, “You know what? Fine. Fine. That’s fine.

Perfectly fine.”

And then you screamed.

You did come and visit me after that though. I mean, I know you were visiting your

parents and your hometown too, but you always made sure to make time for me, which was nice.

One time when you came home (you never called it home), you hugged me so tight, I could feel your heartbeat, I could smell your breath, I could wonder what it would be like if we came together again, you and me, and if it would mean you would die or I would live and which one would be worse.

“Do you really think it can only be one of us?” You muttered.

I shrugged. Perhaps there was something I could learn from you after all. “Only one of us can what?”

“Do you think only one of us can be real?” your voice shook.

“Maybe,” I admitted.

“I want it to be me,” you said. “God, I’m sorry, honey, but I want it to be me.”

Your eyes fill with tears. You pressed a wet kiss to my forehead, and all I could think was I hoped you didn’t get any snot on our favorite pajamas I was wearing.

It’s been a while since you’ve come back, but I always think of that first day. After all

your screaming and crying had died down, Mami went back downstairs and left us alone.

“You—you’re me, aren’t you?” You said.

I blew my nose on my pajama sleeve.

“But you’re dead. You’re dead, and I’m not.”

“I guess,” I said.

We blinked at each other. It was just you and me. Like always.

“Are you going to haunt me forever?” I asked.

An Ecuadorian-American writer from Peoria, Illinois, Daniela Barzallo is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Missouri - Kansas City. She has a special love for speculative fiction, but she enjoys writing poetry and autofiction as well. You can find some of her work in Broadside Literary Journal, Kansas City Magazine, and in the forthcoming Fall issue of Pleiades Magazine.

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