NYC Midnight May 2026- Contest Entry

Sharing my submission from earlier this year. My entry had to include: a ghost story, a pigsty and a freezer.

A Ghost’s Life.

Erika Leigh Agnew

               My husband’s new wife has clearly never touched a broom. Or a mop or knows what a dishwasher is. For years I saved every possible dollar to buy my dream house. A three hundred- and eighty-six-year-old manor on Honey Dew Lane. Original flooring. Spiralling oak stairwell. Windows overlooking the bay. Designer Digest worthy. I am disgusted my husband let her turn it into a pigsty. I would never have allowed such disarray. But…I am not alive anymore. There’s nothing I can do about it. I am still not sure how this happened. One day, I was going along, living my life, helping corporations of questionable morals fix their public image. The next day, I am invisible. My husband couldn’t see me, couldn’t hear me. I had to face facts when a casket was brought into my living room. When the lid opened there was my body. I must admit, the mortician did a fantastic job. My eyeliner never looked so perfect. I hovered, eavesdropping. I suffered a fall. Broken neck. Died instantly. Stanley’s portrayal of a grieving husband was on point I’ll give him that. We loved each other once upon a time but the last few years we just went through the motions. I pay this bill, you pay that bill. This Thanksgiving we’ll travel to my brother’s. In exchange Stanley’s family would be allotted Christmas. I hoped the house would bring us together, but truth be told, I loved it more than Stanley. The fine details entranced me. The crown molding, the pillars, the faucets. Everything down to the antique doorknobs. Now Stella lives here with him. I can’t say how much time passed before the moving truck pulled up front and her belongings were hauled in. A month? Three years? Time passes differently for dead people. Now I am stuck watching her leave glasses on vintage tables without coasters. The dust coats every shelf, every railing. The worst? She calls the house spooky. Obviously! Its nearly four hundred years old. I am more irritated at Stanley. He can afford professional cleaners to take care of my house but he’s content to live in this hovel. I snort to myself. Pigs in a pigsty…and I am trapped here with them.

               Time has passed. Stanley sports a beard. He’s going for a bohemian look, I guess. I roll my eyes. This is how being dead works. Your consciousness suddenly becomes aware with no concept of time. There is now a small child running around. My stomach cramps with imaginary pains. Stanley and I tried to conceive but were never successful. It hurts to realize the problem was me, my genetics. But suddenly, I grin. Today should be fun. Stella is bringing in another team of ‘psychics’ to determine if my house is haunted. This is partially my fault. I discovered Stella can feel if I poke her. I don’t overdo it. I am not mean after all, but I love the spread of panic across her face when I sink my transparent fingers into her doughy flesh. I am not the only one. Since becoming a ghost, I see others all over my house. It’s a parade through the ages: Victorian figures, Civil War soldiers, World War soldiers, Peaky Blinder types. Being a history buff in my former life, I am all for it. Stella, however, not so much. She must be one of those sensitive types. She senses them all. Especially Big Huey who tormented me when I was alive. He loved moving items, making me search the house only to find them in a shoe or behind the tv. He also loved grabbing ankles. A few times he nearly sent me head over heels down the staircase. Brat. I watch, secretly delighted, how Big Huey and the others affect Stella. Permanent dark circles under her eyes. She startles easily. She’s withdrawn. People don’t visit my house anymore. Twinges of guilt prick the back of my mind, but fade quickly.  My compassion diminishes as I do.

               The doorbell rings. I perk up as the HOGS team enter my home, aka Stella’s Pigsty. They brandish various ghost finding instruments. I stifle a chuckle. The members of Hauntings Occult & Ghoul Society wear serious investigative expressions. Stella hastens to offer them cheap frozen appetizers. I shake my head. My restored 1938 General Electric freezer deserves better than the crap she keeps in it. The team wolfs down the appetizers then set up their gear on my great-grandmother’s table from Scotland. Of course. A séance is always first with these people. I groan. No one reacts but Stella glances around nervously. The team finishes their set up and seat themselves at the table. Clasping hands, the team lead, a lady with blonde ringlets to her waist, drones non-sensical drivel. Stella watches, riveted. Nothing happens but I can see the table is encircled by ghosts. They chuckle to each other, poking fun at the living but none take the bait. A HOGS team member wearily pushes back from the table, wiping his sweaty brow. He gazes at the empty appetizer tray wistfully.

Taking the hint, Stella jumps to her feet. “I’ll whip up chicken satays!” she calls heading for the basement stairs.

The team leans in, conferring and making notes. They freeze as a shriek followed by a series of thuds sounds from the basement. Big Huey appears at the top of the stairs. His gaze meets mine. He grins sheepishly.  Realization strikes me.

I rush forward. “You son of a—" He vanishes. Steeling myself, I look down. Stella’s broken body lays in a heap below. I suck in a breath. Poor girl.

“Hello?” Stella’s apparition appears next to her body. She stares at it, confused.

I float down the stairs. Placing a hand on her shoulder, I meet her eyes for the first time. I open my mouth, meaning to say words of comfort.

Instead I say, “Girlfriend, have you ever heard of a broom??”

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