Chalk Outline

I woke up and turned on the light.

A chalk outline of my body was on my bed, right where I had been sleeping a moment before.

I studied it curiously, furrowing my brow and picking at my beard.

It was definitely a chalk outline of my body.

I slapped myself, hard.

I didn’t wake up.

It was real.

I walked to my bathroom to look in the mirror.

I had no reflection.

There were no eyes staring back at me.

I recoiled, clutching my head.

I rubbed my temples, as I collapsed to the floor.

I figured that I must’ve died in my sleep.

What other explanation would there be for a chalk outline on my bed while also not having a reflection?

But where was my body? And how did I stay behind?

Weird.

I figured I’d have to track down my body at some point.

I was only 32, and I was pretty healthy.

Why did I die? Or, how did I die?

Huh.

A Chalk outline usually means there was a crime, right?

Well, where the hell are the police, then?

Someone had to have drawn this damn chalk outline of me.

Was I killed?

Did someone murder me in my sleep?

I don’t know anyone who would want to kill me . . . I’m a nobody.

And now I’m a nobody with no body. Ha!

I tried to shout but I couldn’t hear my own voice, only the sound of my own thoughts.

My thoughts ran wild inside of my head.

I tried to push them aside, but they raged against me.

Someone probably murdered me.

That was my biggest fear as a child.

It’s one of the reasons I became a fighter.

Someone stole my future.

That’s pretty fucked up.

I could’ve done something with my little life.

Couldn’t I have?

. . . It wasn’t too late, was it?

Oh . . . yeah, I’m dead. It’s definitely too late to do anything with my life now.

How sad.

I always thought I had another fifty years at least.

But, nope, the ride is over. Damn, I hardly got to enjoy it.

What a real bummer.

No voice. No reflection. No body.

But, I had turned on the light, hadn’t I? I swear I remember turning on the light . . .

Weird.

What did I do last night?

I smoked weed and watched basketball until I went to bed.

I brushed my teeth while taking a piss and then crawled into bed.

I sweat that’s what happened.

I’m pretty sure that’s what happened . . .

My memory is fading . . .

That can’t be good.

On a positive note, I should find out if there is an afterlife or not.

I should be able to find out which God is real.

Or maybe I’ll be reincarnated as a little red fox?

That would be neat.

Being a bird would be cool, too.

And even a fish or a bee would be neat.

I wonder how long I’ll have to wait to find out if God is real or not . . .

What happens to me if there is no afterlife, though?

What will I become? Where will I go?

Will I be nothing, like before I was born? Maybe . . .

Would that be so bad?

I don’t know . . . It’s all unknown to me.

Float.

I start to float around my house, looking for clues to what happened to me.

Everything looks like it is in its place. There was no struggle here. No one broke into my home.

That’s a relief, I think.

I can’t find my dog!

I can’t find Stanley!!

No! He needs me!

He can’t survive on his own!!

Who’s going to feed him??

And why would someone take him??

I start to panic.

That’s my fucking dog that’s missing.

I have to find out where he went. I have to know that he is okay.

I float on, through my neighborhood, in between houses.

I can’t find him.

He’s old and he’s big, so if he is out here, then he couldn’t have gone that far.

I float on—upward this time. I need an aerial view of this damn city.

He’s gone.

They stole him.

They stole my dog.

Whoa . . .

I am really pissed. Really really pissed.

If they hurt him . . .

If they leave him on the street, or dump him in the woods, I might lose my shit.

I float over to the humane society.

He isn’t there.

I float over to the police station. They’re on a burger break right now—all of them chowing down on burgers, fries and milkshakes.

I try to get their attention somehow.

They don’t notice me.

So I try to slap the burger out of the hands of the captain. To my surprise, the burger flies out of his hands midbite and slams against the wall. The pickles slowly slide down the wall. The whole station stares at the pickles for a moment.

“They took my dog!!” I yell.

A gust of wind shakes the scattered police reports and napkins.

Their eyes grow.

I yell again, “THEY TOOK MY BLOODY DOG!! DO SOMETHING!!”

The Captain looks like he might piss himself. What a great leader of men this one is.

“Save Stanley!! Please!! He’s a great dog and my best friend!”

One of these geniuses decides to pull out his firearm. “It’s a ghost!!” he shouts, as he points the gun at random spots in the room.

“PUT THAT THE FUCK AWAY, PETE!! YOU CAN’T SHOOT A GHOST!!”

He nods and slowly holsters his pistol.

“Is there a ghost in here??”

Am I a ghost? I suppose that would make sense. I don’t really care about what I am, though, I only care about Stanley.

“If there is a ghost in here,” The Captain says, “Then pick up my burger for me.”

I shrug and walk over to the butchered burger. The pickles have almost slid all the way down the wall. I pluck them off the wall first. They gasp. Then I pick up the rest of the burger and assemble it.

No one spoke. No one moved.

I placed the burger next to the captain.

He eyed it for a few seconds and then brushed it off before taking a massive bite.

With the ground beef rolling around in his open mouth, he said, “Welp, Fellas, Sheems we’s got a host rolem.”

He’s a pig!

“What should we do, Captain?”

“WHAT DO YOU WANT, GHOST??” One of them yelled.

“My dog!!” I yell. The room shakes.

“Maybe one of us is dirty, and this ghost is here to settle the score.”

“Maybe we arrested the wrong guy.”

“Maybe we accidently shot his family . . . Hey, it happens sometimes!”

“Is he haunting the station or one of us?”

“Is there anything else this ghost could be doing here?”

“We do have K-9 officers here.”

“YES!” I shout, “MY DOG!! FIND HIM! FEED HIM! PLEASE!! HE’S NOT THE SMARTEST DOG IN THE WORLD BUT HE IS A GOOD BOY!!”

One of the officers stood up. “A dog, sir. I reckon that’s what this ghost is trying to tell us. Something happened to a dog.”

“YES!!” I shout. The lights flicker.

“Thanks for volunteering, Patrick. You’re on this ghost case now. Get this damn ghost out of my station.”

“I’ll help,” a young man with a mustache said.

“Fine. Thomas and Patrick, if another one of my burgers gets tossed across the room again, peoples PTO will be ‘misplaced’. We’re counting on you two. Don’t let us down.”

(To be continued. Probably.)

-CH 6/22/25