The Household Accident

I was going down to check how much heating oil we had left in the tank when I tripped over the edge of the second step and began to fall forward.

At first, I thought I was going to be able to put my hand down onto one of the lower steps, but just as I saw my fingers landing, I smashed my head against a riser and rag-dolled to the dirt floor of the basement.

I was home alone — other than the dog who was sleeping upstairs. I let out a groan.

“Now that looked like it hurt!” an older guy’s voice said.

I opened my eyes and realized I was on my back, staring up blurry-eyed at a man in my basement. He had high-waisted polyester slacks and a Tom Landry hat.

He extended a hand and helped me up.

“Thanks,” I said, rubbing at the side of my head and realizing I wasn’t actually feeling any pain. “Who are you?”

“Hell of a question for your roommate of all these years,” he said with a laugh, “but better late than never. Frank McClintoch.”

I shook his hand.

“You know a Helen McClintoch?”

“I sure did.”

“I bought this place from her.”

“Sure did,” he said, a little glum.

“Look, I don’t want to be rude — and I know I’m coming off something of an undignified entrance — but what the hell are you doing in my basement?”

“Well, I had been doing a little work on mama’s clock,” he said, gesturing toward a collection of gears and springs on the work bench behind him.

I’d never seen the clock before. I’d never dared to touch that work bench. It had always given me the creeps.

“But now,” he continued, “I figure I’m probably supposed to help you with your predicament.”

“The fall? I’m fine. Thanks for the hand up.”

“You sure?” he asked, pointing behind me.

I turned around to see myself laying in a heap at the bottom of the steps. My skin was all wrong and both my arms were folded up under me.

“Oh Jesus, I’m -”

“You must fancy yourself quite the acrobat to think you walked that one off,” he said with a laugh.

“It’s not funny!” I said reflexively, burning like a kid was making fun of my parents being divorced.

“Well, that’s the thing with people falling: matter of perspective, isn’t it?”

“You’re just lucky you beat me to it and didn’t have an audience,” I said, trying to arrange my body in a more comforting positing for my wife to find. “You’ve had plenty of time to reflect on how funny this whole situation is, but some of us are not finding the humor today.”

“I didn’t fall down the stairs. I hanged myself in the attic.”

“I wish you hadn’t told me that.”

“What? I figured you’d feel better. You know, suicide ghost bound to the wood of the house where he died until someone knocks it down — pretty embarrassing stuff! I bet all the other guys from the Elks Club are drinking gin fizzes with Aubrey Hepburn, and here I am, fixing my mother-in-law’s clock with a stranger’s death as my only form of entertainment.”

“Why am I here?” I asked, looking at my body and then Frank and then what I guess were now my hands, which were pretty much like hands, except they weren’t really hands.

“I think you’re supposed to answer that one before you fall down the stairs,” he said, resuming his work at the clock.

“No — you said you were here because — I mean, I should be — because I didn’t -”

“The big unforgivable? No, you certainly did not! But didn’t you, though? I mean, consider the carelessness — you didn’t even switch on the light. Dog hair all over the stairs. Never installed a handrail. Maybe this is a summary judgment based on a preponderance of evidence. You really never have been handy — crime against home ownership, that is.”

“Are you serious?”

“Wouldn’t be the most mysterious way I’ve seen.”

“So it’s you and me now? Forever? Because I didn’t sweep the stairs?”

“Not forever, just until someone knocks down the house.”

“Then what happens?”

“Our souls wander the earth in search of sanctuary and solace that never come.”

“Jesus.”

“Dereliction thereof, new buddy.”

“So, this is it? This is the rest of my existence?”

“Well, you’ve got one big thrill left when they find you, but then that’s pretty much it. You just gotta find your clock. It could be worse.”

He gave me a very sincere smile that I didn’t like at all.

Just then, the useless dog started barking its head off.

“She’s home,” I said. “Oh my god.”

“It’s always a surprise,” Frank chuckled, tooling with the clock. “You never know how they’re going to react, especially when they’re alone. You’re a lucky guy. Not many people find out how their wife really feels about them.”

“That’s not nice. She’s a good person. She doesn’t deserve this, and she sure as hell doesn’t deserve you watching her go through it.”

“You’re about to get to know this woman on a whole ‘nother level, kid. She’s gonna date aerobics instructors, get cats, turn the house into a giant pillow — all while cursing your name for abandoning her. Gotta find your clock and start hammering.”

I realized that if I was going to deal with this old jerk every day for the rest of foreseeable eternity, I had to make an immediate adjustment to the power structure. Also, I wanted to hit him.

So I swung and connected (imagine if I had just passed right through him like in some dumb movie), knocking him to the ground.

I climbed on top of him and rained downed punches, but he just laughed.

“Oh, kid, I haven’t felt anything like this in years! You’re the best thing to happen to me since the clock,” he said, headbutting me from underneath (which unfortunately hurt on a completely different level than anything I’d previously experienced) and knocking me aside.

“Let’s do a little experiment,” he said, grabbing his hammer from the work bench and menacing toward me, his slacks glistening in the darkness.

Suddenly, his slacks weren’t glistening in the darkness. The light was on.

My wife gasped and shouted my name. Frank’s face twisted into a sick smile. She ran down the stairs and shook my body, putting her ear to my chest. He raised the hammer above his head.

She started giving me CPR.

And all of a sudden, I was gasping in her face, feeling the excruciating pain of my real arm-arms.

“Oh my god, are you there? Are you alive?” she asked me with tears in her eyes.

I looked toward the old workbench, and it was empty as usual.

“Fell,” I said

“No shit,” she laughed, kissing my forehead. “Stay alive. I have to call 911.”

This story is part of 13 Ghost Stories in 13 Days. Each entry in the series was written and published in a single day during October of 2020. This idea was completely stolen from Mark Macyk.

Day 1: The Devil’s Diphthong

Day 2: The Podcasting Ghost

Day 3: The Portal Potties

Day 4: The Household Accident

Day 5: The Scarecrow Competition

Day 6: The Cursed Father

Day 7: When the Car Hits the Tree

Day 8: Thank Christ It’s Halloween

Day 9: The Greek Halloween Myth

Day 10: The Ghost & The Cockroach

Day 11: Pampered