Ghost Story

It rained the day Jimmy died.

Rained the day they put him in the ground. By then, it wasn’t unusual—it had rained every day for three weeks. The funeral guests' feet sank into the mud and came up heavy. They trudged to the graveside and back to their cars. His Army buddies—the two still alive—were taken back to the swamps. Marching in monsoon season was the same. Mississippi had become Vietnam by all the goddamn rain.

“A ghost killed Daddy!” his daughter wailed at the funeral, rain pouring down. The Army men said nothing, but one of them put a solid hand on her shoulder—a gesture that seemed to silence her. Men who’ve seen combat have that effect. One calm, heavy hand could hold down a grieving woman. No one believed her. But she was right. Jimmy had been killed by a ghost.

The change was slow. Like watching a child’s hair grow between cuts—subtle until suddenly it’s gone. After three years in the new house, it became clear: he’d been consumed by the ghost of the man who lived there before.

It was her fault. She had suggested the move. A house big enough to share—until she married. A house small enough for him alone after that. But the husband never came. And now, after the funeral, she would return to that haunted house alone. The opposite of her plan.

June had said something was off. She told him to call the VA. First gently, then firmly. She watched for signs he was still there—flashes of anger or annoyance—but all she saw was the mower catalog open on the table.

“Daddy, you never cared about the yard before. What’s going on?”

She was right. At the old place, he didn’t notice water pooling in the yard until it was five inches deep, ten feet long, and ducks had started nesting. He didn’t learn a neighbor’s name until one crashed her Jeep into his fence. Her name was on the insurance paperwork.

But this yard? These neighbors? Different. From the start.

Jimmy insisted they unpack the mower first. A Snapper Rear Engine Rider—like the one from Forrest Gump.

“Daddy,” June said, exasperated. “Let the movers finish. You can mow tomorrow.”

“It needs mowing now,” he said.

One of the movers grinned. “Sometimes a man just has to mow.”

The lawn was uneven—divots, holes, crabgrass. He mowed in lines first. Then diagonals. Next time, maybe circles.

Each day brought a new enemy: gophers. Mushrooms. Creeping kudzu. He studied them like a soldier studies terrain. Filled holes. Pulled vines. Measured soil acidity. Spearmint gum. Cayenne pepper. Garden lime. He borrowed library books. Bought traps. Bought poison. He’d rent a tiller. Burn the soil if needed. He’d burned things before.

The answers came in the mail. Always addressed to the previous homeowner: Mr. Joshua Anderson. Flyers for landscapers. Coupons for mulch. Brochures for zero-turn mowers. Equipment rentals. Soon, Jimmy had two mowers and a garden shop account. He hated the lawn. But once it was finished, he’d be done. Unless something else came up.

As he worked, the neighbors emerged. First a few, then more. Joggers. Dog walkers. Retirees. Housewives. Bikers. Moms with baby buggies. Like ants stirred from a nest. Smiles and waves. Pleasant voices.

“Nice lawn,” said a younger man in a Navy cap. “You a vet? You carry yourself that way.”

Jimmy waved him off. “Yeah. Summer camp changed my fucking life.”

The kid laughed. “I hear that, man. I was in the Navy myself. I get it, dude.”

He didn’t. Jimmy had met men like him before. Men who thought turning wrenches on a ship was the same as pulling charred limbs from bombed-out villages. Who thought all service was equal.

It wasn’t. Just like this yard wasn’t like the old one.

June started throwing away the junk mail addressed to Mr. Anderson. She called the post office, tried to stop the flood of circulars.

“Ma’am,” said the postman, “everyone gets them.”

Not like this. The postman didn’t trip over hedge trimmers, leaf blowers, tillers. Jugs of chemicals. Things to make things grow. Things to make them die.

She began to worry in quiet ways. Cooked more. Checked on him at night. Walked the perimeter with a flashlight when he didn’t come in by midnight. Left sticky notes: Eat something. Call Dr. Crest. Remember meds. She didn’t know if he read them. Can't stop hole in the Hoover Dam with a hand.

He stayed outside for hours in the heat. Thinner. Fragile. She told him he was obsessing. That he needed help. That he was dehydrated. Exhausted. He didn’t listen. He’d lived through worse. But he wasn’t the same. He used to not care about lawns or neighbors. He used to tell stories. They used to laugh. The house had room for laughter then.

Now it was filled with tools.

Sometimes she came out with a drink. “Daddy, here’s a lemonade. Maybe take a break? It’s muggy out.”

He’d place it in the cupholder of the mower, then forget it. The liquid turned cloudy. Molded. She threw it out days later.

“Junie Bug, once I get the gophers, I’m done. I’m not doing anything else to the yard.”

She didn’t believe him. She was right.

After the gophers came the azaleas. The pink blooms could be pinker. He studied fertilizer compounds. Tested pH levels. A woman pushing a stroller passed by.

“Beautiful flowers,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun.

Jimmy motioned toward the bushes. “This is a meditation in futility.”

She frowned. “Well, they are pretty.”

The neighbors multiplied. Jimmy became convinced each house held ten people. That every window had eyes behind it.

Those eyes watched him collapse in the grass that May. The fine Bermuda soaked in weeks of rain. He’d been siphoning water from the yard. It was drowning the lawn.

After the ambulance took him away, June wandered the house, surrounded by tools she didn’t know how to use. She ran her fingers over mower handles, the damp work gloves. Saw the stack of mail.

A funeral home brochure.

Addressed to Mr. Joshua Anderson.

The ghost that killed her father.

She called the number on the back.

Caskets were 20% off.