Pointless Ghost Story

Dixie Dunlap was sensitive to the supernatural.  

She’d known this since she was a small girl.  She’d played with children no one else could see, learned from meemaws long dead, and explored the woods under the watchful gaze of Confederate soldiers.  As she grew, she learned the difference between those who believed her and those who never looked outside their own heads.  Sometimes she helps people on either side of the veil and sometimes she got a whipping for telling lies.  Eventually she learned when to tell the truth and when to lie, when to help and when to ignore.  By the time she was grown, she had racked up more tales of the supernatural than most people knew in a lifetime.

Sometimes they were epic tales that defied all logic and believability.   And sometimes they were rather pointless ghost stories.

This is one of those.

The Stone Creek Hotel was rumored to be incredibly haunted.  The stories from the old hotel were many and varied.  Psychics were rumored to have fled screaming in the middle of the night, unable to process all the activity.  Dixie wasn’t really anticipating a full night’s sleep.  She had a surprisingly peaceful evening before turning in.  She didn’t bother staying up; she knew from experience that if any ghostly beings wanted to make contact they would.  Sure enough, at three a.m. she felt someone sit on the corner of her bed.  With a sigh, Dixie sat up to face her visitor.

There was a cowboy sitting on her bed.

He was dressed in a plain white shirt and a leather vest, battered jeans and a felt hat.  A huge handlebar mustache covered the bottom half of his face.  He was also ever so slightly translucent.  

At this point, Dixie had a practiced speech for ghostly visitors about how she would be happy to help them if she could.  This time it caught in her throat.  She simply stared at the ghostly cowboy.

He didn’t stare back.  He beamed at her with such delicate, tender affection that it knocked her completely off guard.  Like a father watching his little girl sleep.  Or a lover unable to believe such an angel was his to claim.  The love was almost palpable.  Dixie had never quite met a specter like this.  After a moment, he raised his hand to stroke her cheek.  Dixie felt the warmth of his touch, even felt the rough callouses on his palm.

He beamed at her for another short eternity, then leaned forward and pressed a delicate kiss to Dixie’s forehead.  She smelled the sweet scent of tobacco.  Mustache hairs tangled in her eyelashes. Then he faded away.

It took Dixie a minute to realize she was crying.  

The tender feeling of love vanished along with the ghost and it was a damned wrench.  The redhead lay back down and cried like a child with a broken heart.