My father was buried today. It was a quiet affair. The build up to the ceremony wasn’t particularly suspenseful as we’d been expecting it some time.
Not many people came. Not that many were invited. Perhaps they were unsure of the date, my father sent out so many different invitations. I didn’t think I'd get particularly choked up; it was kind of what I’d imagined. I’m not sure what Mom expected.
When they lowered the box into the dirt there were a few sniffles. Don’t get me wrong, though we’d been through so many discussions and so many therapies and so many doctors’ visits, that’s not to say Mom didn’t cry. That’s not to say I did.
He came back six hours later.
***
“I like this one.”
“Really? It’s a little cramped, don’t you think?”
"Cramped is good, I won’t roll around too much.”
My father lay inside the open coffin. His hands rested across his chest, fingers joined together. His eyes fluttered a moment and he unclasped his hands to scratch the tip of his nose. He lifted his upper half from the box without struggle. His eyes remained shut. In that moment I pictured him draped in black, skin bleached white, baring fangs and hissing at the ambient lighting that filled the room. Then he turned around to reposition the fluffy contour-adjusted mini-pillow that clung to his neck and the image was ruined.
"It’s not like you’ll be lying in the back of a flatbed when we’re moving you.”
He rolled out of the box with a groan and readjusted his suit. The wig he wore to cover the now vacant dome of his skull had shifted to the side. He straightened it with as much discression as a cheap wig allowed.
“I want this one, “ he said. He clicked the bell that sat beside the coffin selection.
A few minutes later, the portly gentleman who owned the funeral home poked his head out from beyond the nearby corridor. He wore a suit several times too small that cut his wrists, exposing a cornucopia of fat rolls. I wondered how much of our conversation he'd listened in on.
“Sir?” the gentleman said.
“I’ll take it.”
“Sir,” the gentleman said.
I leaned over the box and inspected the inside. A few scraps of wood lay at the foot of the coffin, chipped away from what I had to assume was extended use, though I was unsure how that could be. Someone had marked their name into the side of the wooden viewing panel.
“Dad, are you sure about this one?”
My father reached into his suit pocket and withdrew a black permanent sharpie. He popped the cap and bent down, scratching out the name and replacing it with his own.
“It’s mine."
***
There’s a silence when I get home.
I don’t know what to do. Mom is with her sister and brother-in-law and their fat child who smells like expired milk even though he’s lactose intolerant. I don’t enjoy their company; I prefer the silence of my apartment. I think there’s a word for that.
Right now I’m staring at the chair I’d promised my father over a month ago to repaint. There’s the ugly brown wallpaper that we put up before we got the news. My father always loved the design. I feel I should leave it up for his memory, but it's a really ugly color.
I take out the scraper.
The wallpaper’s almost off when my father appears. Honestly, it’s a bit of a shock, especially considering he bursts through the wallpaper on entrance.
“You know how much I liked that design.”
My screaming lasts for quite some time. I feel sorry for the neighbors. I can hear a broom beating against the ceiling of the floor below. I didn’t think people did that anymore. He attempts to calm me by placing his hands on my shoulders but the chilling feeling, coupled with the fact that they pass through me, doesn’t help.
“You’re like a ghost, right?” I ask.
My father shrugs. His hair spills across his eyes. Real hair, not one of his cheap wigs. Something to be grateful for.
“I suppose.”
“Alright then.”
I stop my work on the wallpaper and grab a pail of paint from the closet. I start on the chair as the two of us converse, I know how much he’d always hated that seat's color.
***
Dried leaves crushed between the hard ground and the rubber soles of my father’s dress shoes. He stomped the earth several times. His brow arched with the frown that formed.
He clapped his hands together and let out a shrill laugh. "Yeah…yeah, this is nice. Nice and strong. Be hard for any guys thinking of robbing my corpse.”
“What?” I asked.
"Corpse robbers, been a rash of them around the area lately, read about it in the paper.”
“You realize how hard it’ll be for us to dig the hole, right- how much time it’ll take?”
“Do you have stuff planned for later that day?”
“Thinking of consoling Mom.”
“Good.”
A bird let out a song that carried through the clearing. Sunlight shone down upon the stone that lay before the outline of the future gravesite.
My father turned to me and spoke. “You know you don’t need to dig the hole yourself, right? I’m sure we could just pay the guys who work here to do it.”
“I know.”
***
“I noticed you didn’t cry today.”
It’s night now. My father’s back. He hovers a few feet over me. I can’t see through him, as one might expect, but he’s decided to accessorize on his journey back into this world. A thick length of chain cracks along my headboard as he swings the line through the air and moans. The phantom link slinks itself along my skin. It’s quite cold as well.
“Did you want me to?” I ask.
My father replies, jingling his chains and speaking in an exaggerated tone, what I assume is his attempt at humor. “Well. A little compassion would have been niiiiiice…”
“Why are you doing that?”
“It’s a contractual agreeeeement…”
I push the covers aside and slide my legs over the side of the bed. I unfold my reading glasses and return them to my face. The missing nose bridge scratches my skin.
“You need to get those fiiiiiiiixed…”
“Oh come on now.”
“I’m done. Big Man’s a stickler for cheap jokes.”
“Why are you still haunting me?”
The chains fade. His floating hair falls to his shoulders. He levitates his way across the room and plops himself back down on the chair I finished repainting a few hours previously.
"Careful, that may still be wet,” I say without thinking.
“I don’t mind.”
“You know Mom misses you. Why don’t you visit her?”
He takes a while to reply. He doesn’t seem to want to.
“You can handle the stress,” he responds.
“How are you so sure?”
“How am I so sure? You’re my son.”
“And how much longer will this be going on?”
He shakes his head and chuckles. “Not much longer, I’d think. You gotta promise me just one thing.”
I scoot down along the edge of my bed and rest my chin upon the back of my hand. “And that is?”
“Promise me you won’t screw up too bad.”
“I’ll try my best.”
"That’s all I ask.”
I notice I can see through him now, at least a bit better. The rungs of the chair’s back appear. The last strips of the ugly brown wallpaper I’ve yet to take down glare at me through his transparent suit and tie.
For a moment I think it’s just another one of his lame attempts at a joke, but the fading doesn’t stop. I can barely see him now. His disembodied head bobs from side to side.
There’s a tear, I can feel it, running down my cheek. I know I should say something but only the worst words ever come.
“We should have had more of these talks,” I say.
My dad’s head nods. “We should’ve.” And then he’s gone.
). You established, developed, and got me attached to your characters all in the first couple of scenes or so. Some short stories take the entire piece to really show the reader who a character is, leaving the reader guessing and confused until the end (that is 
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