Its the tale, not he who tells it.

“No way,” Ed screamed. “There’s no way!” 

The Red Sox were winning 3 to 0. It had been a boring game. 

Ed Reins sat up in his chair, looking at the TV. “Impossible,” he whispered.

His sister came into the room. 

“What is?” she asked. 

Ed jumped. Sweat was pouring off his face. “I think that’s…” 

She was holding a thermometer. “Put this under your tongue, Ed.”

He opened up, she slipped it in. 

“They’re winning, right?” she asked. 

Ed nodded. 

She touched his forehead. “You feel warm.” She checked the thermometer. His temperature was 100.4 ° F. 

“You’re starting to get a fever, Ed.” 

“Is that why I’m seeing things?” 

“It might be. Why?” 

Ed rubbed his eyes, looking nervously at the TV.

“Do you see the man sitting behind home plate? He’s next to the woman with glasses and a red shirt. There’s an empty chair on his left.”

“I do.”

“That’s Michael Abbott. I worked with him at the mill. He was in an accident on the chipping machine last week. He slipped down the timber shoot and -“

“Was killed?”

“Yeah.” 

“Then I agree with you.”

“About what?”

“You are seeing things.”

Ed slept in his chair for most of the game. He was awake long enough to see Vladimir Guerrero hit a grand slam off Red Sox pitcher Brayan Bello in the fourth inning. It was now 8 to 2, top of the seventh. There was no reason to keep watching, except… 

He wanted to see who was sitting behind home plate. 

On TV, the batter stepped out of the box, adjusted his helmet, and looked at his third-base coach. And then…

Ed saw him. 

He leaned forward in his chair. “It can’t be.”

His sister stepped into the room. “What?”

“Do you see the man sitting behind home plate with the Red Sox jersey?” He pointed at the screen. “Right there. He’s eating a pretzel.” 

She stepped closer to the TV. “Is that Steve Madden?”

“That’s him,” he said. It was Ed’s uncle. Everyone in the family called him Slim. “And that’s my Aunt Pam sitting next to him.”

Slim, and his wife Pam, were killed in a car accident the night before last.  

She was holding the thermometer in her hand. “Okay, say…aaah!” He opened up. She slipped it in.

“Is this game live?” she asked.

Ed looked at her nervously and nodded.

“Okay,” she said, “let’s see what we have.”

She read the thermometer. 

“What is it?” he asked.  

“100.9° F.” She gave her brother a worried look. “It has gone up.”

The thermometer stuck out of Ed’s mouth like a cigarette.  He sat back, reclining in his chair, barely awake. 

“Okay, let me check it,” his sister said. “Now it is…” she looked at the digital screen, “101.5° F.” She slipped the thermometer back into her purse. “I should probably take you to Walk-In Care.”

Ed nodded. “Okay, I just want to,“ he tried to look around her at the TV screen, “check one more thing.” 

She smiled. “See someone we know?”

“I do.” 

Ed sat up in his chair, moving his TV tray out the way. He pointed at the screen. “Do you see the woman wearing the scarf? She’s sitting next to a man with white hair.” 

His sister walked over to the TV and pressed her finger against the screen. “This one?” she asked.

“Yeah. I think that’s…Barbara Wilson. I worked with her at the paper mill back in the 90’s. She’s – “

“Dead?”

“Yeah. I read her obituary on the Internet last night,” Ed said. 

Shelley’s face went ghost white. She backed away from the TV like it gave an electric shock.

“I was going to the funeral tomorrow night,” he said looking back at the TV. “But this is live. That’s her watching the Red Sox right now.”

“It can’t be,” his sister said. She looked at Ed closely. “How do you feel now?”

“Not great.”

“Have you been sleeping all day?”

He nodded. 

“Well, you still have a fever.”  She scanned the apartment. “Would you like me to clean up a little?” She picked up an old t-shirt and a pair of dirty socks on the floor and set them on a kitchen chair. “Do a load of laundry?”

“No, I’m fine. But thanks Shelley.”

She folded the shirt, looked at her brother and smiled. “I’ll come back over after work.”

He smiled back. “Sounds good. They play again tomorrow night.” Ed sat up in his chair and turned his head toward the kitchen. “By the way, I’m talking to the Newton PD.”

She was putting on her coat. “Yeah?”

“Yup. I spoke with someone named Mike. Mike Hutchins, I think. They’ve started a file.”

“You’re telling him you see things?”

“I’m telling him what I tell you.”

Shelley smiled and pressed the unlock button on her car key. That’s what I’m afraid of, she thought.

“Okay, hold it under your tongue for one minute. Or until it beeps.” She felt his forehead. “You’re burning up,” she said. 

The apartment was still a mess. Beer spilled on the carpet. Trash bags on the countertop. Empty Styrofoam cups strewn across the living room floor. 

“Let’s see what you have.” She removed the thermometer and checked the digital screen. It was now 101.9 ° F. 

She looked at her watch. “I can take you to Walk-In Care tonight if you want me to – “

“I’m alright,” Ed said. “I just want to watch the baseball game.”

“Did you see – “

“Another one?” Ed nodded. “Yeah, I did.”

She looked back at the game. “Sitting in the same place?”

“Mm-hmm,” Ed said. He was typing something into his phone.

“Are you texting someone?”

“Yeah, I’m sending pictures to Officer Hutchins. I just took them with my phone.”

“Ed, I don’t think we need to involve the police at this point.”

She took a step toward the TV.

“Wait until the batter steps out the box,” he said under his breath. “You’ll see him.”

“Who is it?” she whispered.

“Do you remember my realtor when I bought the house in Newton?”

“Dave Blocker?”

“Yes.” Ed pointed at the TV. “That’s him.”

“The pitch is high and inside,” the announcer said.

She turned and looked at the TV. The batter was out of the box. She saw an older man wearing a blue ball cap with “Pro Realty” emblazoned across the front in a cursive, white font. 

That was Dave Blocker, president of Pro Realty. 

She was in a trance. 

“And…

He…

Is…

Dead,” she said in a slow, monotone. 

“Yeah, died yesterday. Blood clot in the brain.”

“Embolic stroke,” she whispered.

She walked over to the TV like she was going to turn it off.

“No, Shel. I want to see what happens.”

She gave him a curious look.

He nodded sagely. “During the game they began to fade. It’s hard to explain. The other people stay the same. But the dead ones slowly go away.”

She shook her head, exasperated. “Ed, I think you need to get some rest.” She picked up her car keys on the coffee table. “I should go. I’ll be back Thursday night.” 

“Okay,” Ed said. “I’ll be watching the game.”

“Same time?”

Ed started to grin. “And place,” he said.

The front door creaked open. He heard crumpling paper. “I bought some groceries, Ed,” his sister said. She set the bags on the kitchen tabletop. “Do you want me to make you anything? Soup? Pasta?” The refrigerator door opened. “Macaroni?” 

Ed turned down the volume on the baseball game. 

“No thanks. Not hungry.” 

The refrigerator door closed.

“Okay.” 

A cupboard door opened. He heard the burner click and then: pop and whoooosh. The burner was on. Ed looked back at the game. Still no score. Both pitchers were having a good game. He hadn’t seen who was sitting in the stands, behind home plate. He heard a beeping in kitchen. The refrigerator door, he thought. He heard it shut. The beeping stopped.

“I called the doctor today, Ed. Told him about your symptoms. High temperature, chest pain –“ 

“And seeing dead people,” Ed said. 

“Not that,” she said quietly.

On the TV the batter stepped out of  the box and, for the fourth time in as many days, he saw a familiar face sitting behind home plate in the same place. 

It was a little girl. 

“What did he say?” Ed asked. 

“He said he would expect that with pneumonia. I think that’s what -”

“But I’m not imagining it. This is real.” 

“You’re seeing dead people, Ed. It can’t be real.”

The batter at the plate broke his bat. He tossed the bottom half of the barrel toward the ball boy and trotted to the dugout. 

And then he saw her. 

Abby Novak. Died in a car accident yesterday. He just read it on his newsfeed.

The stove burner clicked off. A drawer opened. Plates were clanging. 

On TV, the camera panned back to the player at the plate. “It’s 0 and 2. I expect the fastball now,” the announcer said. 

The little girl was wearing the same shirt in her Facebook profile pic. A gray sweatshirt with pink, cursive lettering. Did it say Girl Power or Girlfriend? He wasn’t sure. But she died yesterday, he was sure of that. 

Water was running in the sink. A cupboard door opened, and then closed. And then his sister stepped into the room. She was holding a plate of eggs in one hand and a glass of water in the other. 

“Seeing dead people today, Ed?” 

Ed looked at her matter-of-factly.  “Yes, I am,” he said. 

She scooped up an egg with her fork and ate it. Either she had a good poker face or just didn’t care. “Who is it?” she asked cooly. “Slim, Barbara Wilson, Mr. Blocker – “

“Do you remember the Novaks? They lived next to me in our old neighborhood. They had two older boys in high school. One played baseball, and their little girl went to McGraw elementary school.”

She took a drink of water and sat the glass on the coffee table next to a stack of paper cups. “I think I do,” she said. 

Ed pointed at the TV screen. “That’s her.” 

Shelley looked at the TV. There was a resemblance. A little girl with dirty blond hair and a PINK hoodie. She looked out of place. Like she should playing dolls at her house, not at a Boston Red Sox game on a school night. It was 9 o’clock at night.

“She was killed in a car accident yesterday,” Ed said.

His sister forked the last piece of egg and put it in her mouth. She reached for the glass of water, tipped it back and finished it off. 

“So, the person sitting in this seat, behind home plate, is always dead?” She sat her empty plate on the coffee table next to her glass of water.

“Yup.”

“And they die a day apart? The game before last it was three days. Barbara died two days ago.” She pointed her finger at the TV. “And this one died yesterday.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” 

“Does that mean –“

“I don’t know, Shelley. But it worries me.”

“Let’s check your temperature. Feeling better?”

Ed shrugged. “About the same.” 

She slipped the thermometer under his tongue, picked up her empty plate and glass, and went into the kitchen. “I talked to my friend, Sonja. She thinks you’re hallucinating too.” 

He couldn’t talk because the thermometer was in his mouth, but he wanted to say: I’m sorry Shelley, but I am not.

Shelley came back into the living room. “Let’s see what you have.” She reached for the thermometer under his tongue. “102.1 ° F.” She looked at Ed and then, inadvertently, at the TV screen.

The announcer said: “Runners on first and third, no outs. There’s a chance…”

“We should turn this off,” she said.

“Probably a good idea,” Ed said, smiling. “But I still want to watch the game tomorrow night.” 

He picked up his phone to check his texts. Underneath his message to Officer Mike it said: Read.

And then the reply: I’ll add these to the file. Did you take the pics?

Ed replied: Yes, I did.

“It’s a beautiful night at Fenway,” the announcer said. “Red Sox and the Angels game number two…” 

Ed opened his eyes. His sister was sitting on the sofa, casually looking at the TV.  She turned to him. “Hi, Ed.” 

“Hi Shel.” 

The pitcher was digging a hole in the mound, staring down the batter at the plate. 

“Did it just start?” Ed asked. 

“This is the first pitch.”

The batter stood outside the batter’s box and took a practice swing. 

“See anyone we know?”

His sister got up from the couch and walked over to the TV. She leaned forward and squinted like she was peering into an aquarium down at Lion’s Den Zoo. 

“Well, I see a bald guy holding a can of beer. He’s in his mid-forties and – “

“Sitting in the same place?” Ed asked, sitting up in his seat. 

“Yeah.”

She was checking her phone.

“Shelley?”

“That’s Kyle Avery,” she burst out, looking back at the TV. “He’s in hospice, I didn’t think…”

Ed frowned. She can see them too, he thought. 

She held up her phone next to the TV. “That’s my friend’s husband. I want to take a picture and send it to- ” 

She began to cough. 

“Not feeling well?”

She looked back at him. “I think I’m coming down with something too.”

He smiled. “Fever?” 

On TV the announcer said, “The Red Sox are trying to avoid a three-game sweep…”

The last game is tomorrow night. Who will be sitting behind home plate? 

Ed looked at his sister. “They die a day apart, don’t they?” 

They did. And then sit in the stands, behind home plate, at a Red Sox game. 

Slim was five days. Barbara Wilson was four. Mr. Blocker was three. The little girl, two. And Kyle Avery, one.

“Who will we see tomorrow night?” Ed asked.

Shelley knew. “Someone who dies tomorrow.” She turned off the TV and set the remote on the coffee table next to her dinner plate. “Are you still texting the Newton PD?”

“Yeah, I’m sending pictures from my phone.”

“Do they believe you?” 

Ed shrugged. “I am not sure.”  

“How do you feel?” 

“About the same.” 

She handed Ed the thermometer. He slipped it in. 

“People hallucinate when they have a fever, Ed. I still think that’s what this is.”

Ed raised his eyebrows and nodded. The thermometer was pressed between his lips.

“Okay, check it,” Shelley said.

Ed pulled it out. It was 102.9 ° F.

He smiled and pointed at Kyle Avery sitting in the stands. “So he died today, huh? And people hallucinate when they have a fever?” He handed her the thermometer. “It’s your turn, Shel.”

Ed woke when heard a crash. Something – a glass, plates, a mirror – fell on the floor in the kitchen. He leaned forward in his chair. “Shelley? Shel-” He craned his neck around and saw a dinner plate shattered on the kitchen’s linoleum floor. “Shel?” 

He turned on the TV. The announcer said, “Last night Ohanti hit the game winning homer off Red Sox reliever Zack Kelly…” 

The batter called time and stepped out of the box.

Ed felt worse. He slipped the thermometer under his tongue. I should be sleeping, he thought. But he still wanted to see who was sitting behind home plate. The batter stepped back up to the plate, blocking his view. Where was Shelley? 

He picked up his phone and typed her a message: Coming over? 

The thermometer was on the coffee table. He reached over and slipped it on.

That’s when he noticed the text message.

It can’t be, he thought. He pulled the thermometer out of his mouth. It was 103.1° F.

Ed rubbed his eyes. He looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. She can’t be here, he thought. Ed was sure of that because the person in that seat, behind home plate…

Ed sat up, pulled the lever on his reclining chair, and stumbled into the kitchen. Shelley was sprawled out on the kitchen floor in a puddle of blood. Her face was purple; her eyes were vacant. She was staring at the ceiling.

“Shelley!” he screamed. He knelt on the floor beside her, slipping on the blood. He checked her pulse. Nothing.

Ed crawled over to the kitchen rug and passed out. 

On TV, the camera panned back to the player at the plate. Sitting in the stands, behind home plate, was…

Shelley.

Officer Peters and his partner, Officer Mike Hutchins, were standing outside the door. They received the Emergency SOS around lunchtime. The location was an apartment building on Adams Street. The phone was registered to Ed Reins. 

Mike Hutchins was not happy. The texts were interesting, scary even, but this was crossing a line. His plan: charge Mr. Reins with reporting a false crime. A class D crime.

He had already started the report. 

Officer Peters knocked on the door. No answer. Mike had the door’s keypad combination. Peters typed it in.  

They opened the door. Ed Reins, and a woman, were lying on the kitchen floor unconscious. “Check their vitals,” Officer Peters said. He walked into the living room. The TV was on. 

“This is his sister, I think,” Mike said. “She’s been gone for a day or two. The man – “

“Holy crap! Is this game live?” Peters screamed.

Mike turned around. A sharp, prick of fear went through him. “I-I don’t know,” he stammered. “Why?”

“Doesn’t the man behind home plate look like…”

Ed Reins. 

“It’s his doppelgänger. That’s for sure,” Mike said. He looked back into the kitchen. “I’m going to take his body temperature.” 

“He’s dead, but that guy on TV is…” 

“His temperature is 69° F,” Mike said.

“Alright, let’s call it -“ 

Peters started to cough.

“Coming down with something?” 

“I hope not,” Peters said looking at the TV. “I have tickets for the game tomorrow night.”

Mike looked up. “You do?”

“Yeah. Good seats”

Mike’s face went blanch white. “Are they behind home plate?”

On TV, the camera panned back to the player at the plate.

“How did you know that?” Peters asked.

Mike smiled nervously. “Just a lucky guess.”

THE END