Stepfather s Ghost

This is the story Tony told me, and Tony, well, Tony's a walking, talking "Sarcasm for Dummies" manual. He swears every word is true. You be the judge.
"So, my mom, right? Bless her heart, she's a good woman but about as subtle as a jackhammer. Married to this dude, Frank, for like, fifteen years. Frank was alright, not my blood dad, you know? More like a permanent houseguest who occasionally fixed the toilet. They weren’t exactly June and Ward Cleaver, but they made it work. Then Frank kicks the bucket – clogged artery, bam, gone. Mom's a mess, little Mikey, her youngest, is bawling his eyes out. Me? I’m just…numb. Frank wasn’t exactly Dean Martin, but he was around.
The funeral was a circus. Crying relatives, stale coffee, and enough floral arrangements to choke a horse. Mom freaks out after, can’t stand being in the apartment. Too many memories, she says. So, she packs Mikey and herself off to Grandma's, leaving me to hold down the fort. I'm twenty, practically a damn adult, right?
Now, I ain't a ghost believer. Never seen one, never wanted to. I figured all that spooky stuff was for overly imaginative types and people who watch too much TV. I’m more of a 'see it to believe it' kinda guy.
First night alone, I’m cracking open a beer, about to settle in with some Netflix, when I realize I forgot to grab my toothbrush. Kitchen's through the hallway, old apartment, you know the drill. No bathroom sink, just the kitchen one for everything.
I stumble in, half-asleep, ready to brush the Budweiser taste off my teeth. Flick on the light. And that’s when it hits me.
This wave of cigarette smoke. Thick, acrid, like someone lit up a pack of Marlboros in my face. Now, I don't smoke. Never have. But Frank? Man, that guy practically mainlined nicotine.
Figuring maybe a window was open, letting in some drifting smoke, I walk over to the sink. I gotta be honest, I was half-expecting to see a stray cat smoking a butt on the windowsill, that's how ridiculous the whole thing felt.
I look up into the goddamn mirror hanging on the wall.
And there the son of a bitch is.
Sitting right there at the kitchen table, in the reflection. Frank. Cool as a cucumber. He's leaned back in his chair, puffing away on a cigarette, a damn smirk on his face. Just…sitting there. Like he's waiting for the coffee to brew.
I froze. Seriously, like someone jammed a remote control up my ass and hit the pause button. My brain short-circuited. My blood turned to ice.
I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking I was maybe hallucinating from grief, or sleep deprivation, or maybe too much cheap beer. I splash some water on my face, scrub harder than I need to, trying to get rid of whatever the hell was going on.
I open my eyes. Look in the mirror again.
Gone. Just the reflection of my own dumb, petrified face staring back.
The cigarette smell was faint, but still lingering, a ghostly reminder of what I just saw.
I dried my face, grabbed my toothbrush, and practically sprinted back to my room. Slammed the door, locked it, and didn’t come out until the sun was shining bright enough to bleach the fear out of my eyeballs.
The next morning, I went back in the kitchen. Everything was normal. No lingering smoke, no ashtray filled with butts, just the same old crappy linoleum and the same stained coffee maker.
Now, you gotta understand, Frank and I weren't exactly best buds. He was okay, but we had a…complicated relationship. He wasn't my dad, he never tried to be. We coexisted. Sometimes we argued. Mostly, we ignored each other.
So, why the hell was he showing up like that? That's what’s been eating at me.
I told my mom about it. She, of course, burst into tears. ‘He’s watching over us, Tony! He loved us so much!’ she sobbed. Right. Frank watching over us? More like making sure the cable bill was paid on time.
Mikey, the little snot, goes, “Maybe he’s telling you to clean your room, Tony! It’s a disaster zone!” Kid’s got a point, but still.
I think…I think it was his way of saying goodbye. Maybe he felt like he never got to say it properly. Or maybe he was just messing with me one last time. Guy had a wicked sense of humor, even if it leaned towards the dark side.
I’ll be honest, after that, I started leaving a pack of Marlboros on the table every night. Just in case. Never saw him again, though.
So, yeah. That’s my ghost story. Not exactly ‘The Exorcist’, but it’s real. At least, real to me. And if you think I’m full of crap, well, that’s your prerogative. Just don’t be surprised if you wake up one night with a craving for a cigarette you didn’t even light."
Tony took a long pull from his beer, a wry smile playing on his lips.
"You know," he added, after a moment, "I actually kind of miss the old bastard."
And that, folks, is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. Or, you know, Frank's ghost. Take your pick.