I wish you were gone

It happened on the last day of the year. My uncle, Tom, was driving home late at night when his car skidded off the road and slammed into a tree. They said he died instantly.

Three days before, he and my older brother, Jake, had a huge argument. Jake, in a fit of anger, shouted something he never meant: “I wish you were gone!” He didn’t know those would be the last words he ever said to him.

A week after the funeral, Jake woke up drenched in sweat. He said the room felt like ice. He got up, went to the kitchen to get some water, and as he turned to go back upstairs, he froze.

Right there, in the living room, was a thick cloud of smoke swirling over Uncle Tom’s favorite chair. The air smelled faintly of tobacco. Jake swore he saw the shadow of a man sitting there. Then, in a voice rough and hoarse—like someone who had smoked for years—he heard it:

“It’s alright, kid. You’re the man now. Take care of them.”

Jake ran upstairs, slammed his door, and refused to talk about it for days.

But Uncle Tom wasn’t done.

Late at night, we would hear the front door creak, even when it was locked. The freezer door would open and shut on its own. And the coffee pot? It always reset to military time. Uncle Tom had served in the Army, and he always set the clock that way when he was alive.

The worst part? His cough. That deep, rattling cough we’d all gotten used to when he was alive. Some nights, just as I was about to drift off to sleep, I’d hear it—coming from the hallway, just outside my door.

I never saw his face. Neither did Jake. Maybe he didn’t want us to. Maybe he couldn’t.

It’s been three years now. But sometimes, late at night, when the house is silent and the air is cold, I swear I still hear that cough.

And I know he’s still here.