Light comes through a cracked window. Soft humming from the refrigerator. The old man sits on the beaten couch with a small bottle of Fireball in his hand. He stares straight ahead, fixated on nothing. He begins to hum a George Jones song, He Stopped Loving Her Today. There’s knocking on the door. It begins soft, then grows louder, turning into a drumbeat.

What? What do you want? he continues looking forward. The beating on the door is getting harder. The old man takes a drink from an empty bottle. There is nothing in it. Not even a swallow. The drumming is at full pace.

Leave me be, he says. Leave me be. The beating grows softer but still is heard. You’re  going to beat the door down. He pulls a blanket over his head and begins nodding back and forth, almost dancing to the rhythm of the drumming. Suddenly, it stops. There is silence.  Again, he picks up the TV remote and aims it at the busted television. He takes batteries out and examines them. He holds them up and turns the small devices. Spits on the ends and rubs them, places the small items back in the remote, and points at the TV once more. The beating on the door begins again.

I said, leave me be. A laugh is heard outside. At first, a chuckle. Barely noticeable. It grows louder.

What’s so funny? You like torturing me? Thelma? Is that you? Is that you? There is no reply. Just laughter. He walks over to the door. He is scared to open it. The hum of the refrigerator gets louder. Laughter gets louder. The beating on the door begins again. He screams out and walks in circles around the room.

I know that’s you, Thelma. I knew you’d come back. Go away. Just go away, he states. This ain’t fair. You’re some kind of ghost. Some kind of spirit.

The old man walks back to the door again. I’m going to open this damn thing on the count of three. You best be gone. Hear me? Thelma? One. Two. Three. He opens the door. Bobby stands there, laughing at him.

She’s not coming back, old man. Left you forever.

You think so? Huh?

Could you blame her? Bobby pulls out a small bottle of Fireball from his pocket. He holds it over the old man’s head, making him grasp for it. He holds it high and walks backward as the old man follows. Bobby tosses it like a bone to a dog.  The old man hunts around for it and finds the bottle. He drinks the whiskey down. Bobby begins laughing again. The light from the window grows dark.