September 3, 2025

Expectations
by Deborah Sale-Butler

"Expectations" first appeared in the 2024 Dead Girls Walking Anthology.

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.



The lake closed over her nose and mouth. Sara sucked in a lungful
of cold, black water.
On her next breath, she opened her eyes and saw the numbers
shining on her LED clock: 12:02 AM. Again. Three nights in a row
--
same dream, same time.
Sweat drenched her hair and nightgown. She stumbled down the
hall to the bathroom, turning on all the lights to chase away the aura of the
dream.
Steam from the shower filled her lungs.
She closed her eyes and let the warm water wash over her.
Suddenly, the drain at her feet turned into a hissing vortex, sucking
all the steam from the room. Something icy-cold touched her shoulder. She
screamed and threw her body against the tiles, knocking the shower handle
to the left. Hot water scalded her neck and shoulder. She battled with the
knob to stop the flow.
She shuddered. Her burned skin tingled where she wrapped the
towel to warm herself.
She headed to the kitchen for the emergency kit. On the counter,
she found burn-salve and fresh gauze already laid out.
The old woman standing by the stove flickered like a lamp with a
loose wire. “Here, let me get that for you. It was my fault. So sorry, but it
is difficult to get your attention.”
Sara froze. The woman placed a cup in her hand.
“Here, drink this. Coffee. You need it.” Sara cradled the cup. Am I
still dreaming?
“I can’t stay long,” said the old woman. “Manifestation takes sooo
much energy. Easier to show up in a dream, but you kept drowning on
me!” She dabbed salve onto Sara’s burns.
The pressure of the old woman’s touch triggered a twinge of pain.
Sara hissed and pulled away. Dreams don’t hurt.
“Well, you’ve got my attention, now. What do you want?”
The old woman clapped her hands. “Excellent question. Straight to
the point. You’ve always been such a good reporter. All right then, straight
to the answer — I want you to write a story about me.”
After twenty years as an investigative journalist, Sara was used to
people pitching her story ideas, but this was a first. Think of it as a normal
pitch. How would I approach the story? Ask the questions: who — a ghost,
what — asking for an interview, where — in my kitchen, when — just after
midnight. That leaves — why?“I’m a journalist. Why would I write about a ghost?”
“Why do you think? You are witnessing proof that there is life after
death. I think that counts as pretty big news. Most people would love to
know they can go on after they die, which you are scheduled to do at 12:02
on Friday.”
“Die??” Sara felt the blood rush from her head. The old woman
appeared behind her to offer a chair. Sara sat down, dropped her head and
forced herself to take deep breaths. When the light-headedness passed, she
addressed the old woman, who appeared in the chair across from her.
“Even if what you say is true, who would believe me? I’m not sure
I believe it myself.”
“People like you, Sara. They trust you. You’ll find a way to tell
them.”
“Really? Because what I have right now is, “An old ghost lady
showed up in my kitchen and told me that we all go on after we die, and if
I’m not around after 12:02 on Friday, look for me in your kitchen.” She
collapsed into hysterical laughter.
The old woman smiled. “Something like that. Except you don’t all
go on after you die. That’s the story.”
Sara stopped laughing. She remembered the clock. Drowning.
Darkness closing in.
“What do you mean?”
“You only go on if you expect to go on. Consciousness can
continue, but only if you’re connected to the idea of something after death.
It’s why most religions mention some sort of afterlife. It’s like hidden code
embedded in humanity to remind them why they’re here.”
Sara stared at her coffee cup and tried to process what the old
woman said. She had never been religious, never believed in heaven or
hell or reincarnation. Her whole life was based on analyzing facts.
“What happens if we think death is the end?”
“The universe recycles what’s left of you for parts, but your
consciousness is lost. We’re meant to share our collective experiences after
death, but these days too much knowing simply disappears — forever.”
The sadness in the old woman’s eyes reminded Sara of the
fathomless emptiness of the lake in her dream. It felt as real to her as the
pain in her shoulder.
“What if they don’t believe me?”
“Some of them won’t. But many will. More than you’d think.
You’re a good story teller. That’s why you were chosen. That and yourmanner of death. It’s important to write exactly when you’re due to die. As
you always say, ‘facts matter’.”
Sara closed her eyes, not sure if she wanted the answer to her next
question, “How will it happen?”
“I can’t tell you that, but I will say nobody will think it’s a suicide.”
Sara had been in one car accident in her life. She remembered the
point at which the collision was unavoidable — when fear turned to
surrender. The same feeling settled on her now.
“So I have to die.”
“Child, everybody dies. I’ll see you on Friday, now that you have
certain expectations.” The old woman flickered like a flame and was gone.
For the first time in days, Sara felt calm. She draped a terry cloth
robe over her freshly-bandaged shoulder, took another sip of coffee and
wrote, “I never believed in ghosts, until one appeared in my kitchen to tell
me I’m going to die at 12:02 AM on Friday. . .”

                                                                 💀💀💀

As someone who was born on Halloween, I love spooky stories and much of my short fiction has supernatural elements. My stories have appeared, or are forthcoming, in dozens of publications including Twisting, Turning Timeshifts, Dead Girls Walking and Three X the Fun anthologies, Flash Phantoms, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Amazing Stories. You can find links to all of my published work at https://deborah-sale-butler.com.