REALITY ENDURES FOR SOME in the concentric rings of truth that first disturb, and then dislodge fantasy, floating it away on waves of reason. For those rational individuals, fantasy is an unstable, temporary dream at best. At worst,

it invades and occupies those realms of reality abandoned by the insane.

Gerald Koche thought there must be a point of no return—a particular place in time, or in the sequence of events, where one should be able to recognize that he was approaching dangerously close to that other side.

In the beginning, the middle ground separating reality and fantasy provided firm footing. Gerald crossed back and forth at will, lingering in the gray zone as long as he pleased.

However, he never doubted that the ghost was real. The fantasy came into play when he amused himself with it by inventing all sorts of suppositions about its origin and its reason for being in his home. Then he easily returned to the normal, weary of the fun. Last night he had whooshed it away with a

wave of his hand. It left behind no trace of itself to infringe on his day-to-day life. He could forget it until he desired to indulge himself again in the wonders of the walking dead.

Few of Gerald’s neighbors knew that the periwinkle wreath on his door kept the thing out of his house. But Gerald knew. He knew that all he had to do was remove the wreath and the ethereal being would appear in whatever room Gerald waited.

A “revenant,” he called it. Revenants, vomited from graves for no reason known to mortal men, were few in number. Gerald knew only one. When his own life bored him, as it often did during the long, dark hours of winter, he removed the wreath.

He enjoyed his one-sided conversations with the specter, which always suspended itself just above eye level, its uncertain and intangible form trailing toward and barely brushing the floor, like stringy tendrils of dirty smoke. Often, the revenant would approach to a point just out of arm’s reach, and Gerald would gaze in wonder at the mysterious hollowness of its face. He had no way to know how much of what he said to it was understood, but it seemed always anxious to be present.

Never did the revenant stay long. Perhaps it had not the strength to linger where it didn’t belong. Its evaporation always occurred gradually, fading like the twilight. Where it went, Gerald didn’t have a clue, but he liked to fantasize about that other place. In his mind, there were other revenants there,

whose substance and motivations opened up a myriad of possibilities.

Gerald enjoyed believing that the ghost liked him, and that it came to him because of a need to be near a living man. He began to think that perhaps it had been a female in life, and that it sought him out because of his virility, his looks, and his confidence.

When Gerald indulged in his aberrations, he completely ignored the reality of who and what he was. Overweight, soft, and aging, Gerald Koche could best be described as a nobody, a wimp, a loser. He lived alone in a disorderly

house older than himself. He went out only when necessary, and preferred the confines of the dark and drafty rooms that kept him hidden from those who thought him weird. Let them think what they wanted, he told himself, as long as they stayed away from him.

In his self-deception, Gerald named the revenant Lola. He thought “she” would like that name, and it reminded him of the ambient mystery of females who keep themselves mysterious by staying tauntingly just out of reach. The more he reveled in his made-up facts, the more he wanted her inside his

home. And Lola wanted to be with him, he reasoned, or she wouldn’t appear at every opportunity. Perhaps she loved him.

Yes, that must be it. She not only craved the security of a warm home, Lola loved him; she wanted him, even needed him. He was the steadfast lover she didn’t have in life. She had thus far forbidden his touch, not because revenants and men should not touch, but probably because she was uncertain or afraid.

Lola posed no danger that Gerald recognized. Surely, she had been a gentle girl, dying young, the victim of unfair circumstances. And she had been beautiful, there could be no doubt of that. If he allowed, she would reveal that beauty eventually. She would appear to him not in indistinct translucency, but perhaps much as she had been in life. When she understood that the transformation was permissible, that in fact she was expected to reveal herself fully, he would see her. And touch her.

He would allow her inside again tonight, he decided. He would attempt to touch, and if she pulled back as before, he would end their visit early, thus teaching her what he wanted and the consequences of noncompliance. Almost suddenly, Gerald realized that he was master of his revenant.

Just before dusk, Gerald fought the harsh February wind long enough to remove the wreath. He returned to the parlor, lit an oil lamp, and seated himself in his vinyl-covered armchair. He waited. The early night of winter absorbed the evening shadows. Nothing. The wind moaned outside the windows,

begging entry. Still he waited. Why did she delay? A revenant had nothing, and therefore no reason or authority to refuse his invitation. He would tolerate nothing short of eager acceptance. If she dallied five minutes longer, he would return the wreath to the door.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Just before dawn, Gerald replaced the wreath. Exhausted from his vigil, and done with his fantasy for now, he fell into his armchair and slept through the day.

When he woke, purple twilight colored the room’s western windows. The wind was gone. Mice scurried and scratched in the walls, but there was no other sound. Lola hovered on the far side of the room. In the dying light, he saw for the first time ever, long, wispy strands of undulating white hair flowing across rounded, uncertain shoulders. He realized she had entered past the wreath.

Not wanting the fantasy now, and slightly concerned over the trespass, he spoke. “You were not invited. I’ve not had my supper yet.”

Oddly, even arrogantly, Lola appeared to smile, the vaporous substance of her face forming the simulation.

“Please depart,” he said. “I will call for you another time.”

The dark hollows where the revenant’s eyes once lived, began to darken even more. Distorted facial features materialized. The flimsiness of its bodily form appeared to partially solidify.

“Be gone!” Gerald said. “Return from whence you came. You are not permitted inside my house tonight.”

The purling voice seemed to come from afar. “Never did I desire to abide here. My home is among the dead, with you. Come.”

As he and the revenant faded out of the lamplight into the winter night, Gerald turned to look at his own corpse, slumped over in the vinyl chair. The staring, vacant eyes confirmed that he had probed too deeply into another’s domain.