Flash Fiction: Trust

In response to a writing prompt on Reddit.

“I wish you would stop trusting me.”

John looked up at his friend, his ill fitted glasses nearly falling off again.

“Why would I do that, Andrew?” He questioned. Stop trusting the person who’d played with him on the playground when they were kids? The one who’d been the best man at his wedding?

The one who had cried the most at his funeral?

Andrew chewed on his lip and swayed to the side a bit. There he was, talking to the ghost of his best friend as if the man were still alive. If it weren’t for the obvious soft white hue around John, it would be like normal.

John was never superstitious, and didn’t really believe in ghosts (until now), but Andrew had been all about that stuff: from possessions to contacts with the dead. He knew all there was to know about ghosts–especially one important fact:

A person who has killed another will be the only one able to see its spirit.

“Well, Andrew?” John asked.

Andrew just smiled and shook his head. “No reason, John. Let’s just get back to finding out who killed you.”


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