Today, I saw a ghost fish. I say this, not satirically, but with what I think is a greater presence of mind.

I was cleaning a tank in the wet lab of the aquarium, when I saw a flash of black fins in one of the tanks above me. When I looked again, the creature was gone.

I saw him again when I went to that very tank on Frank’s orders to net out two frightened, beige fish for one of the exhibits. I saw the black ghost fish again, more clearly this time. He had the fanfare fins of a beta fish, but he rippled with alpha male power, moving with the subtle bubbling of the tank’s air pump. He had piercing eyes for a fish, bright and intelligent, peering at me through the glass, defiantly, as if to say he knew it was me who had put him and his terrified wards behind these transparent cell walls.

I screamed and dropped my bucket, backing away. When I returned, he was nowhere to be found. In his place were black filters, once again floating peacefully at the surface, and cleaning the water. I scooped up the beige fish, their vague stripes glowing with the fear of their removal. When I eased them into their new tank, they looked around, bewildered. They poked around corners, and when they found no trace of their vanishing protector, they looked up at me, stupidly, balefully, and I felt ashamed.

On my third visit to the ghost tank, the water was drained, the tank was dry, and debris clung to my fingertips.