Forever a Ghost ✓

Matthew C. Roberts

    When I see her run upstairs, I don’t feel satisfied. I don’t feel that rush- like “wow, I put fear into their veins!”- rather, I just feel guilty. I scared her away, and I want to get to the bottom of the drawing she made identical to me. But somehow I feel that’s not the reason why I felt guilty.

    Guilt.

    It’s a foreign feeling to me. I had never felt guilty when I’ve terrified people living here, why now? What made this any different from the rest?

    Before I knew it, I’m morphing through walls to get to her. I don’t even know her name. I find her hiding under a blanket, breath uneven, her speaker providing light. What if I said something? Would she hear it?

    Maybe I’m making a big deal out of one silly drawing. One stupid, silly drawing that’s given me a minimal amount of hope, but just enough for me to feel guilt again and to want to say something. I approach her body huddled under the blanket and open my mouth to talk, but not a word comes out.

    I’m scared.

    Strangely, I’m petrified. I haven’t talked in years, I have no idea how she’ll react if she can hear me (key word: if), and I’m… Just not ready.

    But at the same time, this could be my last chance. She might move out after the event that took place. What if I miss an opportunity at freedom? I can’t risk that. I try again, this time sputtering out a couple words. “Uh, hello?”

    She shifts from under the blanket, mumbling, “Who’s there?!”

    I take a deep breath before speaking again, “Uh… Well, I’m a ghost. I played the piano.” She peeks out from under the blankets, gazing around the room for me. Of course, I’m not visibly there.

    “I’m going insane, aren’t I?” she wonders aloud.

    “Nope. I exist…”

    “But… That’s not possible,” she sits on the bed, clutching her blanket tightly around her thin form.

    “So I thought. But I’ve been here for the past 14 years, so at this point anything is possible.”

    “I… I can barely understand you. Your voice keeps fading in and out.”

    “Of course,” I sigh. Unsure what to do, I escape out of the situation to another room. I’ll worry about this later.

    So this is what I do. I leave her to try to talk more, but I’m not there anymore. What was I supposed to do? I haven’t talked like this in years- at least tried to reach out for help. I couldn’t think straight, I was almost on a high. Nobody had listened to me like she did in so long, like she wanted to understand what was happening instead of cowering in fear. Cowering in fear is an appropriate response, I admit, but that’s why to me she stands out a bit.

    Now, I sit back with my Harry Potter book, digesting no information because I’m too busy trying to work out what to do. Hazel Eyes had fallen asleep an hour ago, leaving me to the crushing silence I was so familiar with.

    I’m so stupid!

    God, I’m an idiot!

    I could have written down information! Answer questions by writing in her sketchbook or something!

    Why couldn’t I have thought of that earlier?!

    I mark my place in my book and dash to the bedroom, remembering the sketchbook laying on the floor. Opening up the sketchbook to the next blank page, I crawl to her art box and shuffle through it for a good pen, then crawl back and begin to write.

    The only time I wish it didn’t take out so much energy in me to write a lot.

    After writing down two sentences, I already feel light-headed. Somehow, even as a ghost that can morph through walls, I feel dizzy when writing down just two sentences. Trying to regain myself, I read back on what I had written:

   "Hey, it's that voice you heard earlier. I'm Matthew, a ghost that's lived here for 14 years."

    Very awkwardly written.

    Very straight to the point.

    Good enough.

    I try again once the dizziness disappears, writing three sentences this time but feeling rather dead after- even though I'm already dead…

    "I know this seems weird, but this is really happening so I just want some help. Try to contact me in any way you can, I'm always here. I'll try to talk to you, but it gets rather tiring."

    Maybe I'll actually die. Maybe this is it. Pain shoots through my entire body, leaving me confused since through all the piano playing that's worn me out, it's never been this bad. Never this much pain… Never pain at all.

    Why does it hurt to badly? Why this simple task? The pain is immeasurable, it's killing me. Maybe even literally.

    My vision fades in and out, splotches of black occasionally revealing themselves. I drop the pen and lay down on the carpet, trying desperately to make it stop. Make it all stop.

    I lay there for quite awhile until everything goes back to normal. My vision is now restored, so I sit back up and look around. Hazel Eyes is still sleeping soundly, leaving me to grab her sketchbook and put it where she would definitely find it; the counter in the kitchen. I snatch the sketchbook and morph through the wall in the room, making my way down to the kitchen. I'm fine with moving through walls, but moving a level down in a house always sends a weird feeling through my bones. I feel unsafe, it's not like I float down safely. I slam down to the ground. It makes me uncomfortable.

    I set the sketchbook open to my letter and sit down on the counter, unsure what to do now.