#2: The Ghost

I first saw her when I moved into the attic, so my sisters could each have a room of their own. I rolled over and saw her standing there, with a pained look on her face. She would pace the room, back, forth, back, her dress buttoned up tight, talking. But I could never hear her then; as much as she tried, I couldn't hear a word that her mouth struggled to get out.

She had the ability to make her face horrid. On nights when she would appear, and I would try and block the vision out, commonplace as the furniture and boxes that surrounded us, she would sink her eyes back in her head, stretch her skin long and pulled back, her gaping mouth, tightening skin, every tooth in view; death.

Three weeks ago, I watched her carefully. She sat back in a chair, rocking, silently signing, acting like she was holding something close against her chest.

I sat up.

"I'm not him," I said, at last seeing. "I'm not your son."

She looked at me, with pain and confusion.

"I understand now," I said. "I'm not your son. Do you understand? I don't know who he is. I don't know who you are."

Crying, I suppose, she faded into the darkness.

I hope that someday I will be able to say with confidence that I never saw her again.


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