I’m wrenched awake by the sound of shattered glass.
I sleep most of my days away now. The more time passes, the less strength I have, which leaves me almost no time to spy on the neighbors. I’ve been losing steam the last few years, wasting away into a ghost that barely has enough stamina left to remain conscious, let alone play pranks on unsuspecting visitors.
When I manage to escape the oblivion that threatens to keep me longer every time, it feels like falling to earth at full speed. It always knocks the wind out of me.
I blink my eyes open, wondering what caused it this time.
The sight of an eyeless, gray-skinned man with his mouth sewn shut boggles my brain.
There’s a monster at the door. In myhome.
What the actual fuck?
The surprise and anger hit me all at once. My lantern lies in pieces across the rowan threshold, shards of glass embedded in the scalp of some ridiculously frightening, naked man. The grimy thing peels them from his flesh, then spins around andvanishes into the heavy mist, along with a handful more just like him.
Blood streaks the limestone beyond the double French doors, staining the porch and the kitchen floor. It comes from a girl—but not just any girl.
The most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.
Loose strands of red hair hang from her messy French braid, her eyes squeezed shut and overflowing with tears. She’s a burst of color in my gray half-life. I drink her in, every line of her face, every luscious curve under that red plaid skirt.
She watches the mist for a moment, her nostrils flaring, but the monsters are gone. The long tail of her braid cascades like fire over one shoulder, her white button-down shirt sheer enough to reveal the black lingerie hidden underneath. Sparkly earrings frame the shell of her round ear, and a constellation of freckles highlights her youthful features.
Blood slips between the clenched knuckles of her right hand, tremors quaking her entire body, her pulse fluttering at her neck. Stifling a sob, she cradles her injured hand to her chest and wraps a knitted shawl over it. A fierce, breathless roar slips from her throat as she clears the threshold with her foot, sweeping the broken glass and lantern inside the house before slamming the double doors shut and turning the bronze locks. Once the heavy bolts are in place, she sinks down to the polished hardwood floor.
A bruise pulses on her bottom lip, already turning purple. She looks so battered, and yet she forces her breaths to level out and applies pressure to the deep wounds on her calf.
Her resilience stirs something in me.
I don’t get out much anymore. Most days when I manage to escape the darkness, I idly drift through rooms, unseen and unnoticed. A ghost knows more about silence than laughter, more about despair than beauty. I’m awfully familiar withthe emptiness, the quiet ache of watching time pass without touching it, without being touched. I’m a specter in a world that moves on without me.
Something about her splits the dark and scratches at the stone where my heart should be. One single, forlorn thud—the barest echo of a pulse—shakes my chest. The lonely heartbeat rattles everything I thought I understood. I don’t know how to place it, how to contain it. I am a ghost, and yet for that one fleeting instant, I’m alive again.
I crouch in front of her, wishing I could heal her wounds or even pass her a bandage. I’m desperate to dosomething. It’s been years since I’ve truly wanted to exist, to reach someone.
Should I speak?
Should I not?
In my experience, people don’t react well to ghosts. Only Mabel and Devi didn’t run and scream when I made my presence known, and I don’t think spooking this sweet little fox would accomplish much.
I can already imagine the outcome if I tried. Her eyes would widen. Her breath would catch. The fragile thread holding her together would snap as she recoiled from something she couldn’t see, couldn’t touch, couldn’t escape.
In her current state, meeting a ghost would only give her one more reason to be afraid.
I clench my fists and hold them tightly to my sides, frustrated by my own impotence. Every instinct screams at me to do something—anything—but I’m trapped in death. I can only watch as she rests her forehead on her knees and bites back her strangled sobs.
So I stay silent, even though it feels like cowardice.
Even though ithurts.
Years of drifting through life and passing through walls have taught me a thing or two about accepting one’s limitations, yet I feel utterly impatient and unsettled.
A phone rings, blaring the chorus of the Rolling Stones’ “Paint It Black”. My little fox paws at her plaid skirt with her uninjured hand and brings the phone to her ear.
“Max. Max, are you okay?” the masculine voice asks in a rush.
Max… How sweet.
