Plea for a Haunting
by Meredith Rosier
My house is filled with a thousand ghosts, but none haunt me like I want. I long to hear the scratching at the doors, the rattle of chains in empty halls, the whispers, the howling. I want to feel the sliver of a cold chill play with the back of my neck. I want the mattress to dip by my feet and my body to slide into new indents even when my door has been shut tight. I want to see the flicker of movement from the shadows in the kitchen.
Instead, I’m forced to stare at the frayed edges of the couch that your fingers used to pluck whenever Dad sat us down for a long lecture. I admired your defiance. I always kept my hands still in my lap.
The tomato plants leer at me from the garden. The stems twist and the leaves brown, completely unsatisfied with my care. I thought about bringing them to you. Their roots would reach down deep where I could not and when they touched you, their stems would sprout anew and grow even to the might of a tree.
I don’t dare touch the bookshelves. Your favorites guard them too fiercely.
The mail on the table stays where it is. The heap of bills and solicitations bury the letters, and the cards, and the poems. I’m aware of the unread words. In the night, they’ll come to me, like the prick of a needle in my temple. Just that small jab is enough to make my eyes swell.
I blame Mom for moving you into that room across the hall. It was bad luck. Grandpa took his last breaths there in the corner where his bed butted up against the western wall. Yours was smaller and built on the opposite side, but that didn’t matter. We kept Sarge in that room. He didn’t recover from his back surgery. The marks of his claws still bleed through the white paint on the back of the door. Dad tried to cover them up before they moved you in.
I asked Mom why you had to leave. Our room had always been big enough for the both of us before. She told me that it was because we were getting older. That both of us deserve privacy and a space for ourselves. I didn’t want to get older if it meant saying good-bye. Now that I am older, I think it was more because she wanted me to be alone. Mom and Dad both knew, even from that early age, that I was a lost cause. But you though, you they could still save.
How wrong they were.
I wish I could see dark veiled figures gliding past my window in the light of the waxing moon. Instead, I have to smell the lingering scents of that tea Mom made that you always liked and catch small glimpses of your blankets before she closes your bedroom door. I don’t know why she likes to spend so much time in your room.
The stillness in there chokes me. The single window allows indecent light to cover the floorboards there. The clock, the one with all the different kinds of birds on it, is stuck on the wall. Both hands eternally frozen on the beak of a cardinal. Dad meant to change the batteries weeks ago. He never will.
Today, I’m fed up with waiting. I put my hair up. Throw on some jeans. I don’t recognize the pair I’m wearing. I don’t remember the drive. My mind is too full of anger. The kind that gnaws and grinds and rends. I’m here. I stare at you head on; the grooves that form the letters of your name are branded onto my eyes. The moon watches me, like a lopsided grin in the sky. I’m here.
My ears will split with the strain of listening, but the grounds are silent. Nothing moves. Nothing stirs, not even the wind, or the animals in the night. I’m here. But you’re not.
Maybe you are back at the house, scattered amongst the ghosts. I see them every day, and none of them keep me company.
Instead, I’m forced to stare at the frayed edges of the couch that your fingers used to pluck whenever Dad sat us down for a long lecture. I admired your defiance. I always kept my hands still in my lap.
The tomato plants leer at me from the garden. The stems twist and the leaves brown, completely unsatisfied with my care. I thought about bringing them to you. Their roots would reach down deep where I could not and when they touched you, their stems would sprout anew and grow even to the might of a tree.
I don’t dare touch the bookshelves. Your favorites guard them too fiercely.
The mail on the table stays where it is. The heap of bills and solicitations bury the letters, and the cards, and the poems. I’m aware of the unread words. In the night, they’ll come to me, like the prick of a needle in my temple. Just that small jab is enough to make my eyes swell.
I blame Mom for moving you into that room across the hall. It was bad luck. Grandpa took his last breaths there in the corner where his bed butted up against the western wall. Yours was smaller and built on the opposite side, but that didn’t matter. We kept Sarge in that room. He didn’t recover from his back surgery. The marks of his claws still bleed through the white paint on the back of the door. Dad tried to cover them up before they moved you in.
I asked Mom why you had to leave. Our room had always been big enough for the both of us before. She told me that it was because we were getting older. That both of us deserve privacy and a space for ourselves. I didn’t want to get older if it meant saying good-bye. Now that I am older, I think it was more because she wanted me to be alone. Mom and Dad both knew, even from that early age, that I was a lost cause. But you though, you they could still save.
How wrong they were.
I wish I could see dark veiled figures gliding past my window in the light of the waxing moon. Instead, I have to smell the lingering scents of that tea Mom made that you always liked and catch small glimpses of your blankets before she closes your bedroom door. I don’t know why she likes to spend so much time in your room.
The stillness in there chokes me. The single window allows indecent light to cover the floorboards there. The clock, the one with all the different kinds of birds on it, is stuck on the wall. Both hands eternally frozen on the beak of a cardinal. Dad meant to change the batteries weeks ago. He never will.
Today, I’m fed up with waiting. I put my hair up. Throw on some jeans. I don’t recognize the pair I’m wearing. I don’t remember the drive. My mind is too full of anger. The kind that gnaws and grinds and rends. I’m here. I stare at you head on; the grooves that form the letters of your name are branded onto my eyes. The moon watches me, like a lopsided grin in the sky. I’m here.
My ears will split with the strain of listening, but the grounds are silent. Nothing moves. Nothing stirs, not even the wind, or the animals in the night. I’m here. But you’re not.
Maybe you are back at the house, scattered amongst the ghosts. I see them every day, and none of them keep me company.
Meredith Rosier is a fictional author whose work focuses on pulling magic from the mundane. Her stories reveal the threads of the fantastical that weave through everyday life. She currently lives in Orlando, FL with her husband and three cats.