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@e_elaine_soup5 @kari-karast @bama-rose

 

I used to live with a lot of people, but they all died. Now I live with a lot of ghosts.

It sounds grim, but it’s actually rather comforting not to be alone.

Each morning I wake up to the vision of my mother pulling back the curtains in my bedroom. The pale smile lacks the love that I once would see, but at least the ghost tries.

When I make breakfast my siblings still dash around the house, giggling and squealing. It’s not a perfect illusion; their stockinged feet don’t pound the floor as they should. The laughter is a little shriller, a little more wraith-like, but I’m just glad the sound is there. It fills the silence that otherwise would be crushing in its emptiness.

Another quavering figure leans against the counter as I fry my eggs. The eyes aren’t as bright as they should be, but it has my older brother’s teasing smile down to perfection.

My grandfather sits, well, hovers, across the table from me, shuffling cards. I can see flashes of the colors and suits through his thin, white hands. I try not to look so he won’t accuse me of cheating.

The cheerful face of my best friend pops up outside the window. Well, it’s as cheerful as a ghost can appear. She taps out our secret code, asking if she can come in. I nod, so she flickers through the wall and sits on my couch. We watch our favorite movie together. I keep forgetting what she is and offering her popcorn.

I know living with ghosts is probably strange to some. They wouldn’t understand. People have even accused me of being a ghost myself. I don’t mind, really. These phantoms are just sweet remembrances of the ones I loved. I think my family sent them to me, so I wouldn’t have to be alone. I’ve come to love my ghosts, in a way.

There’s only one that makes me cry.

When the doorbell ring my feet drag forward of their own accord. I don’t want to go, I don’t want to see him, but I have to.

I open the door and see his silhouette framed by the setting sun, a tall stiff figure in faded khaki. I was going to marry him once. I was going to have a husband. Now I have a picture by my bed and a ghost on my porch, mocking the promise he’d made me.

He’s the only one that bothers me though. The others help me. They fill my days with a companionship I’d thought I’d lost. That’s my life, the one I choose. I can handle a few tears for a little friendship.

I mean, friends with ghosts? How many people can claim that? Right now I’m reading a book with one little phantom curled up beside me and another leaning over the back of the couch, trying to read over my shoulder.

And the doorbell rings.

“No, please. Not now.”

It rings again and the unseen force draws me up from the couch and to the door. I open it and stare at the same haunting figure I’ve seen for the past six months. But for some reason… something is different now. I want to reach out, to take his hand…

I know, I know nothing will be different, but I can’t help hoping as my fingers stretch for his and I touch his hand and it feels warm, and rough, and real.

What?

“Amy?” He opens his arms and steps forward and I find it hard to breathe.

“Dwight?” My voice trembles and the words are hardly more than a whisper. “They… they said…”

I sense the other ghosts gathering behind me, staring at the young man come back to life.

“They were wrong. I promised, didn’t I?”

I nod. A smile crosses his face. One embrace and I finally realize.

He’s home.

I laugh. We step into the house, still clasping hands. I walk through the crowd of pale figures and they part and break and drift away. Gone, just like that.

I say a silent farewell to them. Life hadn’t been so bad with them, not really, but I realize that it wasn’t life. It was a shadow of a memory, lived again and again in a hope to cling on to what I had lost. It wasn’t real.

I look up at my tall solder and laugh again. He turns to me with a smile and I see all the love I’d been starved for in his eyes.

This is better. This is real.