The Ghost

• Adrienne Gaylord

There was a ghost. It had died in some morbid way. Whether that had been at the knife of an outraged lover or auto-aquatic asphyxiation the ghost didn’t remember and found it of little importance anyway.

The ghost lived in a house, like many ghosts do, and it spent a majority of its time gazing hauntingly through window panes on the second story, like many ghosts do. While it stared, it wasn’t deeply contemplating its state of existence or thinking about the profoundness of nature and ghosthood. To be honest, it didn’t think about much at all. Most of its thoughts were observations.

“There’s a mouse in the bush.”

“That child is ugly.”

And so on.

The ghost couldn’t remember.

Anything.

Daily haunts through the house never brought any satisfaction or inspiration to the ghost. All its actions were aimless. The ghost had little idea of where it was going to be, just as it had little idea of where it was now. When one doesn’t put in thought to make a thought, one’s reality will reflect that lack of effort. Yet sometimes a thought will slip through in an incident of deliberate happenstance.

“There’s a photograph under the radiator.”

The ghost bent down and picked it up. The ghost blinked for a minute, staring at the image as its mind cobbled together what it was looking at. Onto the ghost’s lips a lost smile meandered. The ghost stood. The ghost stared. The ghost blinked, and then its eyes grew wider. The muscles in the ghost’s face fell delicate and the strength to support the smile slipped. It shivered, shook. Fat tears soaked into the surface of the photograph. The ghost hurt.

In the morning the ghost awoke to the warm shifting of the sun under its eyelids. It was a pile on the floor. Its body ached. Its eyes were raw, the skin beneath them soft. When it opened its eyes it felt the sunlight caress the dewy skin of its cheeks. The house smelled new, and yet familiar.

It stood up and began to walk the house.

“The peonies are in bloom.”

“There’s a cat stuck in the banister.”

The ghost chuckled to itself. It stopped. Confused. It stood. It stared. It went upstairs.

“There’s a mouse in the corner.”

The ghost walked over to the mouse and squat down to the floor. The mouse was trembling. It frantically ran crazed loops. The ghost extended a finger to pet the mouse, an attempt to calm it down, but the ghostly finger phased right through. It sent a shiver down the mouse’s spine. The mouse stopped abruptly and fell onto its rump.

The ghost stood up and, after exploring a few kitchen cupboards, it found a cup. The mouse was still sitting in the same spot the ghost had left it, so the ghost scooped the mouse up and carried it outside. It looked around the yard for a pleasant spot, then sat down and released the mouse into the peonies. The mouse slid out like a lump. Then it got back up off its haunches and skittered away.

...lately I’ve been noticing things and there’s this sensation. As if there used to be something connecting what I see to what I’ve seen.

That night, for the first time in a long time, the ghost dreamed. A little after midnight it shook awake from a terrible nightmare. Once awoke the ghost couldn’t remember what it had seen. The ghost got up to see what else was awake at this hour. The cat was. The cat sat on the middle of the couch in the living room. It licked itself with its sandpaper tongue and sheltered an object to its chest with a single paw. The ghost smiled and sat down on the couch next to the cat. They sat in silence before the ghost addressed the feline.

“I can’t remember anything.

“Yet... lately I’ve been noticing things, and there’s this sensation. As if there used to be something connecting what I see to what I’ve seen. I’ll feel things and I don’t know why. Like, a bit ago I saw the sun set into a beautiful warm horizon, and I felt butterflies in my stomach. Why? I want to know what’s happening. Why is this happening? I want to remember what happened before I couldn’t remember. I can’t stand constantly pulling up empty. It hurts. Not knowing. I hate it.”

The ghost looked over at the cat and smiled, asking to be seen. The cat looked back at the ghost. Their eyes locked.

The cat slid away its paw to reveal what it had been coveting.

It was the mouse. It lay limp on the couch, its fur matted, it’s limbs mangled.

The ghost stared at the cat. Something burbled in the ghost. It felt like a goo coated the innards of the ghost’s form. Its throat closed up, its muscles became dense, its breath, heavy trying to lift all that was weighing it down. The goo began to drip out of the ghosts eyes. The ghost widened its mouth in an attempt to wail it all out, but no sound came. No matter how hard the ghost screamed it couldn’t manage a whimper. It was congealed in anguish. The ghost wished it was who it was just yesterday. When it didn’t hurt. When it didn’t remember how to hurt.

Sometime in the night sleep came to the ghost.

It awoke the next morning once again to the warm shifting of the sun under its eyelids. The air felt fresh even though the sunlight illuminated the clouds of dust floating through the room. The cat had gone. The family was not yet awake. The ghost watched the dust dance through the air. It was beautiful. Like watching millions of miniature ghosts soaring through it’s living room. The ghost got up to join them. It couldn’t feel them on its skin, but it knew they were there when it waved its arms through the air. It wanted to join them. It spun in a circle. It jumped up onto the couch. It watched a mushroom of them fly from the cushions. The ghost laughed. Not a hearty laugh, but a memorable one. The ghost stopped wandering aimlessly about the house. It stopped blankly staring through the second story window. Some of its thoughts were observations.

“The ugly child has an ugly dog.”

Some of its thoughts were more profound.

The ghost fed birds. The ghost drew faces in the dirt. The ghost felt grass between its toes. The ghost watched people get older. The ghost grew to accept that it was going to hurt on occasion, because it knew that occasionally it would also feel nice. Making itself numb didn’t just block out the bad. It couldn’t feel exhilaration without shedding a tear every once in a while. There’s intricacy to every emotion. Spectacle in the small parts. Purely the ability to feel is beautiful, and the ghost could see that now. The ghost smelled flowers. The ghost took naps. The ghost...

On Monday August 17th the ghost ceased. It was over.

Did you notice the space? The space following the point? It was invisible, but that gap is always there. It’s the room for embellishment, misinterpretation, and inspiration between reality and our perception. Perhaps, understanding someone else’s story the way they do is impossible, but to be subjective is to be human. Viewpoints limit what we can see, but they also make a space for creativity. The lives and lines that fill this art and literature magazine are products of that space between.

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