Spectre Helen Yenson ’22
Lisa’s flashlight flickers. She can barely make out the rusted metal, and each footprint seems to crunch in the mud. A part of her wants to leave—open and shut the car door and never look back. She didn’t earn her license to spend it ghost hunting. Her mother’s words echo as she steps through the gate. You have to learn to trespass—to disturb what should be left untouched, rouse what has been laid to rest. She can see her reflection in the foggy window; light shines back in her eyes. The doorknob beckons. Exploration requires perseverance, requires patience. Lisa’s hand shakes as she twists. The wood creaks. Dust rises, shifting, settling somewhere it didn’t before. “Hello?” she calls into the open. “Anyone home?” No one replies.
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mosaic
Even as we gain diminishing returns. Something scutters, though, upstairs. Lisa shrieks, nearly dropping the flashlight, before the mouse stares up at her. It twitches its head, thumps its tail, and scurries back to its hole. In this way, we’re one step closer to understanding the dead. “Thanks a lot, Mom,” Lisa mutters to herself, stepping into the living room. All the paintings and couches are covered in sheets. It’s the third week of August. Lisa should be spending her time studying, or buying school supplies, or chasing the last week of summer. She shouldn’t be here, wandering around an abandoned home, waiting for a ghost to strike. Her flashlight flickers, again. She swears under her breath, shaking its sides before the battery inevitably dies. On the other side of the room, something comes to life. The spirit
