It’s a dark and dusty evening, quite thematic actually. The car rolls bumpily along the cobblestone path. Dust billows out behind the vehicle growing slowly in size as I continue down the road. Occasionally, a rock will get caught by the wheel and hurdled out behind, leaving a small divot in the road. Each time I drive down that wretched thing another rock will get lodged in my tire and thrown back out creating another hole. Yet, as jolting as this road is, I know a more perilous journey is just ahead of the next corner.
As the car turns along the dented cobblestone road, a house comes into view. Unfortunately, it’s my house. It’s decently large, two dormers hang out of the second story's black roof. On the right side, spiraling up out of the porch of the second floor as well as a spire of sorts. On its pointed roof sits a rusted rooster compass. The rails surrounding both stories are charred black. Some rails hang off the floorboards protruding out at nonuniform angles. I believe the first story wood used to be a rusted red but it’s now a copperish gray. Patches of it are completely black.
The windows' intricate frames are chipped and splintered. Surprisingly, the glass remained unshattered, but not usable. They look as if smoke had been trapped inside, turning them gray. Pillars rise out of the brick base that lay on the porch of the first floor. Just like the road, they’re also chipped and seem out of place. They’re the only part of the building that doesn’t seem to be blackened.
As I roll the rest of the way up the driveway, the realtor’s words come back to me, “Oh, it's a lovely home, unfortunately there was a fire a few years back. Even more unfortunate the people living there didn’t escape. It's a true shame but the house is in perfect shape I promise you that sir!” He had proceeded to show me pictures. Looking at the house now, I think he might’ve shown me a completely different building. I pride myself in not taking deals I don’t trust, I have a sixth sense for that sort of thing but I’d been scammed. I knew I should’ve looked at the house first, he’d even asked me if I wanted to; probably to seem less suspicious.
Annoyingly, my job forced me to move on short notice and I hadn’t had the time to come check it out. I wish I had, that house is worse on the inside than it is on the outside. But, not for the same reason. Not at all for that reason. About a week ago, when I’d first arrived at the house, I’d been immediately disgusted by the charred and broken outside. When I remember that when I entered through the rustic doorway though, a chill had run down my spine and a bad feeling pounded at my head. I knew I wasn’t alone.
As I walked through the rooms, it felt as if eyes were tracking me. I’m not a very spiritual person, ghosts weren’t something I believed in, at least they weren’t until then. That feeling stuck with me throughout the night. I wish I could say that just that feeling was the worst that had happened, but that would be a lie. In the middle of my first night, I ended up waking up at around 5am to the beeping of my alarm clock. The only thing was, it wasn’t plugged in and the bedroom didn’t have any outlets. I was shaken, but I was only one hour away from having to get up anyway.
As I moved into the kitchen to make breakfast, something caught my eye. My head had dipped to one side as my tired eyes attempted to render its shape. When I stepped inside the charred room, my heart dropped. An old knife was stuck in the wall. The eggs I’d thoughtlessly left out the night before, had all been cracked on the floor. The broken yolks were the only color on the wood. I’d left early to work that morning. I didn’t tell a soul about the strange things that had happened to me, I imagine that if I had they would’ve thought I’d gone mad.
The worst was yet to come, though. When I came back from work that same day, I was hesitant to enter. I hadn’t eaten much that day and I would’ve slept in my car but my food was inside. I recall scolding myself for acting like such a child, I told myself that it must’ve been a coincidence and I stepped inside. I opened the door still expecting the worst, but I was greeted with a pleasant surprise. The house looked strangely organized. There wasn’t a speck of dust that I could find, and the prior dark and dirty halls were waxed and cleaned. A coat rack hung by the door. I didn’t have any friends, and it didn’t seem like there were any other footprints on the doormat.
A gnawing worry had etched itself into my mind, but I couldn’t back out. I took my first few steps forward. My eyes gazed into the living room beside the door. Neat bookshelves and a cozy couch started back at me. The fluffed pillows would’ve looked inviting, but I was too terrified to even want to take another step. For when I say they were looking back at me, I mean it. A small transparent form sat on the couch gazing back at me. I should’ve ran, but my feet were rooted in place.
My head kept repeating the same word, “Ghost.” but this wasn’t your average bedsheet ghost. It was far worse than that. Its transparent near shapeless form was hard to concentrate on. It was dressed in tattered black clothes. They floated awkwardly around it, as if tugged on by invisible strings. Surprisingly, the most terrifying part wasn’t its face, but its hands. Its fingernails were hard to make out through the black of charred flesh. Bits of coal broke off and fell to the carpet as it stood up quickly.
I stumbled backward at its sudden movement. It reached those blackened fingers toward me as I tumbled over and crashed into the wall behind me. My eyes closed on impact, and when I reopened them its startled face hung over me. Unlike any form bound to this world, it floated above me not caring about gravity. I was preparing to scream but it spoke first. Its voice was uncomfortably high but sounded as if it hadn’t had a drink in ages, “Are you okay, mister?” It spoke the last words a little bit quieter as if suppressing a cough.
Looking back at it, I shouldn’t have said anything at all, maybe it wouldn’t have taken any interest in me. Maybe I would feel less embarrassed when I think back on the high pitched scream I let out. Luckily that had scared the ghost away but that was just my first encounter with it. Now, as I step out of my car and gaze up at the burned building, I simply pray it isn’t there waiting for me again.
I walk up the steps tossing my keys nervously in my hand. I’m not sure why it still scares me; it hasn’t done me any harm. Yet, I just wish it would go away. It has a tendency to get in my way. I don’t like things that get in my way. I sigh and open the door. There’s no use in keeping it locked, anyone that saw the spirit would immediately flee. Besides, it has an annoying tendency to just unlock it. Before I even take my first step inside, it’s there to greet me, “Hello, Will!” it calls gleefully.
“Um, hi,” I respond slightly irritated with its shrill tone.
“You know my name is Lucas. You can call me by my name” It said in a pouty voice.
“Well no, I didn’t,” I say.
That’s a lie. It told me the second night of me staying there. It was in a dream of all places. That scared me so much that I didn't sleep the rest of the night, and I’d refused to call it by name ever since. I think that doing that might make my situation more real. I’d have to either admit I’d gone mad or that I really am living with a dead person. He laughs, “Well you do now!”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
I raise my eyebrows and nod trying to avoid conversation with it as much as possible. I quickly take off my coat and hang it on the wall. I trot into the living room and turn past it to the kitchen. It follows close behind. Unlike me, its footsteps make no sound on the wooden floor. But, I can still feel its presence, “What's for dinner today, Will?” it asks, swaying carefully in front of me as we enter the kitchen.
“I dunno yet,” I say, growing in frustration.
Annoyingly, the ghost doesn’t seem to care for my tone, “You could make pasta!” it squeals the words with delight, “I used to love pasta.” it gazes up at me, a spine chilling smile growing on its face.
“O-okay.” As much as I want that thing to go away, I’d rather not make it angry.
As I move to reach the cupboard to the left, it slips by me and floats uncomfortably above my head to reach it before me, “I thought you wanted pasta?” I say, growing more annoyed by the second.
“I want to help!” it says reaching a hand through the wood of the cupboard. It joyfully rummages around in there before letting out an, “Ah-ha!” its hand reels backward, finding whatever it was looking for.
“Wait,” I call, seconds too late as it pulls away from the closed cupboard, pasta in hand.
The cupboard tips open and a shower of boxes fall to the ground. A sheepish smile creeps onto its face as I gaze up at the box of pasta it's holding, “Oops, I forgot I can only go through things.” It carefully sets the pasta down on the island table.
It starts moving to pick up the mess. “No, I’ve got that, just go do something else.” It seems hurt but I couldn't care less.
“I can heat some water for you,” it says. My head shoots up in response to its statement.
“No!” I glance back at it, an emotion similar to sadness crawls onto its face, “Um, okay just let me deal with the fire.” I say.
The sadness disappears and is replaced with a pleasant smile. I sigh and stack the pasta boxes neatly on the counter. Just as I put them back away inside the cupboard, a crash sounds from behind me. I shut my eyes and glance behind me once more to see the ghost floating above a pile of pots and pans. A glass lid is held in his hand, “What the hell!” I shout my anger starting to escape me.
The sudden burst of rage spooks it, and my heart drops as the lid falls from its hand. Stupidly, I reach out to grab it before it inevitably shatters. I’m too late though, and now in the way. The lid crashes against the table, bits of glass flying out dangerously close to my face. My hand flies up to protect my eyes. I feel something touch my hand and a chilling pain spreads through my palm. “Ow!” I shout, pulling my hand away from the mess.
Blood drips out of my palm and onto the floor, “I-I’m sorry!” it says, hands flying up to its mouth.
At first, I stand stunned at the mess before my eyes sweep to the small piece of glass sticking out of my hand. I quickly pull it out and a flow of blood trickles down my fingers, “Why won’t you just go away!” I shout, my rage bubbling over as I throw my hands out and glare at the cause of all my pain.
My gaze immediately softens as I see his face. My arms fall to my sides as he shouts heartbreaking words back at me, “I’m just afraid to die!” His voice breaks and his already glassy eyes fill with tears that can never fall.
I open my mouth to respond, but my words are stuck in my throat. For the first time, I look up at him and I really see him. His wide face is speckled with drops of coal. Light hair floats in front of his face for a moment before it changes its mind and directs itself upward. He doesn’t look to be any less than a few feet tall and his clothes aren’t only ripped but seem unusually small for him. The charred hands from before weren’t scary but squat and pudgy. He wasn’t more than a child.
I try desperately to get any sound to come out of my throat but I can’t. I feel frozen, “You’re so mean, I just wanted to help.” he chokes out through the tears.
“I-.” I can’t bring myself to say any more.
To my surprise, he sways forward and runs at me. A chill runs down my spine as his frail body passes through me. I cough and fall to the floor, checking behind me to see nothing but empty air. My head is spinning and a nauseous feeling is rising in my gut. I shut my eyes for a moment and struggle to stand back up. I take a deep breath and quickly wash out the cut, grimacing at the stinging sensation running up my arm.
The glass didn’t get me too deep; it seems to have only pierced the first few layers of skin. I shuffle to the corner of the kitchen and open a medical drawer. I find only an old band-aid inside, “It’ll have to do.” I say out loud trying to calm myself.
Guilt is rising quickly in my gut. The same stinging occurring in my hand was now growing behind my eyes. I bite my lip and leave the mess of the kitchen, “I need to say I’m sorry.” is the only thought in my head, “Are you here?” I call.
My heart beats in my ears as I walk into the living room. The uneasiness I feel whenever I’m close to him isn’t sparked so I continue walking. My feet carry me up the stairs and down the hall. I check every room hoping to see his small form in each one. My footsteps cease as I reach the last door. A room I have feared to touch. Unlike the rest of the house, this door was still charred black. A word was carved into its face, Lucas.
I reach out to knock on it, but my hand falls as the uneasy feeling rises once more. I haven’t entered this room, I haven’t even peeped in. At first it had scared me, but once I met him I just couldn’t bear to face it. I hadn’t realised it before, but now I feel bad for him. He couldn’t be more than eight or nine years old. He’d lost his home, his family, and his life. Why had I been so arrogant before?
I lean close to the door, “Lucas? Listen I...” I trail off not sure what to say, “I’m sorry.” the words slip from my lips. They sound...right, “I’m sorry for the way I treated you. This is your home too. I want to be your friend. I know you were just trying to help and I shouldn’t have burst out like that. So, I’m sorry.” A lump rises in my throat as I speak the last words.
“But I hurt you…” A small voice sounds back from the room.
It sounds as if he’d been crying. His voice is cracked but still remains squeaky, “No, Lucas. I hurt you, and I didn’t even realize, and I feel terrible about it. I treated you like dead weight but you’re more alive than I could ever be.” My own voice sounds broken now.
My fingertips brush the handle but reel away as a hand fases through it. Lucas’s body comes through and a smile lights up my face. I back away and drop to my knees so I can be at the same level as him. His head is turned down but his cheeks look unusually shiny, “Hey, are you okay? I’m so-.” I start to say it again but he cuts me off.
“You said my name Will.” My head tilts to one side.
His head lifts up a happy smile on his face, “You said my name!” he bursts out in tears, his hands wiping at the ghostly water.
The smile remains on his face as he throws out his hands and wraps them around my middle. His embrace is cold, but not in a bad way. Although it chills my skin, it makes my heart feel warm, “Of course I did, Lucas.” I say, returning the hug, a smile on my face as well.