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Fiction

It felt wrong to be anything but a ghost, in this house. Felt wrong to liken yourself to anything but a drifting specter, white dress or cape billowing after you like a train of unfinished thoughts. She was alone. It felt wrong to be anything but alone, in this house. The curtains were made to be rustled by some invisible hand; frosted windows crafted specially to frame the longing face of a life-long captive. The house was drafty, inconsistent in its moods; she liked to think that she was too.

There was a trunk in the attic. An old, wooden thing. It was rusted at its hinges but could still be opened if one tried hard enough. Not that she needed to try. She would go to that trunk on bad-weather days; days when she lacked occupation; days when the sky cried fat tears of joy for having been absolved of its humanity. Like the ghosts. Like her. The hinges would creak when she opened it, straining against her arm, flaking chips of rust and disease when they finally relented. There were jewels in the trunk. Rubies, emeralds, pearls. They glinted in the light of the single attic window, begging to be cherished after so many years of gathering dust, their reflections dizzying as they jumped and rolled off the shadowed oak walls with a vibrancy almost aquatic in nature.


She remembered those jewels.


Remembered the faces of the wearers when they were complemented on the pricelessness at their necks. The way they waltzed and basked in the glittering mirrors hung in their dressing rooms, believing their own beauty set aflame by the riches they boasted. Danced, ignorant to the fact that it was not they who glistened with the reflections of appreciative onlookers, but rather the rarities fitted so lovingly against sun-patterned collar bones and aged flesh.

Decay, the inevitable slavery of the mortal.

She would reach inside the trunk, then, gathering a handful of golden pastimes to sling around her pale neck. The shadows hissed as she stood and twirled amongst them for a time, gathering dust, floating with that airlessness one can only achieve as a ghost. The window called to her, and she went to it, transfixed with the then-risen moon in the night sky; the little light cast from the chilled glass lending an almost otherworldly air to the scene, her body becoming a vacuous void- penumbra balanced against her backdrop like the harmonious blending of a Yin-Yang.

Oh, to live on the moon, she would think.

Sometimes, she would hear sounds at the door. Knocking. Neighbor children daring each other to rap tiny knuckles against vintage wood. She supposed she should be annoyed by their persistence, but she wasn’t. It wasn’t something she particularly enjoyed, say, so much as depended on. She looked forward to their visits, in a way. It provided some consistency, some reminder that there was life outside the walls of the house. That memories of her existence hadn’t perished with her. That dust may have settled but it still choked new lungs.

There weren’t many other houses around. She lived in the country. Her neighbors were wide men in red-and-black checked button-downs who cut down trees for a living. Children who wanted to be like their fathers.

She was the resident ghost of the town. If it could be called a town. Said to wander her noiseless halls, sobbing all the while, lamenting what she could not have. What this was, she did not know. There wasn’t much she didn’t have. She had not been wealthy, but she had inherited a great deal from the previous owner of the house.

Rich, chartreuse velvet settees lounged like words unsaid in her drawing room.

Portraits portraying great aunts and uncles that weren’t hers settled their icy glowers on her every movement. She had everything. She had the jewels, the trunk, and the attic. She had the hallways she supposedly sobbed in.

On good days, when the sky was clear, she would descend the attic stairs in her vast array of rubies, emeralds, diamonds; slide a softly slippered foot to the stairwell and spend an hour or two rummaging about the old memories in the back of the dining room. As it happened, here was a small door cut carefully into the powdered florals of the wallpaper. Many years of occupying the house had taught her that, should one encounter such a door as this, one must always be wary of what might be behind it. It was not locked. It was in a condition much like the trunk, closed by hinges long rusted by years of humid summers and unuse. She had discovered a cache of dust ridden boxes there. An old photo album and a cigar box full of post cards, calling cards, handwritten notes. The writing was immaculate. Old cursive lettering curled up and around the corners of the yellowed paper, ouroboros, serpents devouring their own coils. The letters spoke of lamplight and candle stubs, steepled fingers and bank notes, ways to cut butter into flour. She was always enthralled, fingertips brushing reverently over the fragile corners, legs folded under her on the cold alter of the concrete floor. She would always emerge with the largest cobwebs trailing after her like a troop of loyal soldiers.

There was no electricity in the house. She didn’t need any. Ghosts are devoid of the basic human needs, after all. When she wanted light to read by, she would produce a candle or take herself over to one of the windows, peeking cautiously through the curtain. She tended to feel like someone’s pet cat when she did this, however, so she refrained from doing it often. As a result of this, the neighbor children had taken up peering through her windows; pressing their little red noses to the glass. She didn’t know what they expected to see through such a small hole. If you’re going to spy, she wanted to say to them, do it the right way. They never did. It was always some younger boy that got shoved to the front of the bunch, made to stand as close to the window or door as physically possible. They were all afraid of her, it seemed. She was not above yanking a curtain-cord or two to add to their suspense.

Suspense was better than decay.

One such instance brought her particular amusement. A small boy, aged nine or ten perhaps, was poked mercilessly until he agreed to stand with his foot nudged up against the wall of the house, just under the window.

“look inside,” the other, older boys called from their safe distance. “We’ll make sure you do if you don’t.”

Naturally, she thought this a dreadful scene. She was watching it all through a different window. As of yet, neither older nor younger boys had bothered to notice her. She laughed inwardly at that. The very thing they sought excitedly, fearfully, was watching unconcealed as they taunted each other closer to her frost-bitten windows.

The younger boy began to glance everywhere but the window before him. “What’re you waiting for, Frankie? Just look through the window and get it over with.” Her head snapped to the boy that had spoken. He appeared older than the others. She hoped this would mean he proved more prone to altruism.

“Do it, Frankie. If you don’t I’ll throw a brick at it and say it was you.” Never mind.

Frankie’s shoulders shook, and he produced a pitiful sounding wail. “I- I can’t.”

“Yes you can, Frankie, what’s she gonna do? Reach an arm through and shoot you? Nothing’s gonna happen, just look inside. It’ll take three seconds, then you’re done.”

She did not like where this was going. The younger boy was going to cry. She tapped her finger softly against the window, trying her best to catch Frankie’s attention before the other boys caught on. It took a moment, but his eyes finally narrowed and he swiveled his head, attempting desperately to locate the source of the faint noise. She waved at him when he finally spotted her, his eyes widening, spine stiffening in utter shock.

“Did you see something? Frankie! What did you see?”

She chuckled, putting a finger to her lips. Quiet, she signaled.

“I didn’t see anything. Thought I did, but I didn’t.” Frankie, who was obviously still recovering from his brief encounter with the supernatural, did his best to feign nonchalance. “Nothing’s there.”

The older boys seemed to accept this, continuing with their threats as she drifted to the door. Let them make sense of this, she thought. Her hand hovered over the emerald tiara she had chosen that day, closing her eyes to mouth a silent goodbye. She hated throwing away the gems. They were among her most precious possessions. So long, she breathed as she took hold of the doorknob, twisting steadily. The door cracked, just wide enough for the crown, and her lips curved up and over her teeth at the five tiny gasps that sounded on the other side. She drew her arm back.

“What’s that?”

She threw the tiara as hard as she could, closing the door sharply as soon as she heard the keening shriek of its voyage through the air. That, and those of the tormentors as they cried themselves away from the house, stories of emerald crowns and pale pitching arms flying from their open mouths like the howls of a wolf at the moon. 


May 03, 2021 20:51

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28 comments

Cole Lane
03:06 Jun 08, 2021

Amelia, I absolutely love this story! A ghost, not some tormented soul, but a spirit with a little life left in her. She has compassion for the small boy being bullied, she moves about the old house looking at the history of the people that lived there. Seeing the world from her point of view was really absolutely the best way to tell this story. I have to agree with Drew Andrews your opening line was such a fantastic hook. I had to see where this was going!! Awesome!!

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Amelia Bowen
15:08 Jun 08, 2021

Thank you!

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Amelia Bowen
19:55 Jun 05, 2021

Alright XD thanks

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Drew Andrews
19:35 Jun 05, 2021

May I use that opening line: It felt wrong to be anything but a ghost, in this house. I can spin a great idea from this. Lol.... I see why you like my one story. Great work. Keep it up.

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Amelia Bowen
19:44 Jun 05, 2021

Sure you can use it:) Thanks so much!

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Drew Andrews
19:55 Jun 05, 2021

Thanks... I'll give you credit. You will be the character of whom says it. Idea: Amelia always dreamt of flying but the four walls that built her home held her close too much so. *** Later on *** "Why did you burn it down?" Asked the smart-ass detective. "It (had) always felt wrong, to be anything or anyone but a ghost, in this house." Laughing at her wit, " it was time to place the dead in their caskets."

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Amelia Bowen
19:56 Jun 05, 2021

Alright XD thanks

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Drew Andrews
19:58 Jun 05, 2021

Lol... See if anyone catches on to the fact that you are semi- being directly quoted....

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Amelia Bowen
20:01 Jun 05, 2021

XD

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Monica June
02:02 May 26, 2021

I absolutely love the way you write. I cannot get over it. This story was so beautifully written! I agree with other people's critiques, (except for the comment about the opening line. I actually really liked it. But maybe you already changed it? I dunno) so I'll just add one of my own. I didn't fully understand the ending. Maybe I'm just not reading closely enough? But it didn't really feel like an ENDING to me... You know? Other than that, though, the whole thing was so captivating and fun to read. Keep it up!!

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Amelia Bowen
02:08 May 26, 2021

Thank you again! I agree with your critique as well, and i can see what you mean with the ending. I might revisit this story in future to revise some things when i have time. Again, thank you so much for your feedback!

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Monica June
12:02 May 26, 2021

You're welcome!! Glad I could help ;)

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Alison Brewis
13:44 May 18, 2021

There are some great descriptions and you've set a good scene. It's got a really languid mood which suits the ghost! I particularly liked the description of the cupboard and the letters. I wondered if you could introduce some plot there- does she find or discover something that changes everything?

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Amelia Bowen
16:46 May 18, 2021

Thank you! I'll think of ways to include that:)

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Nina Chyll
14:38 May 05, 2021

I enjoyed the premise! It was cool to read a story from the perspective of someone / something we all imagine as children for the kicks, and every town has that one house, doesn't it? I thought the language could be a little too dense at times. The second sentence, for example: "Felt wrong to liken yourself to anything but a drifting specter, white dress or cape billowing after you like a train of unfinished thoughts- snakes, doomed to a life of perpetual hunger for the frothy sheen of antique satin." - I really struggled to unpack all the ...

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Amelia Bowen
16:10 May 05, 2021

Thank you for your comment! I agree about the descriptions, and love your idea about the ending! I do tend to struggle ending my stories, this one being no exception, and will explore ways to incorporate your suggestion. I appreciate your feedback:)

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K. Antonio
01:07 May 04, 2021

I don't think I've ever critiqued a single piece of yours Amelia, so here I go!! (Thanks for the like on my piece by the way!) Your first sentence is just direct telling. I think it's actually unnecessary, seeing as you show us through the descriptions in the first paragraph that your MC is a ghost. To me just show us she is a ghost, you don't need to tell us right off the back. It would actually be even interesting for the sake of speculation, if that information wasn't revealed until later in the tale. I noticed a lot of "would" through...

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Amelia Bowen
01:58 May 04, 2021

Thank you so much for your feedback! I am always open to critique and find it is extremely helpful. I will absolutely incorporate your suggestions, and I completely agree with what you pointed out. This story was an attempt to bring together a lot of small bits and pieces of unsaved word documents XD. One thing I've noticed I tend to do is write based on/get inspired by a feeling I've had in relation to the prompt (ex. When I thought of a countryside house my mind immediately went to either ghosts or aimless wandering) as opposed to a plot...

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K. Antonio
02:04 May 04, 2021

Thank you so much for being accepting. I tend to give really long critiques and I'm often left feeling a bit out of my comfort zone, saying anything to writers on here when I'm not aware of whether or not they are open to feedback. That gives me more incentive to really sink my teeth into your future pieces and provide decent critiques/comments!

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Amelia Bowen
02:10 May 04, 2021

Of course! That would be great!

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