Haunting Me

Time doesn’t march; it dashes, kicking up the ever-shifting sands of memory onto an open soul’s eye. All you can do is watch as it zooms past you.

It’s even truer when you’re a ghost, floating above everything you used to know --- the same halls you used to roam, the very smells that used to tickle you every time you breathe, the people you used to hold tightly by your bosom. And yes, it still stands even if the one living being you miss embracing, the only one that made you come back to Earth on a mission to let her know that you still think of her, does everything to distance herself from you.

Right now, I observe Sophie pour a brightly coloured solution from a beaker onto a test tube. From the snippets of conversation I heard from Tuesday afternoon, I know that she’d gleefully volunteered herself to cover her fellow researcher Marie’s shifts at the lab during her week-long holiday. She is wordless as she scrupulously pinches the rubber end of a dropper to release a minuscule amount of carbolic acid onto the little receptacle she was holding. However, the demure, gentle curve of a grin on her lips and the sparkle of her cornflower blue eyes --- the same ones she got from the woman I once shared my life with --- bely the joy whizzing through her veins to be granted access to the fluorescent-lit place she frequently calls “home”.

The last thing she spat before picking up her large suitcases and bolting out the door of the house you built with royalties from your horror novels is that she’d never felt…

Immediately, I feel a tear careen its way down my gossamer-thin face. I try to stop it, but a whimper escapes my…

'What…was that, Sophie?'

My daughter sighs as she turns to her colleague.

'What was what, Katherine?'

'It sounded like a…'

“A ghost,” Sophie replied in between guffaws. 'Do you really believe that?'

'I…uhm…I…'

'With all due respect, Katherine, we’re scientists. We didn’t acquire the Doctor appended to our names just by believing in things that can’t be proven. Let’s face it: Ghosts are simply a figment of someone’s all-too-active imagination to scam the public off a quick quid or two.'

Three simple sentences. And yet, these were all it took for invisible bullets to pierce through my very core and for the spirits of the years in that two-storey log cabin I paid with blood, sweat, tears, and ink to come back to haunt me.

Three sentences and the myriad of moments that I came home from a book tour to Sophie’s head buried in an astronomy book, not a single “hello” uttered, it all haunts me yet again. I still recall how a day before those bimonthly trips, I seemed as if her icy eyes would gleam a little more, her voice would lilt up to the heavens. Oh, believe me, I’ve tried jump across the chasm between my daughter and I; however, I always ended up plummeting further and further with every muttered word, every sigh at the gifts I bought her from spooky cities around the world. I stared at the little pasty-faced dolls, and all I could hear is a cackle.

Three sentences and Sophie’s cream-coloured Converse-wearing feet clobbering the creaky pine floors and her slumped, little body when I took her to the gothic fantasy museum, it all haunts me yet again. Even in this levitating form, I can not cast aside my once-little girl’s screams of “But I need to study” when I took her to a Halloween event where I was the guest of honour. I saw it: Sophie would grin at all the adorable animatronic vampires, giggle with other fourteen-year-olds who snuck off from class. When the exact opposite of this vision was what unfolded, I scrunched my forehead, and all I heard was a cackle.

Three sentences, and Sophie’s quivering lip and unwavering gaze at me as she hung her shiny new gold medal from a county-wide science competition on a hook on her cupboard, it all haunts me yet again. Yes, it is true that I had caught her excitedly going over the entry form for the contest with her mother. Yes, it’s true that for weeks, she would come home late, her white shirt stained with ink from writing endless lab reports. However, the opportunity to speak at a horror novelist conference landed in my email inbox two weeks before my daughter’s event. The scowl and the scarlet-lined peepers that welcomed me as I rolled my suitcase back into the house were punishment enough. But still, all I heard was a cackle.

Three sentences, and Sophie silently packing eighteen years of her life into three large maroon suitcases before turning to me and screaming that she’d never felt home whilst living under my roof, it all haunts me yet again. I should have had an inkling when at the bistro for her end of secondary school celebration, she glared at me when I asked her about her plans. During the drive home, it got even worse when I noticed that she wouldn’t even look at me. The next day, I woke up to the sound of her cupboard door being slammed shut, a lifetime of clothing stuffed and rolled to fit the travel bags she bought online. As she trudged out the door, all I heard was a cackle.

Yes, I may be the one who is no longer of flesh, but I have been the one who was haunted. Perhaps, one day, as I linger through the crevices of Sophie’s existence, she would finally see me. Who knows?

**********

Time stays constant. It may feel like it’s expanding and contracting, elastic as natural rubber, but at the end of the day, it just is. All you could do is recognise its passing with a clock.

In my years of study in chemistry, from the time I first entered university until I appended a PhD to my name and beyond, I’ve learnt to take things as they are if they are shown to be fact by method. There’s no need to float to The Land of Make Believe when right before your eyes is a world of fascination. And yes, that still stands when a mysterious shadow hovers above the laboratory you’ve spent years ensconced in…above your life.

Right now, I curl up my fingers into a fist so tightly, my knuckles go white. I watch my father --- if you could call him that --- soundlessly bang his translucent knuckles onto the hardwood doors. From all the groaning in his typical nasal voice, I know that he’s trying to get my attention. Therefore, I bury myself more into mixing chemicals, into dropping acid into a waiting test tube. I try to ignore the heavy, laser-like cocoa gaze of the man I once had to call Dad. No, he has no place here at “home”.

Must he try to invade my happy place too? Can’t he content himself with ruining that sense of home for me?

Immediately, a tear careens down my oval-shaped face, the one I thankfully got from Mum. I try to stop it, but a whimper escapes my…

'What…was that, Sophie?'

As I turn to my colleague Katherine, I sigh, my cornflower eyes silently pleading for her to stop asking.

'What was what, Katherine?'

'It sounded like a…'

I feel my heart plummet to the Earth’s mantle. I discreetly shake my head to fortify myself.

'A ghost? Do you really believe that?'

'I…uhm…I…'

'With all due respect, Katherine, we’re scientists. We didn’t acquire the Doctor appended to our names just by believing in things that can’t be proven. Let’s face it: Ghosts are simply a figment of someone’s all-too-active imagination to scam the public off a quick quid or two.'

Three simple sentences. And yet, these were all it took to feel as if the arrows that had pierced my heart lightyears ago in that log cabin I grew up in had fallen away, for me to finally face those spirits that since I was little, had haunted me.

Three sentences, and I could slay the memories of a father too buried in his horror manuscript to even give a furtive glance at my school reports, memories that have haunted me. Never mind that his only child was at the top of her science class; his head was too wrapped up in being Roderick Hewson, creator of the Sangmentors that has made the horror world go gaga. Years I’ve tried to get him to look at me, to see that my papier-mâché volcanoes and my science week certificates were just as worthy a pastime as diving into his ghouls. Eventually, of course, I gave up. But now, all I can do is cackle.

Three sentences, and I could slay the memories of my fourteenth birthday spent at some gothic fantasy museum instead of simply driving me to an interesting lecture at nearby Cambridge, like I asked, memories that have haunted me. When I told him about the lecture and he agreed to take me there, I might as well be pirouetting amongst Jupiter and Saturn. Imagine how my entire being sank when he took a right turn to some derelict castle instead. For what was supposed to be my day, I had to stare at ludicrous animatronic vampires, all because some hotshot author had to drone on and on in front of adoring fans. But now, all I can do is cackle.

Three sentences, and I could slay the memories of a vow to finally watch me at a science competition broken yet again, memories that have haunted me. After a decade and a half of only Mum cheering for me as I ended up on the podium, I was willing to give my father a chance when he begged to accompany me. Honestly, I was excited; I told myself that perhaps, this was Dad’s way of regenerating our bond. Of course, when he chose to fly off to speak at a novelist conference, I knew all hopes of us having a relationship plummeted into a black hole. When he rolled back in and I hung my medal in my cupboard, I resigned myself to that truth. But now, all I can do is cackle.

Three sentences, and I could slay the memories of my father loudly questioning me about pursuing a chemistry degree in the middle of a crowded bistro, memories that have haunted me. At Mum’s pleading, I’d let myself sit there, a soft moan escaping my mouth, as Dad’s fans kept approaching our table with autograph books. I was just scooping mushroom soup from the bowl when he smirked and practically boomed about his daughter never listening to his ghost stories and how “She was wasting his writing genes by choosing to just fill out lab reports”. The surface tension had broken. The very next day, I had emptied out my cupboard and stuffed all its contents into the suitcases I’d bought for the train journey to Cambridge that was supposed to be for the month after. Like a dam that burst, I finally let out the oceans inside me before I ran out the door. But now, all I can do is cackle.

Yes, I am still of flesh, but I no longer have to be haunted. Perhaps, one day, as I linger around every crevice of this research building, I could finally see just me, can finally be just me. Who knows?