Spirit of Redemption

The alluringly youthful couple stands tantalizingly close to the edge of the expansive frozen lake. At this present time,  I cannot be certain if I ever was young or beautiful myself. All that truly occupies my thoughts, incoherent as there are, among the minutiae of minutes, hours and expanding all the way across the years-is the longing to be seen, acknowledged- if even for a fleeting moment. 

Acts of haunting by my kind are not explicitly intended for purposes of torment and fear. All I can explain to you, if you count yourself among the living of this world, is a lack of tethering. No one’s arms envelope me, as the man’s strong, capable arms encircle the woman with her cascading dark hair. Think of it like this- try to consider the worst fever you ever endured. Now, tell me how excruciating were the accompanying chills that wracked your body? Conjure up how the fiercely blustering sensation overtook your physical form, wringing out any temporospatial awareness until you felt that you were the cold, perhaps one with the spirit world. 

My untethered, frigid longings to somehow experience a sense of belonging or warmth can occasionally be interrupted by incomplete memories, snippets of scenes in time. Much akin to the fissures lacing their way, in varying patterns across the glacial lake’s surface, cracks occasionally offer an odd disquieting glimpse, just as untethered as I, all context absent. 

On a night such as this, frosted landscape and stillness in the air, overcome by a need to feel connection, I glide ever closer to the couple, both of whom are swathed in garb to keep out the cold. Having no concern for such things myself, as I am one with the bitter chill, I pose my incorporeal manifestation just above the glistening surface. They would not expect an attack from the lake itself as no living creature in their immediate surroundings would choose to walk on the ice- the youngsters themselves stand upon the snow-blanketed earth which forms the bank beside the water. 

Now, I determine, is the time to announce myself. I expand my eyes to spherical beacons and my hands reach, fingers lengthening into sharp tendrils constructed of deepest shadow. Entwining snakes pour forth from my mind, shrouding the space where my head would be in a corporeal form. Satisfied that I am ghastly to behold, I focus my attention on the unsuspecting young people before me. My shifting into this unsightly visual presentation is all I can do to interact with those living outside of my realm of deep chill, of complete loneliness. I tend to tell myself that ensuring my appearance is terrifying will convince those I haunt to in fact take notice. 

So, I bring myself close to the couple. The man is kneeling before the woman and she exclaims, her voice a jovial shriek and mittened hands cupped at her mouth. “Yes! Yes, I’ve been waiting forever!” rings her voice at a volume increased by the openness of the world in general and the snow-padded bank of the lake. As she leaps eagerly toward the man, I flash my eyes and hover closer. My tendrils glaze his cheek, deepening the wintry chill at the back of his neck. With a jolt,his hand flashes upward and a gleaming object departs from it, moving in an arc where it clinks upon the ice. 

If I wished, I would be able to easily retrieve the ring for them. Movement is not constrained to the limitations of a physical body, as it is for them. Instead, the poor buffoon stumbles onto the ice, limbs wildly sweeping in search of the much coveted object they had lost. When I was in their circumstance- that of having a corporeal body- it was customary for those in desperate search of something to pray to Saint Anthony for guidance in tracking down the said item. It appeared to work, more often than not; however, I cannot say that divine intervention was accessed. My experience has not dipped beyond the living world, despite my existence as a hovering spirit. Before I flee the ridiculous scene before me, which I have caused, I reflect that perhaps the people living in these modern times should perhaps call upon Saint Anthony more often. 

Amidst the couple’s shouts of dismay and downright outrage, I glide to a preferred location. I am able to find comfort here, amongst the chirping barn-swallows and mice burrowing into old straw. The barn is abandoned and holds no draft horses and has not done so for perhaps a quarter of a century. No longer do humans find delight in carriage rides through a vast snow-topped wonderland. 

Why should I have expected a unique outcome? Numerous times, as the years blended together, I frequently sought connection with a living soul. Whether I slammed doors in a widow’s dusty, shadow-cloaked mansion or laughed in the stairwell to create an echo-enhanced disturbance, I never succeeded in drawing attention from my intended victims. Not a single of my carefully-orchestrated plans or even my impulsive acts of whimsy did such a thing. 

The barn swallows flit upwards to their nests in the decaying rafters when I make my entry inside their drafty domain. After I have settled upon ancient mouse-gnawed straw, my presence creating a brief stirring of the floor’s contents, three then four of the swallows chance closer to me. Many of the others follow suit then they content themselves hopping and chirping mere inches from me. A kindling sensation, not quite warmth, but a spark of light surges perhaps where my chest would be would that I were a living creature. 

It has been an indeterminate amount of time since I last recalled this place, my sanctuary from the agony of aimless wandering and made of naught but winter night’s deepest frigidity. Though my sense of time and memory are not consistently reliable, I am aware of the simple cessation from the drudgery of floating and haunting that this place offers me.

Their companionship stirs something previously unfelt in me for a tormentingly long duration of time.This kindling of warmth spreads until it follows my line of regard, illuminating where my limbs would be. The faintest glimmer of silvery-transparent hands show themselves, resting upon the lap cushioned on the deteriorating barn’s floor. Now, what to do with this? A growing sense of shame marks its presence at the peripheries of my conscience. From my mysterious death, my exit from life as a breathing woman, until now I have sought to frighten those who move about their lives. Whether it was jealousy or the torment of existing as though untethered, it seemed I had remained weighed down and continuously lost due to my poor intentions. 

A flicker of an idea coincides with the spark which allows my form to become illuminated. Perhaps, now I should try an alternative method for gaining human acknowledgment? Much akin to the kindness of these delightful birds allowing me in their haven, so near to peaceful life, I may be able to make myself known to someone if I do a similar good deed as that which has been done unto me- whether the swallows are aware of that or not. 

Using a hand, which contains a golden-glowing light from within, I stroke the top of a swallow’s  head. Then, knowing what I must do, I glide from that place and back out to the world outside to be swallowed up by the brisk air once more. 

A few false starts may have discouraged me before this change of heart took root. Traversing the pre-dusk city streets, a woman stumbles from a building while singing and teetering on her feet precariously. Maybe it’s her I can help- until a man follows her onto the gray snow-caked sidewalk, a burst of music contained behind the door as he thrusts it shut and reaches his arm out to steady the woman. 

Later, as the gray sky dulls further, the stars invisible in the smoggy air, a child stands beside a tree, appearing confused as he tries to decide which way to look for his parents. Just as I start to concentrate on conjuring up the warmth I felt inside the barn, a woman rounds from the driver’s side of a nearby car and scoops the boy up, cradling him in the crook of her arm then hurrying into a broad front door, golden light pouring from inside as they go. 

Continuing on, I chance upon an elderly woman who struggles to maneuver a cane safely through the snow which clogs the sidewalk. “Blasted thing!” she mutters. “Should have stayed home.” Calling upon that newfound inner warmth I have spent countless years yearning for, I reach my just barely visible fingers, to help her hand grasp the knob of the cane then safely lift it out of the mound of snow it had just been stuck in. Her eyes dart about nervously then settle upon me. At first, I glean a pang of fear that she may be struck afraid as well. Then, her eyes shine as though she has beheld something wondrous and her mouth takes on a determined shape. 

The woman moves in more confident strides, using her cane without difficulty now. I am there beside her, using my shimmering form to support her ever so slightly as she makes her way. Suddenly, a car squeaks parallel to the sidewalk. A young man and woman swiftly jump from the car and rush over to the elderly woman. “Mom!” exclaims the man. “I am so sorry! You were supposed to wait for us, so we could walk with you.” Beaming at her son as fresh snow flurries catch on her silver eyelashes, she says, “It’s quite alright dear. An angel was keeping me safe.”