Ghosts Don't Need

Ghosts don’t need to eat.

It’s a blessing, really. Think about how much of your energy is spent on food. Working to afford it. Driving around to find it. Prepping it. Eating it. A large chunk of each and every single day spent solely on sustenance.

 “If I could go without eating, I would.”

I remember telling that to a co-worker once. It was one of those things you admit to someone that you immediately wish you hadn’t. That unmistakable look of judgment on her face as she averted her eyes from me is forever burned into my memory. Forever replayed in my mind just before falling asleep.

Ghosts don’t need to sleep.

It’s a curse, truly. Think about how much extra time you would have in your day if you didn’t sleep. All those hours normally spent in bed, dreaming, blissfully detached from the world now open for you to brood and obsess about regrets. So much time to spend remembering faux pas and failures. If you’ve ever wondered what you would do with yourself without sleep the answer is simple: a whole lot of nothing. Especially when you can’t physically interact with the world. You sit around and do the worst thing possible: think. Think, think, think. It’s an eternity of that time before you fall asleep where your brain is just hounding you with all your favorite moments of anxiety inducing lowlights from your life.

So, you haunt. You haunt the living just to keep your mind preoccupied and away from that infinite barrage of self-hatred. You haunt because it’s just about the only thing you can do. So, I haunt. I haunt as best as I can. I challenge myself to go above and beyond in my scares. I stalk. I carefully observe and identify the most vulnerable among you. The most susceptible. Then, I haunt. A midnight whisper here, a howl before dawn there. I’ll follow behind my target so close that they can’t help but feel my presence. For hours I’ll torment and then, when the opportunity finally presents itself, I scare. I contort my face and finally reveal myself with a blood-curdling scream.

I do it because I can. Think about all the things you can do. Now think about how much of that requires you to be physically present in this realm. Take that away and what do you have? A whole lot of nothing. So, I do what I can. And I do it well.

I’ll never forget my first (and only) kill. I came across an old woman, must have been mid-to-late-eighties. Thin, limp, stringy hair dyed a reddish-orange in an attempt to turn back some years. Leathery, wrinkled skin – a sign of way too much sun and way too little skincare. Crow’s feet that seemed to reach the ears. A body thin as can be, you could tell she was frail with just a glance. She was alone, always alone. It seemed she was forgotten, by friends, by family, by the world. She was as close to being a ghost as can be.

I recognized the signs of stimulant use right away. The fidgeting. The jaw clenching and grinding. The hyper-focus. I remember thinking to myself, “I can do work with this.” It was easy to drive her mad. Her inability to sleep for long hours had already started the process, made her paranoid. I spent a couple of days whispering into her ear when she was focused on something.

“I know what you did.”

“Where were you when I needed you most?”

“You will pay for your sins.”

Poor thing never stood a chance. Each whisper was met with a panicked, incredulous look. Fear gripping her as she frantically looked around for the source of the whispers.

“Hello? Who’s there?!” she would practically scream, her voice breaking. Sometimes she would grab a frying pan or a bottle as if defending herself from an intruder. “Please,” she would plea, “please just leave me be. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry!”

I persisted. “I don’t believe you.”

After a few days of this she stopped responding. Instead, she would just freeze up and detach. Shoulders tense, body shivering. The only sound she made was from the chest.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

“I’m going to get you.”

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

“BOOAAAHHHHHHH!!!!” I screech, revealing my spiritual form right to her face.

BA-DUM BA-DUM BA-DUM BA. DUM.

Normally, this is where people scream. But not this time. This time, she lets out a near inaudible yelp. A whimper. Her body goes rigid, the only movement is her hand coming to her chest, clasping a portion of her dress tightly. Eyes wide and bloodshot. Then, as fast as it went rigid, her body releases all tension, and she goes limp. Silence.

There’s no rush like scaring an elderly woman to death. Literally, there’s no rush. Without a physical form, there’s no feeling. No flutter. Nothing. A whole lot of nothing.

Ghosts don’t need to worry about morality.

We’re already dead and beyond. Either there’s no great judgment in the afterlife or I already failed it. Either way, I’m free to do as I please. There’s no otherworldly pressure to keep us in line. To force us to behave in a certain way. To guide us away from harming others. To tell us, “this is bad, and you should feel bad.”

So why do I feel so damn bad?

All this extra time in my life and I still have to feel the weight of my actions? What kind of torture is this? Am I destined to haunt for eternity just so I can avoid being haunted by my past? Things I’ve said. Opportunities I’ve missed. People I’ve hurt. The woman I’ve killed. Am I forever stuck in this endless loop of haunt or be haunted? When does it end? Perhaps one day I can learn to tune myself out. Eradicate myself of my self. Only then can I truly be formless, free.

Until then, I carry on. Until then, I stick to the routine. Until then, I am still shackled to this realm.

Ghosts don’t need to haunt.

But I do.