Another busy day here, but I’m pulling aside 15min to do a short story. My prompt: Ghosts.
They only came at nighttime. Sure, I could catch a glimpse during the day, maybe a shadow in the mirror or a flicker of lights, but the dead were only fully present with me at night. As the sun set, I could feel them press close, clamoring across the veil, waiting impatiently as I pulled out my laptop, ready to listen to their stories.
Last night, a little boy’s ghost tugged on my sleeve, beckoning me to lean in close and hear his tale. I slid onto the floor, their ethereal bodies towering around me while he whispered into my ear.
I lived in England, he told me, back when horses drew carriages and the streets ran with filth. I died there, too, beaten to a pulp by the constable for stealing an apple. My parents looked for me for less than a week. They had my three younger brothers to feed. They told each other that I ran off, that I was still alive in some other city, that the mangled body dumped in the nearby river wasn’t me. Funny thing is the apple I stole wasn’t even that good.
His form shifted and wavered, for a moment revealing a bloody maw, his face when he died. I tried to look away, to not stare as his lower jaw gently swung back and forth. His visage was all around me. I closed my eyes to the horror, but he was inside my eyelids too. There’s no escape from what a ghost wants to show.
I left that house in the morning. Even miles away from the nexus point, I didn’t sleep for a week after his tale, the image of him always waiting inside my eyelids. Even now, as I write this, I can feel the house pulling me back with an insatiable curiosity to know their tales. There’s something intimate about knowing how someone died, an intimacy that can’t be reached in this dimension.
One day I’ll travel through the nexus, visit their world much like they visit mine. On that day, I may never come back.