The ghost is outside. I can see an outline through the frosted glass of the front door. Close up, its face fractures but I can
see its eyes are closed against my gaze.
It has lived there as long as I can remember so at least six
years. It is most noticeable at night; hovering, waiting to be let in. When I
do open the door I feel the ghost pressing on my chest but it doesn’t dare
enter; I don’t invite it. Probably it is friends with the skeleton that lives
on the landing and is very clever at staying exactly, perfectly behind you.
They both have the same soul-constricting smell around them.
Time passes, life unwinds. The ghost is always there. Sometimes I forget
about it for thousands of days, and often I live far away but whenever I wonder
into the hallway on my own I am confronted and now comforted by its otherness,
its alwaysness, its me-ness.
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