I sometimes catch glimpses of movement, but when I turn to look, there's never anyone there—just moving shadows and faint sounds; it's almost like I was still alive.
My dead daughter, gruesomely bloodied, lives on in the hallway mirror. Had I covered the thing when I did the deed, I'd be rid of her for good.
I creep through the kitchen. I reach the cupard and my hands fiddle with the lid of a container. I open it and there are NO COOKIES LEFT!
I awoke suddenly. As I opened my eyes I saw him sitting at the foot of my bed.
That's not possible, I thought.
My Grandfather died last summer.
Whispers trickle down my ear.
Shadows curl over my head.
You hug me, reassure me,
tell me you adore me...
but I could have sworn you were dead.
Sometimes I hear it in the house, echoing from the basement. A meow, the pitter-patter of feet. I throw down some flour. Pawprints appear, and I cry again.
She Jane Run
Beneath the floorboards the ghost of Dick Wilbur laughed. The latest inhabitants fled his terrifying growl. They didn’t know it was Spot.
“Down boy. We’ll see Jane soon.”
I feel you in our room when I go to sleep at night. That empty space next to me that you will always haunt. Wishing you weren't gone.
How It Hurts
At night, sometimes I catch a wisp of your scent, and I even hear your soft breathing. They remind me your dead, but I hope you’ll come back.