At the end, it’s easy to look back and ask yourself if you deserve this. The answer is it doesn’t matter.
It wants you to know how normal things were. A grumpy old bastard grunts something about the rent and tells me the house is going to his son one day. What did I think? I thought the son was smart to hide out somewhere else until the old man croaked. It wasn’t nice but I thought it anyway.
He gives me the tour. There’s history here. That’s important. The quiet dinners together because nobody has anything to say anymore. The last time seeing his wife because she was the first to leave. The first time he made his mom cry. Holding his son, losing his job, hearing the news. People like him have more past than anything else. It’s not a good way to be.
I laugh behind the old man’s back when he leaves. He moves very slowly. I thought it was funny. That’s not a good way to be either.
Things didn’t happen at first. They need time to eat their way in and stick you to the place. Then you’ve got nowhere else to be. Then things happen.
They start in the corners.
I asked the old man about the corners. They looked funny. There’s too many. Angles are all wrong if you look at them from the right spot. He said he can’t see shit. There’s nothing. There was nothing before too.
It could see us the whole time.
Things started to move on their own. The first was my cup – “Number One Dad.” Why do I have that? I don’t have any kids. What a great dad, right?
Right.
The cup slid six inches and made a spill on the floor. It reminded me of my first experience with a ghost. That ghost wasn’t real. It was me being an asshole. I faked it as a joke because I didn’t want to do any laundry. It didn’t scare anyone. It just made them disappointed.
The next is the upstairs guest-room door. Half an inch to the left. You almost wouldn’t notice. I think it moved back since then.
The old man comes by again with talk of curfew and respectful behavior. “You were up too late last night.” I wasn’t. “You are a guest and should treat his place with respect.” I flipped him off when he turned around.
He didn’t want to hear about things moving. “Everything moves.” Well no shit. It’s still not supposed to move by itself.
I started watching everything extra close. Windows, cabinets, pictures. Anything it could haunt. The pictures were the worst. My mom was in some of them. She looked so sad. I think a person’s child is about the only thing in the world that can make someone that sad. And boy was I good at it.
When was the first time I made her cry?
I was six years old. I said dad should have lived instead. I never apologized. Fifteen years later I stumbled into her home with the slur of alcohol and stupidity. She said I could have killed someone. Or killed myself. I said it was too bad I didn’t.
I’m sorry, Mom.
I found Jamie Berger in another picture. I could see him through a window. We went to school together. Everybody called him Burger, because of his size. Last time I interacted with him he was standing to the side twiddling his thumbs when some of us walked past. He waved at the person in front of me, can’t remember who that was. I whispered “fatass” loud enough for him to hear.
I heard Burger killed himself a while back. By way of hanging, apparently. He was a teacher at the local elementary school. The kids called him “Mister Burger” on little notes they passed around class.
What did I think then? I don’t want to tell you, but it’s going to make me. I thought it must have been a strong rope.
I watched things. That’s what I was talking about, right? I watched even when it hurt. Out the window the old man walked in big circles around the house. It took him a long time. I lost him after the sixth. It was getting dark. Found him again in the dining room later on. He was on all fours licking up the spill from my cup. I never cleaned it. He noticed me peeking from around the corner like a scared little kid, so he crawled out of my view. I tried to follow but he wasn’t there anymore. The door never opened or shut. He was just gone.
So I watched the corners.
You can see it sometimes, only when it wants you to. What does it look like? It looks like everything you hate about yourself and each other, like the force that contorts Mom’s face into the look that says she doesn’t have the will to hide it anymore, like Jamie Berger’s corpse dangling in front of the children from weeks and decades ago who mocked his name to make their friends laugh, like the god all the bad things pray to so they can keep having their way with your mind and even more of you-don’t-want-to-know.
No no no. That’s not right. It looks like me, doesn’t it? Only when I really don’t want it to.
The old man? He comes and goes now. Sometimes he’ll cut off a little piece of his skin and talk to it like it’s his son and he goes in and out of the corners like they’re doorways. He told me I’m a jackass. I believe him.
What do I do? I just write it all down. I send Mom descriptions of the bad things I’ve done because she knows how to be hurt by them. Last year I jerked a woman by the arm and told her not to walk away while I’m fucking talking. She was scared. Mom won’t like that.
I put the bad thoughts all over the walls so they don’t get to go away like it never happened. Jamie Berger was cremated – Burger got cooked. I should have done what he did. He should have forgiven me so I would have one less reason. I hate him for making me feel guilty. On the wall they go.
I write a story for reddit dot com slash r slash nosleep. I tell you about my mom and an old man and Jamie Berger and a ghost that looks or doesn’t look like me because it’s all relevant. And I tell you I’m scared. That’s the most important part. I’m scared I’m scared I’m scared.
Everything has its place.