I say hunted–not haunted–because a ghost is, in fact, hunting me down.
It’s been seven years since I last saw it. It was shortly after my father died when this ghost, which had previously been securely tethered in the family house, managed to get out of its shackles and follow me around.
My father kept this ghost because it supposedly gave him some financial luck. Although if you ask me, that luck was barely anything at all, seeing as we were still dirt poor and in debt at the end of all of it. His gambling problem and impulsive purchases of vintage sports cars he obviously couldn’t afford did not help. Neither did my mom’s fondness for scams and pyramid schemes. It had been an uncontested notion that the family would not have gotten through most years without it.
I have never asked my parents how this ghost came to be in their lives, or what deal it was that they made with it. Throughout my entire life, it had been part of the home–a presence that I wasn’t allowed to talk about or question, much less object to.
To be fair, it’s not that dangerous. Although I guess “dangerous” is subjective depending on who’s looking at what. As over time, one might get accustomed, or tolerant, to what would otherwise be considered dangerous by others. A slap or a scratch here and there, the occasional slamming of doors and throwing of objects around the house, and explosions of rage every now and then.
Unlike other ghosts, this one likes to talk–a lot. And unlike other ghosts, this one doesn’t scare. Instead it drags its subjects deep into hopelessness by sweetly mumbling vicious melodies of pain in their ear. Whether you listen to it or not, its mere presence slowly sucks the life out of you, bit by bit until such a point where you can’t even get out of bed.
This is evidenced by the fact that my father had been plagued by melancholy for most of the years I had known him. From watching him wither away, I got the impression that he did not live a life, but suffered a long, stretched out death. For decades, I watched him stay in bed all day, watching TV as his life slipped away.
And I myself, having grown up in the same household, also began to suffer the disease.
All this had been an unspoken family secret that even our closest relatives had absolutely no idea it was there. They would visit for holidays and me, my mom, my dad, would all put on our best holiday cheers. We are a humorous crowd as well, and our quick wits really help complete the show.
During these occasions, the ghost disappears, until no outsider is left in the house. And then it goes back to whispering.
I had always known that I was next in line for the repayment. Since I was twelve, the ghost had made it clear to me. It demands life as payment for the debt.
“You owe me,” it whispers.
The worst part is that my mom supports it, demanding that I do my duty. She wants me to take on living with the ghost, as she and my father have.
“You won’t even know it’s there,” she reasons. But she and I both know fully well that I would, as this ghost dominates the house it lives in.
I had always rebelled against this imposition. I felt that it wasn’t fair for me to have to pay for mistakes I did not make; to inherit a debt I never agreed to.
But this ghost does not listen to reason, and it definitely does not negotiate.
After my dad died, I told the ghost that I refuse to be a casualty in whatever deal it brokered with my parents, or grandparents, or great grandparents. I wasn’t sure how far up that history went.
It began its usual whispers. And I started challenging its claims.
This time, it did something I’ve never seen it do before. It’s mouth stretched out downwards and it began to wail. The wail evolved into one long, seemingly endless scream.
And just like that, it had reduced me, a fully grown adult at this point, into a trembling child. In that moment, I felt as if the ghost had leeched several years off of my life within a matter of seconds. It was a demonstration of power: its whispers were a courtesy, but it can do far more if it wanted to.
I received that message loud and clear. I ran out of the house as quickly as I could and swore never to go back.
It was in the wee hours of the morning and I went straight to a friend’s house. As the adrenaline from the confrontation subsided, the stings from my injuries surfaced themselves. It took a bit of time to realize I had gashes and scratches across my back and arms. “Trouble at the home,” I told them.
I didn’t really have much at the time, but my friend offered to pick up whatever little I had left in the old house.
Since then, I’ve moved a lot, trying to outrun the ghost. It usually works, but only for a little while.
The ghost moves by following people who come to the old house, hoping they would lead it to where I live. And eventually, it succeeds, usually through relatives checking in on the house and later on paying me a visit. Or paying me a visit and discussing my whereabouts while in the old house. As soon as I realized this, I made a habit of packing up my stuff at the faintest sounds resembling its whispers.
I had started cutting cousins off because of this. Because no matter how I tried to explain what was in the house, they never believed me. And worse, they kept guilting me into coming back to the house to “deal with things.” The house is crumbling down and needs upkeep, my mother misses me, and the usual scripts.
Sometimes the guilt trip is so bad that I’m almost convinced that I made this all up in my head; that even if the ghost did exist, I was overreacting and should go back to the house just the same. I’ve been fortunate enough to snap out of it in time and keep my distance.
But now, on my fifth move, it has found me yet again.
I can see it in the corner of my eye, creeping behind trees whenever I come out for a cigarette on the balcony. I can hear its whispers from outside the yard. Even though these are more prominent at night–when everything else goes quiet–I’m sure as hell it’s also there during the day, drowned out by all other sounds.
And despite having a fence, a gate, and several yards between us, I can feel it taking back what it’s owed–in miniscule portions, but with all certainty. One way or another, the ghost will find a way to take back what it deems its property. True enough, its gloom had started to take over the surroundings. The skies, the trees, the river had turned a certain tinge of grey. My senses are turning dull.
I managed in time to make arrangements to move to another country altogether, hoping it doesn’t gain the power of flight. I will be looking for old scripts documenting methods for vanquishing this type of ghost (recommendations welcome), just in case it does. If all else fails, I take comfort in the fact that I have no children to inherit this curse.
And for those whose homes are lorded over by a similar type of host, I highly advise you run–as fast as you can, as far as you can, as soon as you can.