The Worst Hauntings Happen Behind Your Eyes

As a child you were tiny, and timid, and the night was full of terrors.

You saw in every window a mythical monster, heard the voice

of a demon in every windstorm, the creeping step of the bogeyman

In every creaking floorboard.

Then you'd run to Mother's arms

And all would be well.

Those were the days when the monsters were apart from you. Not real.

Now you cry in your sleep with no one to hold you

Phantom pains in your limbs, phantom bodies

Visions of bloodshed and terror in your head

In your heart;

Ghostly hands burning you where they touch,

Greedy, demanding; violent words eating into you like rot,

Echoes of explosions and mocking words on and on

and on.

These are the days you realise

There is no mythical monster that can be killled—

Just you, and the indelible past on repeat in your head

Over

And over,

And over again:

A part of you, too stark, too real.

These are the days

When you have nowhere to run.

{Claire}

ghosts

We are all haunted, whether we like it or not.


Only the unhappy become ghosts.
It has to be. The happy dead stay dead and gone. For what other business would they have still with the mortal world?

It is not only people who become ghosts.
Memories, experiences. They die also, and they become ghosts as we mourn their loss. Happy memories are bittersweet ghosts tinged with longing; while the unhappy ghosts stay lurking, in the dark recesses of the soul. Never truly gone, or forgotten.

It is not only people who haunt us, but also their memory.
A tender smile that could light up like the sun, sharp words that cut quick and to the bone, butterfly kisses soft and fleeting across fevered flesh.

We remember, and we mourn. Because ghosts are the only things we have left to remember them by.

- WenZhen

No. 12 Cherry Blossom Lane

He stood in the middle of the room, waiting. Moonlight seeped in through the tall, full-length windows that lined the wall to his left, filtered once by the grime that covered them, and then again by the worn, translucent curtains that were drawn across them, bathing the room in a pale but sickly glow. What furniture in the room - two small armchairs and a chest of drawers - had been pushed against the opposite wall, draped in white sheets and layers of dust. The house was old; he could feel the memories that were embedded in the thick stone walls that muted the sound of traffic outside, and the fragments of the past roosting in the beams that ran across the high ceiling above his head. Silence reigned, except for the soft ticking of his pocket watch, which hung out the left side of his robes, chain held loosely between his thumb and forefinger.

An insistent prodding came from within his mind. He willed it to be quiet. Patience. His prey would reveal themselves soon enough. Family of five, brutally murdered. Violence always twisted and tied departing souls to this world, tormenting them with a need for vengeance, contorting their forms with pain and hatred. He felt them dimly, floating through the stale air and the musty corners of the empty, foreboding house. He checked his pocket watch. Less than a minute. He kept it carefully within the folds of his robe. With his right hand firmly grasping the midnight-black scabbard on his right hip, his left hand reached over to rest on the hilt of his ken. Overhead, he sensed rather than saw the shadows coalescing into an inky, oily fog, sliding slowly down the wall in front of him. A rising sense of anticipation flooded his mind, coming from the same source as the earlier prodding; a large white wolf, fangs bared, eager for the scent and the taste of blood. You enjoy this too much, sometimes, he thought.

You know I live only for the hunt, came the reply. She was more eager tonight, he sensed. He could feel her quivering in his hands, waiting to be set loose. Ahead, the oily shadow had begun to take form.

Here we go. Drawing her out in a smooth, fluid motion, he flowed forward to meet their foe.

- Adrian

An Angel's Mirror

Buzzing air breathes spring,
Steaming through brusque bleeding rocks.

I stared down at me. 

Agnes Lee

Topic: Ghosts (day 2)