I was fourteen when I died, when my father took my life.
He was drunk, enraged, and I happened to be in the room. He beat
me to death with the belt from his own waist. I was screaming
when my soul finally separated from my body.
And there I was. Staring down at my dad while he continued to
pummel my already-dead body until he collapsed, senseless. Wasn't
I supposed to move on? Wasn't I supposed to go to heaven or hell
or someplace? Why was I still here?
I stayed in the house, watching, waiting. My father was taken
away by the police, locked away in jail for murdering me. For
that, I was thankful. Our house was put on for sale. There was no
mention of a father murdering his son in it, and before too long,
new family moved into our empty house. Empty, at least, as far as
they could tell. I was still there, a shadow of a shadow, gazing
lustfully at the life that was denied to me in full.
Somehow, they had known I was there. Why else did they move away?
Again, they left, and again, another family moved in. And again,
I was tortured by the fact that I would never relive my life.
This cycle occurred two more times. The fourth family moved in,
and I met her, the radiant one, the one that made my existence
I met Melissa Gordon.
She was the very picture of beauty, with beautiful, brown hair
and hazel eyes that shown like the moon. She was ten at the time
of her arrival. I had loved her upon sight. I watched her every
move as she swayed gracefully through the house, my
house, for the first time. She smiled then, and pronounced it
beautiful. My house, the house I was killed in, the house I had
lived in since 1981, the house she was living in now, was
beautiful to her.
And I loved her all the more for it. She was a child, especially
by my standards. But I loved her and lusted for her as only a
I followed her everywhere I could; from the kitchen to the
garage, from the garage to the attic, and from the attic to her
room. I trailed behind her, haunting her until she reached the
front doors of the house, where I would have to stop; for I was
bound to that house, that hateful house, that house that now
seemed so wonderful. And still, I would watch her from the
windows until she disappeared from my eyes.
Sometimes, I think she knew I was behind her. In the dark room
where I was killed, where the blood traces had finally vanished,
she would suddenly turn around, her eyes full of fear,
unknowingly staring at me. Then, she would hurry away, back down
the stairs, back to warmth, back to light, back to life. I would
feel sad when this happened; I never ever wanted to frighten her.
I observed her growth through the years, changing from a young,
awkward, clumsy, but pretty child into an elegant, swaying,
glorious teenager. No matter how she changed however, her initial
warmth, the warmth that made me feel so human whenever I
saw her, stayed with her. And I loved her more and more each
I loved the way she sang in her room, spreading her arms out and
just singing to the world from her bedroom window. I
loved the way she smiled, when she laughed, while reading a book
or comic, and I would laugh silently with her. I loved the way
she curled up at night under the covers, grinning blissfully in
her dreams; ghosts did not sleep, and I would keep a quiet vigil
until she would wake up. I loved the way she caressed her cat,
Isophetes, who seemed to know I was always around. I loved the
way she would raise her hands above her head when she changed
clothes. I loved the way she treated everyone with love and
respect, and I loved the way she invited her friends over and
giggled and smiled and talked with them.
But my power as a ghost was growing, and I could choose to make a
difference in the way she didn't know I was there. And I quickly
resolved to do just that. I deeply wanted to show my existence to
her, unknowing how my presence would affect her.
It was the day after she had turned fourteen. She sat in front of
her desk, and I decided to act. I simply lifted a pencil and just
let it hang in front of her for awhile. She stared
uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then ran out of the room
screaming something about ghosts.
Soon after, the Gordons moved away. Melissa Gordon, my last hope
for salvation and life and happiness, was terrified of me, and
she ran away. And it was my fault. It was my fault. All my
I still stay in that house, that lonely house, that hateful
house, waiting for someone to free me from my ordeal. I require
nothing from you, only company. Give me a chance to hear another
human's heartbeat, to pretend I am still living. Give me another
chance; give me another Melissa Gordon. Just give me something to
lift this loneliness away from my melancholy.
Let me hopelessly long for Melissa Gordon no more.