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 bearable.
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 ghost could.
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 passing day.
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 fault...
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.
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