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Ghosts in His House
Ghosts in his house
There were ghosts in his house. And they won’t let him be.
They kept poking and prodding at him, slashing and laughing at him in gleeful fury. Until he’d had no choice but to run.
Had you asked him, he would have said that it was not cowardice that had forced him to leave. Not fear or apprehension of the memories and lives that were imprinted on the walls of the large brick house. Just simple preservation.
He’d almost believed it himself that first year away.
But the ghost won’t leave him alone. And somehow, they’d found a way to follow him, to invade his subconscious and manifest themselves in everything.
So... now he was back.
The house, smaller than he’d remembered, was still as suffocating and intimidating as it had always been. He’d always felt too big, too clumsy when surrounded with the tiny knick-knacks and crystals that his mother had felt compelled to litter across every available surface, and of course it didn’t help any that he had almost always been the one to trip and spill grape juice on the priceless Persian rug or the one to break the irreplaceable ceramic urn that had been in the family for generations. So, it was for this reason that he’d tucked long fingers into faded jeans as he moved through the ancient house.
He turned and stood in the door way of the room where the ghosts howled loudest. It was different of course. The walls had been whitewashed of all posters and banners and the large oak bed had been removed and sent to storage. There was little similarity between the room he’d occupied as a boy and the empty, pristine room that existed now.
Yet he remembered it all too well.
It was in that room that he’d dreamed. Where he’d tucked away hopes and imaginings that had, for a time, been shiny with possibilities. It was in that room that he’d been punished, with heavy fists that bruised only where it couldn’t be seen. It was there that he’d cried, in secret and in shame. And when those tears had dried, he had plotted in that room, childish revenge that almost always backfired.
He’d learned to hate in that room.
“Will that be all, Mr. Gammel?”
Mathias turned and regarded the brawny man that had been responsible for the upkeep of the grounds from as far back as he could remember. Another reminder. Another ghost. "Yes. I’ll have your final cheque sent on, tomorrow."
The older man nodded, seemingly ambivalent to the prospect of losing a position he'd held for more than twenty years. “Have a good day Mr. Gammel.”
Mathias barely heard him leave.
Light struck and bounced off the shiny hardwood floor, unto walls that were barren of everything except faded floral wallpaper. And he knew he’d made the right decision.
It wasn’t enough to just shroud the furniture in cloth, to allow the heirlooms and antiques to gather dust in misuse. He had to destroy them. To cleanse and wipe the slate clean with fire and heat. And in the burning, maybe that person he had once been would be destroyed as well.
Maybe finally the ghosts would leave him alone.
They kept poking and prodding at him, slashing and laughing at him in gleeful fury. Until he’d had no choice but to run.
Had you asked him, he would have said that it was not cowardice that had forced him to leave. Not fear or apprehension of the memories and lives that were imprinted on the walls of the large brick house. Just simple preservation.
He’d almost believed it himself that first year away.
But the ghost won’t leave him alone. And somehow, they’d found a way to follow him, to invade his subconscious and manifest themselves in everything.
So... now he was back.
The house, smaller than he’d remembered, was still as suffocating and intimidating as it had always been. He’d always felt too big, too clumsy when surrounded with the tiny knick-knacks and crystals that his mother had felt compelled to litter across every available surface, and of course it didn’t help any that he had almost always been the one to trip and spill grape juice on the priceless Persian rug or the one to break the irreplaceable ceramic urn that had been in the family for generations. So, it was for this reason that he’d tucked long fingers into faded jeans as he moved through the ancient house.
He turned and stood in the door way of the room where the ghosts howled loudest. It was different of course. The walls had been whitewashed of all posters and banners and the large oak bed had been removed and sent to storage. There was little similarity between the room he’d occupied as a boy and the empty, pristine room that existed now.
Yet he remembered it all too well.
It was in that room that he’d dreamed. Where he’d tucked away hopes and imaginings that had, for a time, been shiny with possibilities. It was in that room that he’d been punished, with heavy fists that bruised only where it couldn’t be seen. It was there that he’d cried, in secret and in shame. And when those tears had dried, he had plotted in that room, childish revenge that almost always backfired.
He’d learned to hate in that room.
“Will that be all, Mr. Gammel?”
Mathias turned and regarded the brawny man that had been responsible for the upkeep of the grounds from as far back as he could remember. Another reminder. Another ghost. "Yes. I’ll have your final cheque sent on, tomorrow."
The older man nodded, seemingly ambivalent to the prospect of losing a position he'd held for more than twenty years. “Have a good day Mr. Gammel.”
Mathias barely heard him leave.
Light struck and bounced off the shiny hardwood floor, unto walls that were barren of everything except faded floral wallpaper. And he knew he’d made the right decision.
It wasn’t enough to just shroud the furniture in cloth, to allow the heirlooms and antiques to gather dust in misuse. He had to destroy them. To cleanse and wipe the slate clean with fire and heat. And in the burning, maybe that person he had once been would be destroyed as well.
Maybe finally the ghosts would leave him alone.