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literameera · 2 years

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Poems Written by The Ghost that's Haunting You - Part 3

Look at me!

Standing behind you in the mirror.

I'm flickering the lights in the long dark hallway.

I'm knocking outside your bedroom door,

       Clanging chains and guttural groans.

I've written messages for you

You just have to look.

When the temperature drops;

a foul odour permeates the room.

Know it's me watching you at the foot of your bed.

         I'm following you everywhere.

The echoing footsteps I know you hear.

I'm ruining your pictures,

Scaring the dog

               Scarring the stone

Sobbing in between your walls.

I'm the glitch in your phone calls.

       "Residual haunting"

Caught in the loop

Of demanding for your attention

      Why won't you Look?

              Turn back

                       See me here

The shadow in the corner of your eye.

The knife has moved places.

        Let me in

Let me in unobserved

Let me in or I'll make you repent

Let me in or I'll kill you

       Let me in

Ingrid had never been a religious person, her parents were, but not enough to believe in demons or exorcisms. They knew enough to comprehend that if someone thought they were possessed a therapist would help more than a priest. She had never even believed in ghosts. Everything could be attributed to tricks of the light, gas leaks, maybe even dedicated pranksters if it was elaborate enough. But no one knew what she had done, not enough to scrawl ‘HERODIAS’ on her bedroom walls. The smell was overwhelming too. She had anticipated the sulphur, smoke, and rotten eggs, but the cedarwood and mint of his long-forgotten cologne had blindsided her. On some mornings she’d wake up with red hands. Banquo was getting impatient.

One time, Matt had surprised her while she was making dinner by wrapping his arms around her waist, something that wasn’t new for either of them, but she hadn’t heard him enter and the closeness made her flinch. On instinct alone she turned too quickly and grazed his arm with the knife in her hand. She couldn’t trust herself with the cutlery anymore. He didn’t understand but he was quick to forgive. She discerned that Matt likely thought she had leftover battered wife syndrome. That he attributed her erratic behaviour to the mysterious ex she wouldn’t talk about, and if that helped him love her, she’d let him believe it.

After that incident, she resolved to completely ignore the ghost. Matt is a good man who just so happens to love her, despite her ugly, and she couldn’t let a few episodes from her past interfere with that. When her hands were dripping crimson, she’d wait till her shower to wash them. She ignored the messages left for her and only cleaned them away when she cleaned the rest of the room, she resolved not to jump at every sound and when it got bad enough to make her cry she’d sneak away to her car (almost certain he couldn’t follow her that far) and come back with fruit from a local supermarket to cover her tracks. She cooked more of Matt’s favourite meals and stopped looking through his phone at night while he slept. She could be and will be normal and good and proper. Someone one could adore, no asterisk needed, and the first step was killing her ghost.

It lashed out once. She was left alone for the day and overcompensated with a day of relaxation. She let the bathwater run black and stepped in regardless. She pretended to not see him behind her in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. When he flung her tea off the table, she laughed as if it were her mistake and made another cup. He was much more confident when Matt wasn’t there and Ingrid dared not call a friend over. They all knew him, and she was terrified they might have recognised his laugh emanating from the radiator. Near the close of the day, she reclined on the sofa, taking up all the space, and started on the book she had picked up on her last supermarket trip. She hadn’t gotten far when the room temperature plummeted. Then, a photo of her and Matt fell off the wall. Then another, her mother’s face now smiling out at her from behind cracked glass. Her books threw themselves off their shelves, every pipe rattled and groaned, daring to burst. Every tap ran, every light flickered. She nearly screamed as she dodged a wayward book flying towards her head. It was only when she could hear the knives from the kitchen drag against the vinyl flooring did she fling herself to the floor and let the sob wretch free from her throat.

‘I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, please! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for what I did to you please! I repent!'

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