The Ghost Woman

Inspired By A Conversation.

Photo by Tandem X Visuals on Unsplash

A black welt surrounded her eye. The small room was dark. An untouched couch took up the rooms space. She slumped in the corner.

Fridge light shone, unveiling a man. He was large enough to intimidate her. However, he’d be considered a small man by most. His knuckles clawed at a pack of beer. A fat bear hand in a jar of honey. His knuckle hair was like spider legs.

“Enough of your moans.” He slammed the fridge door.

She tensed. Each muscle willed to reverse those tears. Gravity damned her.

“I said enough!” He growled. He tossed a can of beer. It busted to her left, hissing and wetting the side of her face.

Couldn’t even hit me

She mocked him the only place she could. Her mind echoed liberating speeches she’d give. Bouncing on a tall horse. Staring firmly at an army of her selves. Facing the enemy that was man. Or her mother.

He watched her for a twitch. Beer held firm in hand. Would he crack it open? Would he throw another? A moment passed, then it hit his lips. He turned from her to the couch.

He gripped the remote, flicking on the television. His tired legs traded jobs with the couch. It creaked as he landed. He faced the TV, gluttonous for light and sound.

She watched him sit there. A bag of Cheetos balanced on his belly. Dirty fingernails sucked clean by means of Cheeto dust. His head looked like that of a thumb. Which made her think of a cyclops.

The thought of Cyclops made her think of Elves, Fairies, all sorts of enchanted forces. What might she be?

Ghost

She answered the question like a sneeze. She was helpless to the reaction, to that label.

A Ghost

That’s what she was. What she felt she was.

The cheers of the football game sounded like rain. He didn’t notice her thoughts. Her voice. Her pain.

Her.

Had anyone?

She shook. Too sad for rage. Each sob came as violent as a gag.

The memory of her mother pressed into her mind. The last time she’d seen her. Not certain how much she’d been sold for, that stack of bills the men gave looked thin.

Her mother’s face could only be remembered as a goblin. One drooling over a pile of coin. Naked and alone.

That was the day she herself died.

A Ghost.

She straightened. The sobs slowed. Stopped.

These memories of bondage, abuse. The cool logic gave her an embrace. If she was a ghost, these chains faded right through her wrists. If she was a ghost, not one of these men could dare touch her. Her soul. Her pride.

For ghosts haunt.

She stood, with cunning strength. The haunting of his house now begins.

She walked past him without fear.

He waved her away.

“Hey, make me a sandwich.” He commanded. “And not with that spicy mustard bullshit. Just the regular.”

She didn’t respond, but went in the kitchen.

The knife leaned at the edge. Whispers of The Ring came from that knife. She turned from it and walked from the kitchen, deeper in the house.

“Touchdown.” The TV roared. Thousands of cheers faded as she walked deeper. He cursed at the TV.

She found the basement door. The phone next to the cabinet. The key resting on the boiler. The stairs descending down. Where nobody talked. Where she and everyone pretended they weren’t people.

They said nothing when she entered.

She flicked on the light.

They lay chained to beds. All twelve. Her bed empty, of course. They didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t cry. Still, she unlocked each one. Each little ghost that hadn’t yet understood they’d been untouched all this time. That they were the objects of the haunt, not the victims.

She dialed the number she never had the strength to before.

And her whole life would be dedicated to the haunt. And so it was.