Ghosts

TW : Gaslighting, Stalking

The following text contains fictional elements that may include themes of fear, supernatural occurrences, and psychological tension. Reader discretion is advised.


I felt it first in the corner of my eye,
a shadow too persistent, too sure
to be the swaying of a tree.
Steps behind me when the street was empty,
breath so close I thought it could fog my glasses,
but when I turned, nothing.

At home, it began small:
the faint scrape of furniture shifting in the night,
drawers left open by unseen hands.
Then larger things—
the way the curtains would ripple
when the windows were shut tight,
or how the scent of earth and mud lingered
even after Auntie had scrubbed the floors.

I swear I saw it once.
Not fully.
But enough.
A figure crouched in the hallway,

It was always there,
just at the edge of light.
Peering at me through reflections in the glass,
its eyes burning
while I pretended not to notice.

Tonight, I keep my steps quick,
but not quick enough.
It doesn’t matter where I turn;
the ghost doesn’t need shortcuts.
It’s everywhere and nowhere all at once.
And when it finally happens—
when the street empties out,
when I am alone—
it runs at me,
a scream rising in my throat
just as its icy hand closes around my neck.

I open my eyes in my bedroom,
familiar but wrong.
The curtains flutter
as if someone just passed through.
The lamp buzzes faintly,
a sound that drills into my skull.
And on my neck,
dark bruises bloom like shadows
pressed into my skin.

She’s sitting in the chair by the window,
her dark hair brushing her shoulders,
her face carved from stone.
Her eyes flicker to mine,
and she sighs as if I am a chore she cannot escape.
"Another ghost," she mutters,
"No. It was a person. A stalker," I voice sternly.
She raises her eyebrows high,
And then-
Then. She. Laughs.
"What should I do with you?
You have your mother's black, witchy eyes,
and that's why the ghosts follow you—because of it.
It’s your fault, really."

"Not a ghost. We need the police!" I yell.

The trembling starts somewhere deep,
spreading to my hands as I clutch the blanket.
She stands, her shadow stretching longer than it should,
pooling at her feet like ink.
"Better not leave this room," she says,
her voice sharp, slicing the air.
"The police are not ghostbusters.
What you need is not an exorcism, but…"

She raises her hand, and I flinch.
Her lips curl into something unreadable,
her eyes piercing as she leans closer,
Her icy fingers digging on my jaw
"They can smell it on you—
the fear, the hunger,
the cracks in your mind.
So get it together.
I don’t want another hazard like last year."

Her words hang heavy,
and the air in the room thickens,
pressing me into the bed.
I don’t ask what happened last year.
I don’t want to know.