I apologize for the fog, the cold hallway, and the way the lights bend toward whichever room I occupy. I understand these things are upsetting. Unfortunately, they are not theatrics in the way you assume.
They are boundaries.
A haunting must remain recognizable as a haunting. Cold tells your body that I am not alive. Flickering lights mark the distance between where you are and where I remain. Doors opening by themselves remind both of us that I enter differently. I learned this only after your youngest began leaving a place for me at the table.
The first evening, I sat. The chair accepted my weight. I cannot adequately explain what that felt like.
The following morning, your child could not lift a spoon.
I stood in the hallway that night and watched strength return to those small hands while mine became transparent again. The exchange was slight enough that none of you noticed. I did.
After that came other experiments I regret. When you spoke to me directly, my voice strengthened and yours became hoarse. When someone hung a stocking for me last winter, I became warm enough to fog a window while your eldest shivered beneath three blankets.
Ordinary kindness is making me alive. It is doing so by borrowing life from you.
This is why I have resumed the fog. This is why the doors slam. This is why I whisper from vents instead of joining conversations. I need you to be frightened enough to remember what I am.
Your youngest has set my place again tonight. Please remove it.
If the child cries, allow the crying. If the chair moves, break it. If I ask to come in, understand that I may sincerely mean it and refuse anyway.
I have spent decades wanting someone to treat me as though I belonged in a home.
I know now what it costs.
Please forgive the theatrics.
They are the only thing keeping me dead.
©2013 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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