A Ghost story

A teenage boy, trapped in a house, prisoner to the ghosts.

I am sitting in the attic of the house, writing this. It is dark outside. The moon is out, shining through the window, creating a certain mirage of light that seems to reflect off the glass, pierce my eyes. I haven't seen the light, the outside, for years now - I have just been sitting in this attic for life, dropped off in this creepy house by some indolent family who's only care in the world was taking care of themselves, not giving a crap about me. So this is my life story.

The house is silent. I stand up and look at the door. Try to open it. It's locked shut. Of course it is. I have tried to get out before, even going to the extent of jumping out the window, but that never worked. I would always somehow end up back in the attic of the house to start my horrible life all over again. At times I have tried busting open the door. That never worked either.

It is usually in the middle of the night, when the moon is completely covered, when I hear the sounds in the darkness. I feel cold wisps of air. See a pale figure pacing up and down. I stand up, try to follow, but the figure disappears in the walls. Always. I can never find it.

I think I am going crazy. I've been up here for years. Nothing eventful happens. I'm hungry, thirsty. I have found creative ways of getting food, such as eating bugs and whatnot, but that's it. Nothing else. Occasionally I can bring the snake like water hose up here and can get some water. There is a lever up here that turns the water on. I do that most days, turn the water on; it would help water some of the plants below, some of the plants the previous owners left.

It gives me something to do. I stand up, walk across the room. Look out the window. A couple of cars are driving down the abandoned street. But there is nobody else. Everyone is either at work late or sleeping. That's how I see things.

The world goes by in a blur. I don't remember much. Just some faces of my old friends and family. I can't believe I'm still here, to be honest. It is nice here, don't get me wrong. it just gets boring. Nobody comes here. Not even the horny teenagers who are looking for a silent, abandoned place to make out. I would really rock their worlds, watch their bodies drop.

Or I'd let the ghost, if it really is a ghost.

I have become less threatened by the ghost. It doesn't scare me as it used to. It is quite friendly, and sometimes it speaks to me. Nice, friendly whispers. Whispers that are telling me to get back at the world. To wait for somebody to come into the house. And then snap.

So I do just that. Everyday. Constantly waiting for somebody to come into the house. Then I would break the bond I have with the house. And attack. And win. And finally escape.

Perfect plan.

Then, as I am looking out the window as I do, I see a man walk across the cracked, untended to sidewalk. Weeds are erupting from it like a small tree from a seed. The man opens the door, creeps inside. The ghost is right with me. I go to the door, smash my fist into it. Several times. My knuckles are bloody. Then the door bursts open, just like that.

(Do it, do it) it whispers at me.

I go down the stairs

(Do it do it DO IT!!!!)

see the man

(NOW)

and then I walk across the couch I didn't

(Hurry up)

was there. The door opens. A man looks surprise. I grab him. Twist him around in my fingers. Get back at the world that had done me wrong.

And then the world goes black and I run into the darkness.

Free.

Free.

(Free!)

(Running like the wind).