(WP) Ghosted by Love
If the spirit was being totally honest, he’d began haunting people out of sheer boredom. Being dead, when you couldn’t move on, just wasn’t fun. All the things that had made being human memorable, food and sex and warm embraces in the arms of a loved one, were, day by day, lost to him. Time had stretched into long, immeasurable dollops; he had nothing else left to do. And part of him was more than a little bitter. It just wasn’t fair, to have left the human plane so quickly. And nowadays, barely anyone remembered who he used to be. All he was now was a horror story, a cautionary tale told when the moon was high and humans were feeling daring.
It disgusted him, to think that he’d been made little more than a joke, so it made him feel better, to take his frustrations out on the living. You had to take your fun where you could find it, when you were currently in limbo.
His maudlin thoughts were interrupted by some noise on the lower floors: laughter, running footsteps, a joyful shriek; a flash of rage sprang to life in his chest, and in a flash, he was on the bottom floor, following the sounds. How dare these humans intrude on his private brooding? How dare they be so happy, so carefree, so alive?
It wasn’t fair.
For a while, he just watched, hovering above them, rage and bitterness festering inside him, an infection that he was helpless to stop.
The couple in question was a pair of young men; maybe in their late teens; they were chasing each other across the house, not seeming to notice the thick layer of dust that had built up on the furnishings, nor the thick, silvery spiderwebs that had spring up in every untouched corner; it made the spirit remember that this house, so grand even in its old age, had once been a home, hadn’t always been the cage that now kept him contained for many a long year.
How odd, the brief but bright light that seemed to emanate from the two young men. Life was so fleeting, and the most tragic thing about it was that no one realized after it was over. His rage dimmed slightly, kept him from pouncing on the couple. They weren’t the first to intrude on his final resting place, nor would they be the last. Something bitter and sour climbed up into his throat, coating the inside of his mouth, and he wished he could spit.
The two men were entangled in each other’s arms, kissing shyly at first, then deeper, and a sigh escaped one’s lips before he pulled away. He looked up, almost as if he could feel that they were being watched.
“This isn’t exactly the most romantic place to hook up,” He told his lover, smiling crookedly. “I mean, aren’t you creeped out? I feel like someone’s watching us.”
The speaker appeared as though he were bathed in light; it made his dark olive skin seem lit from within, and when he smiled, the ghost could see freckles scattered like pale stardust on his nose, cheeks, and forehead. His eyes reminded the ghost of the wood behind the mansion, a golden amber that made him think of clover honey, and he was dressed in a red and black flannel shirt with a black sweatshirt underneath, and denim jeans that looked so stiff that they were brand new.
He was gorgeous, and immediately, the spirit coveted this beautiful boy for himself: the ache that sprang up inside of him was so intense that he almost disappeared under the force of it.
What was this feeling, anyway? He hadn’t felt it in years, and was so shocked by it that it did not even feel familiar. There was barely an echo from his time alive, and for the first time in centuries, he was frightened, aflame with so much emotion he could make anything sensible out of it.
So much for haunting these fools. The joke was on him; it had been they, in the end, who haunted him. He could’ve laughed at the irony of it all.