They say that there's a ghost in this house

CW: Sexual abuse, physical violence, death

They say that there's a ghost in this house, but I don't mind her. 

They also say it's a him, when they're not saying I’m crazy. But I know it's a her because she only haunts the men. And, besides, there’s something much worse haunting the women in this house. 

We were a happy family before we moved here. But then Mom got sick. At first she was just more tired than usual, but it got hard for her to get out of bed. My older sister Clara took over the chores, missing a few days of school here and there when Dad complained about the place being a pigsty. “I don’t work all day to come home to this!” He’d yell, then open another bottle. 

We used to eat dinners together at night, but not after Mom got sick. Clara tried to keep everything going, but she was barely tall enough to see over the sink. I tried to help, but I just ended up making a mess of things. 

Then one day, Mom didn’t wake up. Dad didn’t even tell us. We only found out when we went into the bedroom to give her a kiss on the cheek before going to school. “She’s so cold,” I told Clara. “Should we get her another blanket?”

Clara just stared, scared to touch Mom. But eventually she extended a hand, brushed her cheek right where I’d planted my kiss, then pulled it back, tears forming in her eyes.

“Let’s get her a blanket,” I started to leave the room to get the one from my bed, but Clara caught me by the shoulder.

“She doesn’t need a blanket. She’s gone.” 

“No, she’s not!” I laughed, but not too loud. “She’s right there.” I walked over and pushed Mom’s shoulder a little, trying to wake her just enough so that she could laugh at how silly Clara was being. “Mom, did you hear that?” I said, smiling. “Mom…” I pushed her again, harder this time, noticing how cold her shoulder was. 

Clara stood there, tears falling down her face, staring at Mom. 

That was the day I learned about death, but the days after that were when I learned that death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a person. 

After Mom’s funeral, Dad’s brother, Uncle Jack, moved in. The house felt heavier the second he stepped through the door. At night, he and Dad would go drinking, but he’d always come back first, when it was just me and Clara home. He’d go into our room and send me out to watch TV. I couldn’t believe an adult was letting me stay up late to watch TV, but I had to admit it was a little weird without Clara. 

The first time it happened, Dad asked me what I was doing in the living room, and where was Uncle Jack. I told him, and he looked towards my and Clara’s door but didn’t walk over to it. He just went right into his bedroom and slammed the door. A few minutes later, Uncle Jack came out and told me I needed to go to bed. He seemed different, but I couldn’t explain how. Before I closed my bedroom door, I turned back and saw him pulling out the bed from the couch. 

I felt my way to my bed in the dark and heard Clara sniffing, like she was crying. “Clara? What did Uncle Jack want from you?” I asked. 

“Nothing,” she whispered. “Just go to sleep. It’s late.” 

“Clara, why are you crying?” 

“I just miss Mom.”

That should have been the day I learned about monsters. But Clara protected me for a long time, until one evening, while she was out with friends, Uncle Jack came home early from the bar and crept into my room when I was alone. That was when I found out why Clara was crying that night, all those years ago. 

That was also the day I found out about ghosts. When Uncle Jack slipped out of the room before Clara or Dad got home, I needed to talk to someone, to process what had just happened. So I talked to the darkness. I asked why he touched me, why Clara had kept her secret for so long, why Dad still let Uncle Jack live here. 

What I didn’t expect was for the darkness to talk back, for it to sound like Mom, or at least what I could remember her sounding like. She told me everything would be okay, that she would take care of Uncle Jack and Dad, if I wanted her to. I thought for a second and said, “Yes. Take care of them both.” Then I fell asleep, feeling safe with my ghost.

That was the day when the men in the house started having problems. First, it started with the pull-out couch bed Uncle Jack was sleeping on breaking. I knew it was my ghost who had done it after our pact in the dark. 

Uncle Jack told Dad he’d be fine sleeping on the floor of my and Clara’s room. For a brief second, I was terrified Dad would say yes, but then I felt a cold wave come over me, as cold as Mom’s cheek was that last day. It should have scared me, but I felt safe. Clara stood next to me, and I wondered if she felt the chill, too.

But Dad said no, and Uncle Jack started to yell at him. “You don’t trust me with your daughters? I’m their uncle!” He laughed, but it was a mean, hard laugh. 

Dad took a deep breath and stood up tall, almost as tall as Uncle Jack, who was still about a head taller. “No, I don’t. And I think it’s about time you found somewhere else to stay,” he said, trying to stand straight but still a little wobbly, the smell of sweat and alcohol coming off him. 

“You don’t mean it,” Uncle Jack softened and walked over to Dad, acting like this was all a joke. “C’mon, little brother, you can’t say ‘no’ to me.” He pulled Dad towards him for a hug, but Dad pushed him away. He looked over his shoulder at us, huddled in our doorway, knowing he was the only thing standing between us and Uncle Jack. 

Uncle Jack’s eyes got real mean then. “I’m not leaving, and that’s final.” He turned around to walk toward the broken couch bed. The next few things happened very fast, but I knew my ghost was behind it. Dad bumped the table that had our family pictures on it from that first day we moved into this house, and an empty beer bottle fell off and broke. Dad looked at it, Uncle Jack looked at it, then Uncle Jack looked at Dad. Somehow, he read Dad’s mind, maybe because they were brothers. Maybe because they were both bad men. They lunged for the bottle’s neck, with its jagged edges. Dad snatched it away, and without hesitating, he plunged it into Uncle Jack’s neck.

I was horrified, but I tried not to smile. It felt good to see him hurt, blood pouring out of him like he’d done to me and Clara. I looked at my sister; she was smiling, too. Dad stood up and looked at us. His expression was panicked, and even more so once he saw his two daughters delighting in the blood. Recognition flashed over his face, and he knew that his suspicions were correct. 

Uncle Jack grabbed the bloody wound, trying to make it stop, but it wouldn’t. Dad looked at his brother, still holding the broken bottle neck, then ran to the phone, calling for help. 

Clara grabbed my hand, and with one look and a cold wind at our back, we walked to Uncle Jack, standing over him, the air so cold that I almost shivered. I knew it was only my ghost. He looked up at us, tried to say something, but it was all crimson bubbles. My older sister was more daring than I was, and she leaned down and whispered, “I hope you burn in hell.” Uncle Jack’s eyes went wide, and he tried to shake his head, but his whole body went limp, and he died like that, looking like a gutted fish. 

Dad hung up the phone, walked over, saw his brother, and collapsed. I leaned down to touch him. Cold.

That was the day our maternal grandparents moved into our house so that Clara and I didn’t have to go to Child Protective Services. We never talked about Uncle Jack again; we barely mentioned Dad. But we finally talked about Mom. Grandma told us all kinds of stories about when she was a kid, and it was fun to learn, but it made me miss Mom more. 

Every now and then, people would complain about cold drafts in the house, especially when Grandpa would have his friends over. But I’d always say, “It must be a ghost,” smirking, knowing I was right. They’d complain that they felt sick when the coldness was around, eventually leaving the house. I knew that meant they were bad; only the bad men couldn’t handle the cold. Grandpa said he never felt it, and that’s how I knew he was good. 

Eventually, Grandma and Grandpa died, Clara grew up and moved away, but I’m still here in this house. Me and my ghost.