My Dear Strangers,
A gut-wrenching discovery. The bedroom ghost has been locked in my storage closet for a week.
The closet contains items I packed away after moving into my brownstone. Last night at 11 P.M., I opened the door to retrieve a box of neckties and felt a rarefied, quavering air in the narrow dark space.
The ghost was catatonic after so much confinement. Ten seconds elapsed before she rushed out of the closet and passed directly through me.
I crumpled and cried. Wept is more exact. I felt a flood of pure empathy, a mutual possession. Our lonelinesses blended in a saturating hug, like warm and cool winds condensing into rain.
Bereavement overwhelmed me after she had passed. I have felt something similar with women I have loved, in the morning separations after nightlong clings, but never so exquisitely and never so completely.
The ghost had suffered far worse abandonment during the week, and I recovered more quickly and focused on her.
I sensed her huddling in the corner between the bed and the wall. Words seemed futile, and she felt too volatile to risk direct contact, so I kept a reasonable distance and hoped my mere companionship would give her reassurance.
Her electrical panic began to disperse. She slowly calmed and eventually lay on the bed, watching me—I think—as I sat on the floor below her.
Who is she? Why is she here? What does she know about me?
One thing is certain: not all ghosts can pass through solid matter*. I will need to be careful about opening and closing doors, in order to ensure she isn’t trapped again.
I have spent the last twelve hours in her company, having left to use the bathroom only twice and eaten nothing since yesterday’s dinner.
I believe she is sleeping now. I hope that she can dream.
Look Beyond,
William Rook
* How she moved through my body remains a mystery.
The Equinox Society 