No matter where I am or how much time has passed I still feel it looking at me.
My hair is raising along my spine as I type this, alone in my office on a foggy Sunday morning. Ever since I was around four years old it has been here. Waiting. Watching. Wanting. I can distance myself but never rid myself of him, never be free of the smell of lavender and some deep musk that I can’t describe well. I used to love him so much; he was my comfort when I was sad, my shoulder to cry on. He was my best friend, my secret friend, who no one else could hear or talk to. I was special.
The jealousy ruined everything. Puberty begets dating, dating begets new comfort and new routes towards happiness. I no longer needed the hollow comfort of someone who refused to give a name. This was deemed unacceptable; I had hurt the feelings of the most vengeful being I have ever known. The words “I promise I will have you” echo in my mind eleven years later, only now they are less romantic and more threatening. He has been distanced, barriers have been erected, he is often ignored, but he never goes far. He bides his time waiting for me to pass on to his side for the claiming.
Standing in the shadows in my hall watching me laugh with my friends, some may have seen love but what I saw was obsession. No eyes could be seen on this tall figure, but the stare dove in to the depths of my being and dug around my core until my laughter died. The nightmares and bruises didn’t only affect me. (This sounds like I was a victim of child abuse but I assure you this culprit didn’t exist as a human embodiment. It isn’t human and never was.) My mother suffered from the nightmares and strange noises. She was part of it but never the focus.
Neither my mother nor I could keep electronics for long; they always malfunctioned. It was possible to watch the volume dial on the stereo turn up on its own while a brand new CD was being scratched in the player. Batteries died quickly, TVs did their own thing, and my calculator left ominous messages to me when I’d do my homework at night.
This all sounds ridiculous and explainable, I agree, but you weren’t there. You didn’t feel what I felt or see what I saw. You didn’t see the cupboards all open at 2am when no one else was home but you. You didn’t hear the nightly sobbing in the garage (even while blasting music). You didn’t have your friends not want to stay the night anymore because they were scared; even when those friends were initially the ones who told you hauntings are all delusions of a sick mind.
No one understands because no one believes it’s true. Believe me when I say that someday it could be you. Then you’d understand. Then you’d know. Until then, though, I guess I’m the one who gets to be seen as a liar or lunatic.
[I don’t expect anyone to believe this information although it is my reality and my problem that I am faced with regularly. If you have never experienced these things it’s easy to see why it would seem fictitious to you and I will not hold it against any readers. I only ask you to respect the fact that to me it is very, very real.]