A zeitgeist hooked on haunting, she kept appearing and wore the walls like fine cloth dresses. Short dark hair and deep brown eyes kept their gaze on me late at night in my study. At first I thought it was the fireplace casting shadows and I would blink to clear my vision, but found her apparition still there, hovering in the corner of the room as if a Cerberus to my quiet time.

She said nothing, moving only hands and looks in sultry motions. It felt as if her chin was rested on my shoulder while I read, but when I turned to look, she was still far back in the corner. She floated and shimmered, the dress emanating a cottony glow like a stop-motion picture stuck on the same 10 frames looping towards the end of forever.

I could only get through part of a chapter before being unnerved to the point of leaving the room. She never traveled through the rest of the house, only that room in that corner. After weeks of not getting any real reading done, I finally spoke to her, unable to keep my voice from shaking. Whether from fear or frustration, I could never discern, but she would close her eyes after my initial speaking and I would wake later in my bed with the sun warming my sheets and pillows.

I eventually stopped trying to speak to her, angry at my loss of time and self between icebreaker and sunrise and made attempts to ignore her as I finished my book by the end of the month. I took to gardening as it got warmer and spent more time walking the grounds in the following weeks. My vines were greening nicely and the breeze whispered through their leaves as I sauntered along the dirt and rock path back to the house, beating the storm I could see dark-clouding and creeping in from the West. I put the tools away and went inside to sup before stoking a small fire in the study.

The storm barreled over the house as I settled into my chair and smiled at the contrast of flame-lit book spines and the blue-white lightning crackling and shaking the earth outside. I choose a book from the smaller of three bookshelves. The pages smelled fresh as if the ink were lifting up through the covers to seduce me and I sat in my leather chair to begin the introduction.

My eyes scanned the page and as oranges and yellows lit up the paper, I saw a white flicker from the corner of my eye. I watched as it passed in front of my feet and kept going to the right. I leaned forward to get a better look and found myself looking at a child’s ball. I turned my head left and saw a child of no more than four years of age sitting Indian style against the wall, bathed in the same white glow as the woman before.

He stared at me as if to pity my mortal existence and seemed to pout with his arms crossed against his chest. He nodded up at me, indicating he wanted his ball back, and I looked back down to the toy. I leaned towards it and felt my hand wave through nothingness. My fingers scooped at the air within the illusion and I shrugged back at the boy, unable to help. He pursed his lips together tighter and nodded at the ball more emphatically. I shook my head and shrugged, finding no way to appease him.

He unfolded his arms, balled up his fists, and scrunched his face together in frustration. He made as if to slam his fists against the floor and opened his mouth about to scream when I woke up in my bed, sheets tossed to the carpeting and my sweaty pajama bottoms sticking to my legs. The sun was out and the storm had passed over, leaving the grounds to chirp and cicada-buzz themselves awake among the post-shower shake off.

I spent the day moving every book from the study to a leaf burning pit near the storage shed and soaked them in lantern oil once, then again to make sure they burned thoroughly. I lit the pit on fire and grabbed a hammer, nails, and plywood from the storage unit. The study would have to be cordoned off before the day ended.

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