As 27th October was National Tell a Story Day in Scotland and the UK, I thought I would share a story I wrote some time ago. It is perfect for the time of year when spirits rise on All Hallows Eve. I hope you like it. Let me know in the comments.

MAKING MY PRESENCE FELT

I watch another set of people trampling through my house, moving in disgusting modern furniture, rearranging my space and making such a noise. I know they will be changing the wall colours; every new family does. Long gone are the wallpaper, drapes, furniture and knickknacks of my time. The ones I chose with such great care to make this our home, Peter and me. In time we were blessed with two children, Thomas and Mildred. It was such a happy home and I could not leave it. Happy memories hold me here, Christmas mornings, picnics on the living room floor on a rainy day, listening to a radio play and playing in the garden. I baked, cooked, cleaned and cherished my life. It was simple, happy and fulfilling. Not like today when the house stays empty for most of the day, only to have a cacophony of activity in late afternoon and evening.

The days are my favorite time, I have my house to myself and can move freely. I inspect the new interlopers’ things. Books, toys, ornaments, strange packaged food and oddities I have no name for. When they arrive their portable screens flicker with images so fast, I cannot watch for more than a minute, how do they manage? I do not know. Each one has a screen they become immersed in all the time. A large screen projects colour images and music - there is no wireless – they call it technology. I do not like it. There are no family meals at the table, no games or puzzles played together, no charades, no laughter. It is a strange unconnected existence.

So, absorbed are they, they do not notice my presence. A cool touch, a creaking of the stairs, or even a misplaced object. It took me a long time to harness the ability to actually move objects in the physical world, but I have had decades to practice. Now, it is my only bit of fun. Floating near the ceiling, I watch the frantic searching, the accusations, the anger. It fills the space with an electrical burst. One I can absorb and use to project myself.

Yesterday, I heard the man talk about destroying the old armoire in the teenage daughter’s bedroom, but that will not happen, I will make sure of it. It was handed down to me by my grandmother and Peter had a carpenter install it into the wall, firstly to ensure it did not fall, but also so it was a part of the house. It was to be our forever home – until, of course circumstances changed, and I was no longer alive.

The top of the armoire is my space, my resting place and will not be disturbed. Many suitcases and boxes have ‘fallen’ from the top of it with a little help from me. This family will learn like all the others. As I watch the teen girl stretch upwards to perch a box beside my safe place, I wait until her back is turned before pushing it. It falls to the floor and she screams. Puzzlement creases her face, she puts the box back up, and again I toppled it down. I hear her swear – something I would never allow. With a huff she leaves the box on the bed and goes downstairs. I follow her.

“What’s with that creepy old closet, Mum? I put a box on the top and it fell down twice.”

“Really, maybe there’s something in the way. Shall I take a look?”

They ascend the stairs, the mother carrying a step stool. I watch as she stands on tiptoe to peer into the gloom behind the armoire’s ornamental frieze. It was my favourite part of the inherited piece.

“Well apart from a large collection of dust bunnies, I can’t see why your box fell. Hand it up and I’ll place it.”

I wait until she has stepped back onto the carpet, then push the box. Their simultaneous cries of alarm are very satisfying.

“I told you, Mum, there’s something odd about it.”

“Well, let’s sort it tomorrow, I have too much to do at the moment and it’s getting late.”

I smile as the box in put into a corner. Later, as the moonlight casts it glow, I stand at the end of the bed and pull the girl’s covers off her.  At first her unconscious movements had her hands searching the bedsheets, then gradually she woke. The bedside table lamp burst into life. Her eyes grew wide as she watched her bedclothes rise in the air and then drop off the end of the bed. She scrambled to grab them and pulled. I pulled back. She swore and picked up her rectangular screen and tapped it.

The bedroom door opened. “What the hell, Sam. I was in the middle of a game.”

“Come and grab the bed sheets and pull.”

Her brother does as he’s asked, with a huff. They both hold the fabric tight. Both faces show wide-eyed alarm as I pull back.

“What the hell is going on, Sam? What is it?”

“I don’t know, but when I tried to put something on top of that horrid wardrobe it fell off twice. Now I think it was pushed. Could it a ghost, a poltergeist?”

Her brother looked from sister to bunched up sheets hanging over the end of the bed. Gagged and fled the room.

“For good’s sake, Scott!”

The girl stops pulling the sheets and kneels closer to the foot of the bed. Looking at the empty space before her, she asks.

“Are you a ghost? Did I upset you with the box?”

No-one in all the time I haunted my old home has anyone asked. I release the bedclothes and tap her hand.

She recoils at my cold touch then takes a deep breath. A frown creases her forehead. A concentrated thought behind her eyes. A smirk.

“This is so cool. Do you live on the top of that thing?” She points to my armoire. “Would you hurt me?”

I tap and stroke her hand and this time she doesn’t recoil.

“I have my very own ghost. This is so neat. We need to find out who you are.”

A thread of anxiety shivers through me. If they found out about me, they could banish me. What have I done? I don’t want to leave. I chose to stay.

***As a footnote this story is partly true. My mother experienced a ghost/poltergeist in her youth, who would never allow anything to be placed on top of an old wardrobe.***

Have you experienced a spirit?