The Ghost
What is looking back at you?
I wrote this short piece for Halloween. It’s about that unease in the middle of the night when you wake in the dark and start to wonder what’s real.
Your eyes snap open, grasping for air. The room is black, heavy. First, you feel the inside of your mouth—dry. A mumble escapes—“Where…?” Then the sweat. Pushing out from your skin, rivers dampening your shirt, pooling on your chest, seeping into the sheet below.
Night presses in. Your eyes see only darkness, your ears only quiet. The nothingness stretches like acres of land, filled with only the thumping in your chest. You’re afraid to move, heart straining. Are you sick? You lie still, adjusting to the dead hour. You still can’t see. Another whisper slips out—“Why…?”
You turn to your nightstand, straining on your side to reach the glass of water. The darkness betrays you—crash! The cup tumbles to the floor, water spreading next to the bed, the sound awakening your ears. Maybe it can wait until morning. But as you roll again to your back, you feel disgust lying in your sweat. Something is wrong. Better to get up, clean up the spill, change your shirt, maybe peek in the mirror. You rise, stepping into the cool puddle. It’s so quiet. What woke you?
Frustration—“I must be sick…” Walking to the bathroom for a towel, you cross the room and pass the doorway to the rest of the house. As you pass, a cool draft breathes across your skin—and then you hear it.
The unmistakable sound of movement where there shouldn’t be any.
A sweep along the floor, a brush against the wall. Too quick to be the wind. No, no—something’s moving out there.
An animal in the house? A door opening? A vision of a figure rushes into your mind—someone is here.
Your blood kicks alive, a deep breath pulling through your nose, chest expanding as if to make you larger. A rush of cortisol hits your brain. You have to see for yourself.
Walking slowly through the living room, you move silently, listening for another sound. Seconds pass—you wonder if it was nothing. But the house feels different. You feel like a stranger shuffling through a room that’s no longer yours.
You reach for the light switch, flick it on—and just as quickly, the bulb flashes, then dies. In that single burst, like a camera flash, you see the figure: standing still, facing you, by the mirror next to the front door.
You raise your voice, “Yes…”—an accusatory question.
Silence.
The flash of light outlined the silhouette in your eyes, and now it remains in the darkness—shoulders, a dark circle between them, no face, only black. A faint spot of light glows through, forming a triangle between its legs.
Someone is there. Waiting.
You try to speak, but your voice cracks into a cough. “Hey!”
You’ve kept moving forward without realizing—now you’re within its orbit, arm’s length away. Too close. Too sudden.
You reach out, and your fingers press backward, bending in pain as your knuckles crack the wrong way, twisting sideways against the top of your hand. The pain shoots up your arm. You see your fingers doubled in front of you—distorted, your hand against its own reflection. You’ve pressed against the mirror. A sharp spike moves through the bones of your hand, past your wrist, racing up your arm.
You drop your head. The night is a blurred mess. When you look up, your reflection stares back.
Tonight, you are your own ghost.
Thanks for reading After the Rush – a weekly series about slowing down, sparking creativity, and finding inspiration beyond work.
Love this!