Ghost Story - Persistence



"Pull me out of body, don't want out don't want in
Feeble frail and rotting, descending
I'm lost in a structure that's collapsing, don't want it
Cast into maker, take the body
Don't want it, it wants me."

"Deathblooms" ­ MuDvAyNe


Squeak and the charred door opens. Charred black like the floor under his feet. Floor that used to be a nice dark brown maple but it's dead now. Dead like the house, the empty ribcage of the framework naked and exposed, pointing to the scarred sky like something rotting. The rusted and ruined hinges make another weak noise and then are silent.

The floor crunches under his feet as he walks through what used to be the main hallway, the burnt husks of chairs and desks lining the bases of blackened walls. Small bits of color from the rug stain the perfect black like old semen stains, streaky and impossible to get out. An old skylight still in place despite how it looks like it could fall any second.

This is where it happened.

Cracked glass here, a piece of skeleton underneath it, bleachwhite even in the half light of day that permeates the buildings shattered bones. He would pick it up, maybe if he could, but it's next to useless to try to move the glass so he lets it be.

Not what I'm here for.

More pieces of skeleton in the other rooms. Children skeletons. All the same sick hospital bleachwhite. Some skulls. A few broken ones. Maybe broken before the fire but he can't be sure so it's better not to worry too much about it.

This was his home. One of his homes in a long line of foster homes. Little boy with no mommy and daddy to go home to. Only the other throwaways of the world. The shit at the bottom of the bag that no one wanted. Better to burn it. Better not to pollute the land with another garbage fill. Poor sick lady who tried to look after and love all the children she could never have. There was something wrong with her. Something wrong with her insides so she tried to hoard all the unclaimed children as her own.

Then she went crazy. He doesn't know why and a tear runs down his cheek.


Something to do with medication. Something wasn't quite right and the old lady wasn't okay anymore. Anti-psych-something. The little boy couldn't remember.

He's always drawn to this place. It's his magnet. Doesn't really know why. He sometimes sees other people, but most of them just want to be left alone. He hears other things sometimes and he knows to hide, hide or maybe something bad will happen. Bad like what got his friend Dean. He knew to hide when he heard the howling, but Dean didn't. He didn't understand and the howling got louder and he screamed and Dean looked and saw the monsters coming through the wall. The monster dogs, some still had people faces, they came through the wall and they ran at Dean and the little boy hid but Dean couldn't. It was too late and the dogs ripped into him and tore at him and tore him all to pieces until there wasn't enough plasm left to put back together. The little boy cried a long time for his friend.

He comes to the room at the end of the hall. The room where the old lady stayed most of the time. Where the fire started. He reaches out and touches the door handle, maybe it will work this time. Maybe. But it doesn't and he knows what he has to do.

He fades and walks through the door and then he's in the room. The silent dark room, only room that still has a ceiling, faint light trickling through cracks where the firetongue licked the ceiling. Scorching the plaster black like everything else seems to be. Everything seems sick and nothing can make it well.

The desk where the old lady worked is still in the middle of the room. The charred husk of a chair still behind the desk. Watching. Waiting for the little boy to come back. Knew that he has to. He has a tie to this place.

This is where he died.