I talk to houses. I have ever since one tried to kill me.
Every house has a ghost in it. That’s what my mother used to tell me, and I’ve always known that it’s not just some dumb superstition. I don’t believe her when she tells me that you need to apologize to tree spirits before peeing in the woods, or that you must avoid the number four at all costs, but I believe her when she says that every place that people live is also occupied by one of the dead.
They’re not always human ghosts. In fact they rarely are. It takes an old house, one with a lot of history, to bind a human soul. A small apartment might be haunted by the ghost of a mouse, or even a beetle. Most of the time, you’d never know they were there. At least, you’re not supposed to—it’s not a good sign if they make themselves known to you. It usually means they want you out.
My house is old and lonely, which pretty much guarantees there’s a human ghost in it. It’s small and creaky, in a small mountain town in the south of Taiwan, a three hour journey away from the closest decent-sized city. It wasn’t an exciting place to live, but I was happy here. I never was the sort of boy who wanted to run around and get into trouble. I liked to read books alone in my room, and hike the well-worn mountain paths pretending to be a bold jungle explorer.
You’d know in your gut if the ghost of your house didn’t like you. Have you ever been house-hunting, found the perfect place, but didn’t sign that lease because you felt something was just off? That’s the ghost telling you to go away. If you don’t listen, you’re asking for bad fortune.
My parents were pretty sure our ghost liked us, or at least tolerated us. They’d leave offerings for it sometimes. There were times I spied a shadow that wasn’t ours, or sensed eyes watching from the shadows.
But I was never afraid—that’s how I knew the ghost was okay with us. I was a bit of a coward as a kid, too scared even to read horror novels, so the fact that I wasn’t frightened of a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye made me confident that we had a benevolent ghost. The idea that I wasn’t alone was almost comforting to me. On rainy nights when my parents were away, I’d curl up in bed reading and feel a presence in my room—I almost thought of it as a friend.
That’s why I felt so betrayed when the ghost tried to murder me.
It happened quickly. I was walking with my nose buried in a book, when I heard the rush of sudden footsteps and saw a small figure, long dark hair falling across her face, darting out of the shadows. Then something slammed into me, and knocked me down the stairs.
At least, it tried to. I grabbed the edge of the wall just in time to break my fall. I looked back just in time to see the figure scampering across the floor on all fours, her movements unnaturally fluid.
“Hey!” I said indignantly. In the shock of the moment, my outrage outweighed my fear. That was my ghost. “What was that for?”
She disappeared into the shadows. I didn’t tell my parents about it in case they insisted we move. I decided I could handle this on my own. I’d clearly offended the spirit of our house, and so I had to make things right.
After thinking about it for a while, I suddenly realized what the problem was. I’d recently come into possession of a number of, well… dirty magazines. One of my friends from school had given them to me with a conspirational wink. It was clear now that the ghost was a girl. Obviously she thought I was a filthy pervert and she didn’t like it.
I went outside early one morning and burned them in the yard. Then I turned back to the house. “Sorry,” I said. “I was only curious. I’m not really a pervert. I haven’t even kissed a girl before.”
The wind’s howl sounded like a sigh. Then I realized it was a sigh. And that the person who sighed was standing right behind me.
I yelped in shock and turned around. The ghost girl looked at me. Out in the sunlight, her hair no longer covering her face, she didn’t look dead at all. She was young—my age, maybe, or a little older.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she said. “It wasn’t because of anything you did.”
I was dumbfounded. I had always known she existed, so I wasn’t that shocked, but spirits weren’t supposed to appear in broad daylight and talk to you. “Oh. Uh… that’s good, I suppose… but why?”
“Don’t you know that a house spirit can only leave if they find someone to take their place? You love this house. You’re already bound to it. If you died here, you’d become the new ghost that lives here.”
“And you want to leave?”
“Of course! I’m not bound here by happy memories. I was murdered here. I’m bound to this place by suffering.”
“Oh.” I folded my arms. “I’m sorry. But that’s not my fault. You’ve been happy here with us, haven’t you? We’ve always treated you with respect. So I think it’s pretty mean of you to decide to kill me all of a sudden.”
Her expression darkened for a second; her face distorted into something that was not quite human, and her teeth suddenly looked too sharp. My stomach twisted in sudden fear, but I kept my eyes fixed on hers. Then she looked down.
“I know. But… it’s different for you. You’d be happy here. I know you—I’ve known you all your life. You live in your own imagination. You love to wander the woods and gaze at the lake. You have a peaceful soul. If you took my place, you could stay here forever, and you’d be happy.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. She did seem to know me pretty well. There were many moments—quiet moments in the trees, listening to the wind—where I wished I could just freeze time. “What would happen to you?” I said at last.
“I don’t know. I guess I’d go where normal dead people go. Maybe they just stop existing. I don’t know any more than you do. I don’t mind not existing.”
“You don’t?” The idea of nothingness, just blank, black, endless nonexistence was terrifying to me. I’d stayed up at night trying to wrap my head around the concept of oblivion. Of course it was impossible to imagine it, but I couldn’t help trying anyway.
“No. I wish I’d never been born.”
We looked at each other in silence. The sun was beginning to set. My parents would be home soon.
“How long have you been here?” I asked at last.
“I don’t know. A long time, I think. I’ve seen many people born and die here.”
“You’ve been here for dozens of lifetimes at least, then. I’m only thirteen—I’m not ready to die and become a ghost. I don’t want to make my parents unhappy, and I want to see the world. I want to live for a long time and work in an office and become important. But when it comes time to die, I promise I’ll come back here. You can wait for one more lifetime. But you must promise not to hurt anyone.”
She was quiet. “Okay,” she said. “I promise.”
The wind blew again, and she melted away into the summer air. I never saw her again. But I still talked to her like an old friend, even if I couldn’t see her. I knew she was listening. I told her about my first broken heart, and felt a soothing hand touch my hair as I cried into my pillow. I grumbled to her about stupid teachers as I worked on my homework late at night. And when I was eighteen, and got accepted into my dream university in the United States, I told her I was going across the ocean to study. I heard weeping echoing through the house that night.
That was seventy years ago.
I’ve lived well. I got my degree, and lived in the States for ten years before I got a job in Shanghai. I got married. I have two kids, and five grandchildren. I’ve done well enough to leave behind a sizeable inheritence.
My parents lived in that house for many years after that, and the ghost kept her word not to hurt them. They even told me about a strange incidence once: they’d arrived home after a trip to find the house broken into, but nothing was missing, and there were spots of blood on the floor. The police ask them if they had a dog, because it looked like the burglar had been injured and left in a hurry. We’ve never had a dog.
I’ve had many homes since then—apartments, dorms, big houses. I always talk to them. I greet the spirit politely when I walk through the door, and chat to them as I do housework. I always say goodbye when I leave, and thank them for watching over me.
I’ve been feeling homesick recently. My wife has been dead for three years now, and my children are all grown up and successful. They’ll all be fine without me. I’m still healthy, but at my age, you never know what’ll do you in. There’s no point waiting around to find out.
I’m thinking it’s time to go home. I know she’s waiting for me. I miss that old house, the mountain air and the forest and those familiar paths. I’m ready to keep my promise. I don’t ever want to fade away into the dark.
Every house has a ghost in it. That’s what my mother used to tell me, and I’ve always known that it’s not just some dumb superstition. I don’t believe her when she tells me that you need to apologize to tree spirits before peeing in the woods, or that you must avoid the number four at all costs, but I believe her when she says that every place that people live is also occupied by one of the dead.
They’re not always human ghosts. In fact they rarely are. It takes an old house, one with a lot of history, to bind a human soul. A small apartment might be haunted by the ghost of a mouse, or even a beetle. Most of the time, you’d never know they were there. At least, you’re not supposed to—it’s not a good sign if they make themselves known to you. It usually means they want you out.
My house is old and lonely, which pretty much guarantees there’s a human ghost in it. It’s small and creaky, in a small mountain town in the south of Taiwan, a three hour journey away from the closest decent-sized city. It wasn’t an exciting place to live, but I was happy here. I never was the sort of boy who wanted to run around and get into trouble. I liked to read books alone in my room, and hike the well-worn mountain paths pretending to be a bold jungle explorer.
You’d know in your gut if the ghost of your house didn’t like you. Have you ever been house-hunting, found the perfect place, but didn’t sign that lease because you felt something was just off? That’s the ghost telling you to go away. If you don’t listen, you’re asking for bad fortune.
My parents were pretty sure our ghost liked us, or at least tolerated us. They’d leave offerings for it sometimes. There were times I spied a shadow that wasn’t ours, or sensed eyes watching from the shadows.
But I was never afraid—that’s how I knew the ghost was okay with us. I was a bit of a coward as a kid, too scared even to read horror novels, so the fact that I wasn’t frightened of a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye made me confident that we had a benevolent ghost. The idea that I wasn’t alone was almost comforting to me. On rainy nights when my parents were away, I’d curl up in bed reading and feel a presence in my room—I almost thought of it as a friend.
That’s why I felt so betrayed when the ghost tried to murder me.
It happened quickly. I was walking with my nose buried in a book, when I heard the rush of sudden footsteps and saw a small figure, long dark hair falling across her face, darting out of the shadows. Then something slammed into me, and knocked me down the stairs.
At least, it tried to. I grabbed the edge of the wall just in time to break my fall. I looked back just in time to see the figure scampering across the floor on all fours, her movements unnaturally fluid.
“Hey!” I said indignantly. In the shock of the moment, my outrage outweighed my fear. That was my ghost. “What was that for?”
She disappeared into the shadows. I didn’t tell my parents about it in case they insisted we move. I decided I could handle this on my own. I’d clearly offended the spirit of our house, and so I had to make things right.
After thinking about it for a while, I suddenly realized what the problem was. I’d recently come into possession of a number of, well… dirty magazines. One of my friends from school had given them to me with a conspirational wink. It was clear now that the ghost was a girl. Obviously she thought I was a filthy pervert and she didn’t like it.
I went outside early one morning and burned them in the yard. Then I turned back to the house. “Sorry,” I said. “I was only curious. I’m not really a pervert. I haven’t even kissed a girl before.”
The wind’s howl sounded like a sigh. Then I realized it was a sigh. And that the person who sighed was standing right behind me.
I yelped in shock and turned around. The ghost girl looked at me. Out in the sunlight, her hair no longer covering her face, she didn’t look dead at all. She was young—my age, maybe, or a little older.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she said. “It wasn’t because of anything you did.”
I was dumbfounded. I had always known she existed, so I wasn’t that shocked, but spirits weren’t supposed to appear in broad daylight and talk to you. “Oh. Uh… that’s good, I suppose… but why?”
“Don’t you know that a house spirit can only leave if they find someone to take their place? You love this house. You’re already bound to it. If you died here, you’d become the new ghost that lives here.”
“And you want to leave?”
“Of course! I’m not bound here by happy memories. I was murdered here. I’m bound to this place by suffering.”
“Oh.” I folded my arms. “I’m sorry. But that’s not my fault. You’ve been happy here with us, haven’t you? We’ve always treated you with respect. So I think it’s pretty mean of you to decide to kill me all of a sudden.”
Her expression darkened for a second; her face distorted into something that was not quite human, and her teeth suddenly looked too sharp. My stomach twisted in sudden fear, but I kept my eyes fixed on hers. Then she looked down.
“I know. But… it’s different for you. You’d be happy here. I know you—I’ve known you all your life. You live in your own imagination. You love to wander the woods and gaze at the lake. You have a peaceful soul. If you took my place, you could stay here forever, and you’d be happy.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. She did seem to know me pretty well. There were many moments—quiet moments in the trees, listening to the wind—where I wished I could just freeze time. “What would happen to you?” I said at last.
“I don’t know. I guess I’d go where normal dead people go. Maybe they just stop existing. I don’t know any more than you do. I don’t mind not existing.”
“You don’t?” The idea of nothingness, just blank, black, endless nonexistence was terrifying to me. I’d stayed up at night trying to wrap my head around the concept of oblivion. Of course it was impossible to imagine it, but I couldn’t help trying anyway.
“No. I wish I’d never been born.”
We looked at each other in silence. The sun was beginning to set. My parents would be home soon.
“How long have you been here?” I asked at last.
“I don’t know. A long time, I think. I’ve seen many people born and die here.”
“You’ve been here for dozens of lifetimes at least, then. I’m only thirteen—I’m not ready to die and become a ghost. I don’t want to make my parents unhappy, and I want to see the world. I want to live for a long time and work in an office and become important. But when it comes time to die, I promise I’ll come back here. You can wait for one more lifetime. But you must promise not to hurt anyone.”
She was quiet. “Okay,” she said. “I promise.”
The wind blew again, and she melted away into the summer air. I never saw her again. But I still talked to her like an old friend, even if I couldn’t see her. I knew she was listening. I told her about my first broken heart, and felt a soothing hand touch my hair as I cried into my pillow. I grumbled to her about stupid teachers as I worked on my homework late at night. And when I was eighteen, and got accepted into my dream university in the United States, I told her I was going across the ocean to study. I heard weeping echoing through the house that night.
That was seventy years ago.
I’ve lived well. I got my degree, and lived in the States for ten years before I got a job in Shanghai. I got married. I have two kids, and five grandchildren. I’ve done well enough to leave behind a sizeable inheritence.
My parents lived in that house for many years after that, and the ghost kept her word not to hurt them. They even told me about a strange incidence once: they’d arrived home after a trip to find the house broken into, but nothing was missing, and there were spots of blood on the floor. The police ask them if they had a dog, because it looked like the burglar had been injured and left in a hurry. We’ve never had a dog.
I’ve had many homes since then—apartments, dorms, big houses. I always talk to them. I greet the spirit politely when I walk through the door, and chat to them as I do housework. I always say goodbye when I leave, and thank them for watching over me.
I’ve been feeling homesick recently. My wife has been dead for three years now, and my children are all grown up and successful. They’ll all be fine without me. I’m still healthy, but at my age, you never know what’ll do you in. There’s no point waiting around to find out.
I’m thinking it’s time to go home. I know she’s waiting for me. I miss that old house, the mountain air and the forest and those familiar paths. I’m ready to keep my promise. I don’t ever want to fade away into the dark.
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