I believe I’ve seen a ghost, but I don’t know who it is. It follows me like a shadow, its presence in the corners of every room I go. It lingers in the wallpaper of the living room, its body twisted around the floral pattern. It watches. I watch it.
It sits upon the windowsill, drowned in the curtains. It listens to the children play. It hears the laughter of friends in the kitchen. One hand shakes with laughter and the other tries to hold it still. The spoonful of sugar misses the hot mug by inches. It stays behind the kettle and I stay behind the wall and we watch together.
Then it looks at me with a sombre face. There is just something about its face that makes me sad. I realise suddenly that I can’t relate more.
There is a connection between it and I, so I let it stay. It follows me around, pretending to exist. In the park, just two blocks down the road, the sun lights up the lake. A thousand crystals. Enchanting. I am captivated by the ghost as it takes the place of my reflection in the still water. There is longing in its eyes, but I can’t put my finger on it. Is it searching for something, or is just as lost as I am.
Its eyes travel to where an aged couple walk along the water, hand in hand. Each wrinkle folded in their skin remembers a younger time, but their smiles show that nothing has changed. I watch them and wonder if the ghost wishes too, to be loved so endlessly. I realise now as the sun begins to dim and lonely takes the place of light, that it’s as much afraid as it is haunted. I have never related more.
It watches me as I pour another glass. I look for judgement in its eyes. I plead with it to speak its mind, but it remains silent. So, I go back to watching.
A boy is playing with his dog on the other side of the street. They are both smiling. I turn to the ghost. It stands in the shadows of my room, avoiding the slit of light from the gap in the curtains. I wonder if it had ever smiled. I guess it is hard to smile when you’re dead. The murky reflection in the mirror agrees. Even I’ve forgotten the motion.
“Are you real?” I ask politely. The ghost meets my eyes and stands before me.
“Here, let me prove it.” It says. Its voice is soft yet fills my head all the same.
It places its hand in mine, and I realise that neither one of us can feel it. A cold sensation runs over me but it’s one that I have known before. I can’t relate more.
“Don’t kill the messenger,” it begs, its eyes suddenly full of tears, glistening like the lake. Its gaze is so honest, yet it pieces me with a sadness I cannot not quite explain.
“You’re alive, quit acting like you’re dead.”
Suddenly, I find myself in front of the window. The world has blackened outside, and it is my face I recognise in the dark glass. The reflection whispers, a quiet echo in my head.
“Don’t you realise the reason why you’re here?”
I shake my head, not understanding. Then memories flash through my mind; ones that I have not made yet. An unconditional love found in the touch of two hands, an enchanting vow deeper than anything said. A canvas of the world, paintings of places I have not seen, trees as tall as mountains, lakes that stretch to oceans, all brought to life in my mind. Enchanting.
Laughter, friendship, belonging, love, enchantment. Emotions that I was too afraid to feel. They come with pain too. An agony worth feeling to remind you how beautiful it is to be alive. Everything hits me all at once.
I’ve never wanted to relate more.
With an awakening as cold as the morning air, I know now the reason I am here. Not to be a ghost, nor a shadow to the world, but to be a part of it.
“To be enchanted,” I say.
Aimee Wade
Aimee Wade is a first year writer from South Africa and she is currently studying Creative Writing at York St John University. Her writing is mostly inspired by her heritage but she also writes about mental health and climate change to raise a greater awareness on those topics. In 2024, she hopes to publish her novel, Eight Reasons to Rebel, but she still makes time for her poetry and short fiction to delve into the issues she is most passionate about. ‘To Be Enchanted’ is a short prose written to inspire people to value the beauty of simply being alive.
Image by Erik Kossakowski on Unsplash