The Haunting (Or: Ghost Is Literally A Ghost)

Night Three

For the entirety of the day and most of the evening, you had worked on making the bedroom liveable. Sweeping, decluttering, wiping and scrubbing, tossing the old bedsheets away and picking up a few more crawlies to take them outside.

One could say that you kept yourself as busy as possible to spend less time thinking about the events of the last two nights, a churning feeling in your stomach every time you glanced into dark corners or when you walked through a particularly cold spot.

"It's alright, I'll just give this house my own touch and then it's gonna be just fine", you huffed from time to time while throwing everything out that seemed remotely filthy.

After a quick grocery shopping trip to the nearby town (nearby as in twenty miles) and a nice dinner, you plopped down on the now relatively clean couch, stretching your legs with a yawn parting your lips.

The rooms were in a much better state now, and it made a huge difference, cosier and less scary even. It was eight o' clock, and although it was already pitch black outside, you felt way more comfortable than yesterday.

"No more excuses", you whispered to yourself as you grabbed your laptop, "novels don't write themselves."

They didn't, but you didn't seem to write them either, the pages of the document still being empty after thirty minutes. The pressure was insane, this book could make or break your career, and you were in desperate need of something that at least resembled a bestseller.

It was futile. The creativity was the opposite of fluid, it was more like a thick goo of countless ideas that weren't interesting enough or didn't fit together, your brain spinning in circles so badly that you felt dizzy after another thirty minutes.

Then you fell asleep, the laptop still open, resting on your thighs while the white pages mocked you with their emptiness and the harsh light illuminating your features.

Simon Riley liked the way she had looked while roughly pushing the laptop keyboard, as if the words would flow easier when she forced them out. Nose scrunched and brows furrowed in annoyance, and then she fell asleep.

He needed this opportunity to communicate with her, because it just wouldn't work any other way. Time was running out, and God knows how much time he had left to find the way into... well, he didn't know, but anything other than hell.

A glimpse of that had been enough. He had nearly been there, the excruciatingly hot flames already gnawing at his skin, but he had managed to fight himself up, with almost no memory of what happened before that.

The memories came back in pieces, together with anger and fear. And an empty despair worse than on the day he buried his family.

His eyes were tired, but he forced himself to concentrate as his fingers neared the keyboard. In the worst case, he only had one chance, one opportunity before his physicality collapsed. A simple message could possibly suffice, as long as he had her attention.

With wide eyes, he watched how the pad of his index finger actually touched the key.

H

Just a little more.

E

It was working. If he could feel joy, this would come close.

L

Then suddenly, his finger slipped and went right through the laptop. Disappointment spread in his chest and he scoffed. Of course, the negative emotions would never leave, he was only despised of any positivity in this dull existence in the shadows.

She shivered. Another failed attempt at reaching out.

A noise roughly pulled you from your slumber, and you jolted up again, just like the nights before. Your eyes fell to the laptop on the floor, and you felt relieved that this had just been you knocking something from your lap in your sleep.

You picked it up to check for damage, but your blood froze inside your body when you looked at the little clock in the corner.

3:33 am

"This is getting fucking ridiculous", you whispered, but your words couldn't convince your brain, you were not as calm as you pretended to be.

Luckily the tall lamp in the corner was still on, and there was just nothing here. There was no other possibility than this being a coincidence, your inner clock messing with you, maybe because of the sudden change of environment.

Still, you didn't dare going to bed through the darkness, so you decided that this was a good time to work on your novel. You were awake anyways, and the laptop was already there.

You stared at the blank page, just that it wasn't so blank anymore.

HEL

"Hel...", you repeated out loud, "must've happened when it fell down."

Simon stood in the corner behind you, mentally scolding, no, harassing himself for not putting enough effort in, his tormented soul slowly and painfully ripping apart.