There is no such thing as ghosts. I tell that to myself every night. Maybe if I say it enough, then I will believe it. Maybe if I write it down one hundred times and sleep with that paper clenched in my fist, then it will sink in. However, I know the truth. There are ghosts. They seep from the walls and slither under your bed when your eyes are closed, but scatter like mice when the light goes on.
They snicker and chuckle at the contortions in your face when they appear. They taunt you and pic at your fluttering eyes, unwilling for you to sleep. They grin when they see their reflections in the terror of your eyes. When I say I see ghosts, they know and squeal with glee. They don’t let everyone see them, however. They leave a few souls untouched, so that they may ridicule the chosen ones. I see the ghosts, and so does my brother, but they leave my parents alone. They don’t believe us, which deepens the pain and slices the heart.
Samantha sees ghosts, says my mother. Samantha, there are no such thing, says my father. My brother whispers in my ear, Samantha… I see them too.