. The Ghost

He doesn’t see me yet, but he will. They always do. I scratch warnings where I can—mirrors, walls, windows—but the house twists my messages, makes them look like threats.

I never wanted this. I was the first. The walls closed in on me, the floors swallowed me whole, my voice became part of the wind. I am not the one he should fear. It’s the house. It feeds on the living, keeps us trapped when we die.

But he thinks it’s me. They always do.