The front door slams, the house shivers and its inhabitants freeze. “They’re back,” says Daughter, and her face quickly crumples as tears well. “Don’t you dare cry,” hisses Mother. “They’ll hear us.” The family falls silent and listens. A series of thuds and rattles comes from the floor below. Cupboard doors are opened and closed, opened and closed, over and over. Then there’s a short yell, a moment of quiet, and the soft wail of a miserable child. Daughter whimpers. Mother glares at her. Continue reading on Medium >
“Ugh, my hair doesn’t look right. I want it to be bigger, y’know? Messier. It’s all flat and thin and tidy.” “It looks fine, stop whinging.” “And my clothes are all wrong. They’re not all ripped and raggedy like yours. And the hollows under my eyes aren’t dark enough. And you can barely see the bullet wound in my chest. This sucks.”
Summer Sundays were always meant for al fresco dinners. An opportunity for a busy family to share the week’s news over a bottle of wine and a table straining with food. I didn’t see why it had to be different after the accident. Every week I prepared a spread fit for a king, only I was the sole diner.
The room was quiet, save for the steady electrical hum of computers and the soft tip-tap of keyboards and mice. Five operators sat in line, each with their face illuminated by the vivid glow of their monitors. They were coming up to 3am, and they knew the requests would soon come flooding in, not because paranormal connections where higher at this time than any other, but because that’s what non-dead souls thought to be true.