A Short Narrative
by
Mike Pappagallo
I've haunted this place for decades. Or perhaps it's been a century now -- I really have lost track of time. All that I can remember now are scattered facts about my one time life.
I know that I was born in 1874 -- and that my father was an iron worker. I married Sarah some time in my early twenties, and we had three children, one of them was a young blonde-haired boy. I don't recall if we were happy, I only know that we constantly struggled to keep the family together.
Likewise, I don't remember when or how I died. Only that there life, and then a very gradual, slowly dawning realization that life was gone.
Now, I suppose you would say I am forced to haunt this area. I don't haunt to frighten people -- I don't do anything for any real purpose any more. All that I do and all that I know is that I am trying to stay active -- and bide my time... waiting. I always feel that I am in anticipation -- that the moment will come. I don't know what will happen in that moment, or why I am so eager for that moment, but I am always staying active. Always moving, and constantly waiting.
Sometimes, I find that living people are able to see me. I don't know how they see me, and I don't know why. I don't plan it or do anything in particular to make it happen. But sometimes they do see me. More often than not people simply pass me by. Usually when I am seen, it is by an animal in the garden, or by a baby in the streets. I think that children and animals they see the world differently than adults do. Adults are trained to see things only in a certain way -- they aren't able to fully open their eyes to see the full world. They are jaded. In death, you see everything.
For example, I see the living people as they pass by, of course. But I also see others, like myself, aimlessly wandering, and waiting. I see time overlapping -- crossing over itself like an endless coil. Looping back, and then crossing over again. A forest exists where that bank now stands. Fields of grass over a Pasteur of concrete. Living people in their shiny automobiles ride side-by-side with families in horse-drawn wagons. So many things, some of them blurry, but all of them there. It becomes very hard to focus on everything. My eyes become very tired, and I often feel very light-headed.
That's why I tend to stay in this little house. It feels safe here, and I'm comfortable. I don't believe that I lived here during my life, but I am very content here in death. There is less interference in this house. Yes, there are others who dwell here as well -- sometimes even living people. There is a library where I often see a young couple reading. But they don't have the glowing aura of life around them -- they are wanderers, like myself. We don't communicate with each other. We can't -- we exist in a different time frame. I am certain, though, that they know of my existence, just as I know of theirs.
And the living people who come and go rarely see me. They seem to sense my presence, though. More often than not, they do not stay in this house very long. They act very mysteriously, often sitting for hours in front of glowing boxes that contain bright moving pictures. They waste their valuable time, as their life force grows dimmer and dimmer -- simply watching other people live interesting lives in this magical window box.
Once, though -- things were very different. There was a small boy who lived here then. He reminded me very much of the young blonde son that I had in life. I never learned this living boy's name, only that he really saw me and would often try to touch and communicate with me. He was a very smart and sweet young child. Sometimes when he would try to speak to me, his parents would become quite cross with him, and would spank him. Soon there were all sorts of physicians coming to the house to examine him. They would run many tests on him, often asking him questions that they did not like the answers to. I believe that the poor child failed these tests. Because one day the entire family had disappeared. I wandered the house and the streets looking for that small boy, but he was nowhere to be found. I felt lonely for a time. That was when I began to find myself standing in the garden -- crying and watching the people as they walked by -- hoping that one of the living people might meet my gaze, and offer to talk to me. Maybe one of them will be able to fill the loneliness that I continually feel inside -- maybe they can help end the waiting. For the small boy made me feel alive again, for a short time. And I so long to feel alive again -- even for a short while.
So now I continue to wait. Sometimes on the stair. Sometimes in the garden. Sometimes in the hall -- and more and more I find myself roaming through houses of people I have never known either in life or in death, hoping that they might see me and make me feel alive again. Perhaps I will find that person, and touch them. Maybe I will get the opportunity to share with them the icy chill that runs through me. Maybe I can get them to cross with me to my time, so I don't have to wander alone anymore. Maybe some dark night I will find that person... perhaps it will be you. Perhaps it will be tonight.
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