Haunted

    I’ve found, throughout my time as a photographer, that people see what you tell them to look for. 

    A shot of a corner in an old house, dark except for a single window where light is straining through depths of moth-bitten cloth; all shadow and trapped light, a bit of cobweb, maybe some fuzziness along the edges of the photo—no, make that all over the photo. Then you name it, and the photo takes on new meaning. Ghost #4. What started as a perfectly innocent photo of an ill-kept house becomes a sighting. Because is that slight shadow at the bottom a head? No, but maybe that little hovering circle of a palish ivory, just lighter than the wall color, above the curtain is. Yes, that must be the head, because down there, next to the side of the window is a little slant of white—the arm. I let people’s imaginations, intensified by a sort of lingering fear, bring in profit. 

    The mid-October sun strained down from a baby-blue sky, soft winds brushing the tips of the orange trees. I walked down the street, flaunting a new hat—red with canary yellow feathers sticking out the top. I had just come out of a meeting with an older couple who had bought into my entire scheme. After discussing my recent findings—well, “recent findings”, I suppose—the lady had gifted me this hat. You researchers don’t get enough credit for your work, she had told me earnestly. I accepted it with a gracious smile. I guess it maybe is a bit flamboyant, but the lady told me that it was what most aristocrats wear these days. I’d never seen an aristocrat in my end of town, but I figured that looking rich wouldn’t do me any harm. So I walked through town with maybe a bit more of a pep in my step than usual. People did look at me differently, probably because I looked rich. Jealousy. It’s a feeling that a lot of people get around people as successful as me. 

    I stopped at the house for which I had booked a tour. Purportedly it was haunted, but that’s what all the descriptions of such houses said, and they never actually were. Going to haunted houses was more for the setting than the supposed supernatural beings. I jutted my chin in the air and walked through the doorway.

    The tour guide that I’d expected to be waiting for me wasn’t there. Strange, but tour guides were really just there as a formality, anyways. I walked down the dreary-looking front hallway, the aching wood letting out the characteristic whines and creaks of an old house. Now, where was a good spot to start? I progressed up the staircase—the upper levels of a house tended to be the best place for pictures. There was a slight ache in my chest that protested going through a house without a tour guide, but I’d paid the entrance fee, so it was their fault for not showing up. 

    Yes, the second story of the house was perfect. Dark, with furniture that cast crooked shadows onto the water-stained walls, dust covering everything in a slight hue of grey. I found an ideal corner in what looked like an abandoned nursery. The profile of the bed drifted onto the opposite wall, and the flickering light coming through the curtain made its own sort of shadow. I lowered myself down onto one knee and peeked through my camera. This was going to be one of my best photos yet. I played a bit with my positioning, then raised my finger, about to take the picture—

    “Oh, come on,” a voice intoned behind me. “You think that’s a good picture? The shape of that shadow is all wrong. What kind of ghost would that be? Some sort of flamingo?” It scoffed. 

    I startled, almost dropping the camera on the ground. Expecting to find the face of my tour guide, I slowly turned around. I leaped back, actually dropping my camera when I saw what was facing me. 

    A misty white shape moved slightly with the drafts that whispered through the room, a sort of cloak hanging from its distorted figure. Only one thing about it was distinct: two dark eyes glared at me harshly, stark against the rest of its foggy body. Good God. It was…

    “I’m your tour guide,” the thing said, “but after realizing it was you who was coming, I decided maybe I didn’t want to spend too much time making small talk.” 

    I stared at it in horror. 

    “Oh, please,” it said, raising a ghostly hand toward me, as if it were playfully swatting at me. I felt a cold mist and sprang back. “Like you don’t know that you’re a self-absorbed idiot. All the ghosts know about you. We watch you. And honestly, we’re quite sick of you.” 

    “How do you…” I managed to choke out. 

    “Oh, we have—what would you call them—spies, I suppose, a lot of places,” the thing said. “We saw you take that grapefruit from the soup kitchen, even though you knew perfectly well that you had more than enough money to buy one for yourself. Goodness gracious, there was a big uproar about that. Almost started a whole movement—’Buy Your Own Grapefruit.’ Us ghosts are big activists, you know.” 

    “What are you talking about?” I finally burst—harsher than I’d intended for it to come out, and I reeled back, expecting to be slapped again. 

    The thing watched me, amusement sparkling in its dark eyes. “I’m not going to kill you, you know. I’m not even going to hurt you. I just wanted to give you a little talking-to.” It studied me for a moment. “That hat is awful, by the way.” It shook its head—was it even really a head?—in distaste. 

    I tried to make my way towards the doorway of the nursery, and I glanced back, expecting the thing to follow me, to block my escape. It didn’t, just stayed and looked at me sadly. I started walking faster, making it all the way down the stairs and through the creaky front hallway, straight out the front door. The midday sunlight hit me, blinding me. I looked at the people walking by, holding Macy’s bags, chattering happily, seeming like they didn’t have a care in the world. 

    What had I done?