How to See Ghosts and Fear Fire

 You need to live alone, or close to it. With yourself, or your cat, or with your divorced father in a small town that most of your family moved away from when he was young. Be a simple, easy to care for baby, quiet, but not a whirlwind of terror like your mother thought you were.

Be a quiet child. Wear lacy, pink sweaters, and shiny Mary-Jane shoes with butterfly stickers on them. Have a sweet tooth, and chug sweet, sticky apple juice like a frat boy making out with a keg. Brush your hair one hundred strokes each and every morning until it’s soft and shiny and lays flat under a pink ribbon.

Cry when the boys make fun of you, and laugh when the teacher tells a joke. Somehow, you know what “defenestrate” means, and you have to have that talk with your father at age five when you read a National Geographic and have some uncomfortable questions.

Stay quiet when people ask why your mother left, and know your father’s new girlfriend doesn’t hit him. Go to church every Sunday, and sing in the choir. Hug the reverend and wonder why churches in other towns have men for pastors. Ask your father about it over dinner and watch him quietly say, “Your grandfather asked the same thing.”

Have nightmares of a teenage girl collapsed on the basement stairs, bleeding out in a lace nightgown. Ask your father about this over fried eggs at breakfast. Listen to the strange tone in his voice as he tells you that this house was built in 1873 and that a girl named Nora used to live here. Ask him what happened to Nora and watch him shake his head. “Not right now. I’ll tell you later.”

Clumsily pass notes back in forth in history class with the yellow-haired boy in front of you with gold earrings. You don’t need to study history all that much. Your father has more history books than the library, anyway. You do want to study the boy. His daddy’s rich, but you think he’s secretly a vampire. Tell the boy this and watch a crooked smile cross his face. Listen to him tell you his mom went missing because maybe his dad drank her blood, and wince a little at the idea.

Learn how to crochet, and do it well, weaving thick, serpentine yarn into something comforting. Make gifts for your friends – the girl down the street who believes in UFOs, the boy that always draws in class, and the boy with the yellow hair, who complains about the quality but hugs you anyway.

Send letters to your cousin who lives a few states away. You’re friends with him too, but you never see him. His father isn’t very nice.

Take long walks around town after school, and stop by the bar that your father’s girlfriend owns to say hello. You don’t drink anything, of course. Listen to the tired-looking woman playing guitar in the corner, and walk over and drop a dollar in the guitar case. The yellow-haired boy’s father is there. Watch him watch the musician, a distant, sad look on his face. He gives twenty dollars.

Look at his shadow, and notice that it has curlier hair than he does.

Get up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water and find your father in his study, leafing through a faded manila folder. There is a stranger’s name on the outside. Read the word “accident” before your father turns around and spots you. Go back to bed before he even says anything.

Still wear shiny Mary-Jane shoes, without stickers. Visit the lake outside town, and sit on the new dock, not the old rotted one. Stare into the water, and watch the pale face staring back at you. Watch the curly hair float around it.

Wake up. Answer the phone – it’s the girl who believes in UFOs, asking you over for a sleepover. Say yes, and tell your father.

Go to school as normal, and try to pay attention in class. Tell your friends about your dream, and listen as the UFO girl talks about the subconscious mind and how it could manifest things you need, or want, or fear. Nod, but don’t really believe her.

Go home and collect your things. Hug your father goodbye, and accept the anchor pendant necklace he gives you. So you know he’s looking out for you. Leave for the sleepover, and try to have fun.

Play Bloody Mary, and watch your reflection warp in the mirror. Watch the dark haired woman bang her hands against the glass. Don’t move. Don’t scream. She isn’t trying to scare you.

Say nothing when you leave the bathroom. No one else hears anything, or sees anything.

Sleep.

Dream your father is in his study, in flames. He’s grappling with the yellow-haired boy’s father, bruised and with a rage in his eyes you’ve never seen before. He screams to you, and tells you to get out and save yourself. He tells you he’ll do his best to keep you safe.

Wake up. Don’t tell anyone about your dream, even though the UFO girl asks with genuine concern in her voice. Eat a stack of at least three waffles, smothered in pumpkin syrup, then walk home.

Stop in front of what is left of your house. Watch, for a moment. Then cry. Scream like you’re being torn in two, like your heart has been forced into a paper shredder. Watch one of the neighbors call the fire department, and the ambulances.

Let yourself be guided to a sitting position, the foil blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Grab the pendant around your neck so hard your hand might bleed. Stare at the shadowy figure standing in the ruin, staring at you with your father’s eyes.

Ask them if they see him, and say nothing when they say no.

Know that there is nothing you could’ve done.