I’ve had several since my death in 1901, and Penelope is the only one whose company I enjoyed. Most have been families. They move into my home, make it their own, and at some point, they leave. Penelope bought the house with her husband, Victor, in 1998, and within three months, Victor was dead. Heart attack in the driveway. She was devastated. I was certain she would leave soon after, since her children were grown––and having children of their own––and she was just one person in a house built for a large family. She didn’t.
I made myself known the day after Victor’s funeral. Up until that point, I floated around undetected, watching and listening, but mostly keeping to myself in the attic. The hidden room in theback of the attic is where my personal effects are stored. None of the residents of the home have ever discovered my secret room. None until Penelope, anyway, but that’s only because I intentionally led her there on a snowy afternoon when she seemed particularly despondent after Victor’s death.
She was never afraid of me, not even at first sight. I told her I was the person who built the house, the original owner, and she accepted my spectral presence without complaint. We became friends. She seemed grateful to no longer be alone, and I was grateful to finally have someone to talk to.
Penelope was a gift to this world. I had hoped her spirit would return after her death, just as mine did, but that hasn’t happened. With each day that passes, I lose hope that it will.
Now the house belongs to Lindsay, and I have a feeling I’ll be very displeased with whatever she plans to do with it. The odds are good that she’ll knock it down and sell off the land.
What will become of me then? I’ve always assumed my spirit was tethered to the house, but if it’s demolished, will I vaporize into thin air? Will my soul leave this realm and move onto…whatever comes next?
Until that happens, though, it seems I must share the place with this other woman. This friend of Lindsay’s, with her baffling wardrobe and dark, thick eyebrows that seem far too severe for her small square-shaped face and yellow hair. If I were to make myself known to her, would she throw things at me? Call the police? I can’t have the townspeople thinking the house is haunted. That would attract the wrong kind of attention, from people who wish to taunt me, exploit my past, or worst of all, camp out in my home in an attempt to catch me on camera for some silly ghost show.
I watch as my new roommate carries her bags upstairs to the second floor and begins unpacking her belongings in the bedroom Lindsay assigned her. She spends most of the eveningdusting the shelves and organizing her personal items. At one point, her handbag falls off the dresser, and several cards scatter onto the floor. She groans as she kneels to pick them up, and I take the opportunity to hunt for a name. Though her small hands are quick as she gathers them into a neat stack, I spot a library card next to the dresser that she hasn’t noticed yet. “Natalie Lambert,”it says.
Her name is Natalie.
I’m eager to say it aloud. Turn the name over on my tongue to see what it feels like. See how it tastes. It’s likely she would hear me, however, and I can’t have that.
Eventually, she lets out a deep exhale and flops onto the bed. After a moment of staring at the ceiling, she turns onto her side and gazes at the navy-blue vase she placed on her nightstand not twenty minutes prior, then at the framed photograph next to it. In the photo, a much younger Natalie sits on the beach, sand covering her arms and legs, even her left cheek. Her wide smile exposes a few missing teeth, and her hand gently rests on the side of a sand sculpture she made. The sculpture is messy and concave, but you’d never know it by the pride emanating from her expression. A woman sits next to Natalie, wearing an equally proud grin. I assume this woman is her mother.
Natalie’s eyes fill with tears, and she curls in on herself as she begins to weep. Her cries take on the erratic timbre of someone with a broken heart, and I would bet my hat that this loss is recent.
It’s difficult to watch her in this state, though I’m not sure why. A moment of privacy is what she needs, but I can’t seem to make myself leave the room. What do I care that she’s grieving? I’ve certainly done my fair share of it. Loss is universal. No one is immune.
Perhaps this is her first experience with death. If that’s the case, she should count herself lucky. Some of us have beengrieving our loved ones since before we hit puberty. When that happens, the sky is never as bright as it once was. You learn that pain is inevitable, and those deep cuts will keep coming until it’s your heart that stops beating.
When I finally float upstairs to the attic, I can still hear Natalie’s faint cries, but they’ve softened. She’ll be asleep soon.
It’s then that I realize what a colossal problem I have on my hands. Living with Penelope was as easy as breathing. It was simple, devoid of complications. She stuck to her part of the house, I stuck to mine, and when we wanted company, we’d meet in the living room to play cards or watch the news. There was no pressure to be anything other than what we were: an elderly woman who wanted to gossip about her friends from Bingo club, and a thirty-seven-year-old man whose lonely spirit is trapped on the grounds of which he perished.
Natalie…she confuses me. She is mostly vexatious, much like Lindsay but in a different sense. She seems too sweet, in a way that can’t be real. Something about her draws me in, though, and I don’t know why. It’s not as if she’s some great beauty. Her features are rather plain. With dark circles beneath her eyes and hollows in her cheeks, it’s clear she hasn’t been taking care of herself, but even if she had been, would I find her attractive?
Yes.
Shit.
Yes, I would. Without a doubt. She’s the opposite of plain. I can’t take my eyes off her enchanting smile, her ample curves, or those sultry pink lips. Who am I kidding? She’s easily the most captivating woman I’ve ever seen.
A house with five bedrooms, three floors, and two acres of land, and for the first time in over a hundred years, it feels cramped in here.
Chapter 3
Natalie
Abreathtaking dark Victorian mansion all to myself, and I can’t seem to enjoy it. The realization is embarrassing. The first few days here were okay. I kept myself busy by dusting the many surfaces, taking notes for Lindsay on the appliances that truly are broken, and the areas in need of repair, but then I ran out of things to do, and more so, the energy to do them.
Are there tasks I could be accomplishing? Of course.
I could look for a job in town or apply for remote work. I could go for a daily walk around the property. You know, enjoy the sunshine and get my heart rate up or whatever it is emotionally stable people do. I could take stock of the cleaning supplies, roll up my sleeves, and really get to work on making this place sparkle. Lindsay didn’t ask me to do it, but I certainly could, especially as a way to pay her back for letting me live here.
I could also pull myself out of bed, shower, maybe shave my legs for the first time in weeks, and yet, here I lay, unable to perform the most basic daily functions. My hair feels greasy, and I know I stink, but I’m the only one here, so I allow the rot to continue. When my limbs get stiff, which usually happensaround three in the morning, I get up and wander the creaky halls in my nightgown like the ghost of a sad pilgrim. That’s been my only source of joy this week, and even that isn’t enough for my lips to crack a smile.
It’s like I’m too tired to smile. Too tired to do anything. I’m sleeping a lot, but only for half an hour at a time before I wake up and the memories of Mom hit me. It’s not consistent, restorative sleep.
When I’m awake, I can’t focus on anything. I’ll remember I should do something, which gets me out of bed, but when I enter the room my feet took me to, I forget the reason I’m there.
Food has been an afterthought. I’ve been munching on a few of Lindsay’s gourmet crackers at a time until my stomach stops growling. There are crumbs strewn about between the bedsheets and on the floor. It’s not ideal.
