The Haunting in my House

Growing up, the ghost in my house loved to play board games. I’d come home from preschool to find the pieces of my Candyland board had moved in my absence. The colorful, cartoon covered books that used to be on my shelves were now mysteriously left open on my rainbow-colored carpet. My stuffed animals were set out for a tea party that I’d never started. Things in my room always shifted, and it was never by my doing.

That was my first introduction to Mary.

At the time, my limited knowledge of ghosts couldn’t comprehend her. I couldn’t see her or touch her or do anything else to verify her existence. It’s not like she talked to me either. Occasionally I’d notice something move out of the corner of my eye, but as soon as I turned my head, she’d drop whatever she was doing.

On a few occasions I told my parents about her, but they’d just brush me off. They’d say I must’ve forgotten to put my stuffed animals away or that I should take better care of my books. No matter how I tried to explain things to them, they just didn’t understand. They thought that I was just scared of some monster in the closet and wanted them to tuck me into bed at night and check the closet for monsters.

But what they didn’t understand is that I was never afraid of Mary.

I just wanted them to notice her too.

In the third grade I was able to convince my parents to buy me a whiteboard to put on my wall. Until then, I was only able to speak with Mary through her little comments on scrap pieces of paper that I’d left out for her on my desk. I’d taken years for me to get her to open up, and even when she did, she only wrote small little comments. She asked for books that I didn’t own or stuffed animals that I didn’t have. I’d go to the library to check out books I thought she’d like and left them out for her under the window. I’d watch from the bed with wide eyes as the pages would turn with her invisible fingers. I’d be so distracted by her movements that I’d entirely forget what I was reading.

I also started putting her wants on my Christmas lists. As an only child, it felt far less lonely opening presents when some of them were meant for someone else. I’d take all of the gifts up to my room and put her stuffed animals in her spot under the window. She’d play with her toys and read her books on the carpet, occasionally scrawling something out on the whiteboard when she had something to say to me.

It was remarkably easy for me to get along with Mary.

In the fifth grade, I started looking up books about ghosts. It’s easy to gain a fascination on the subject when one quite literally lived in your room. I’d never been a fan of scary stories, and most of the books I’d read were nothing like my experiences with Mary. Maybe other ghosts just aren’t like her.

“Why do you think you’re a ghost?” I asked, peering over the pages of my research novel.

Down by the foot of my bed, an open book hovered almost a foot over the covers. At my words, she grabbed the bookmark and slid it between the pages before setting it down. Seconds later, the blue marker lifted off the top of the whiteboard.

 I don’t know. I just am.

That wasn’t much of an answer, but if she doesn’t have one then there’s really isn’t anything for her to tell me. As I looked back down at my book, a passage explained how ghosts are usually just souls held back by something unfinished. They’re just people who regretted something so much that they can’t move on to whatever the next phase is.

“Well do you have any unfinished business?” I asked. “That could be why you’re still here.”

 I don’t know, Cassidy, I didn’t grow up enough to finish anything.

I sighed. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” Mary didn’t really get the chance to do much of anything, so the list of things that could be holding her back was long. I spent hours scribbling things out in my notebook, trying to figure out what would take her away from me. Because if I can find out why she’s still here, maybe I can figure out how to make her stay forever.

“You just have to not let go.” I said eventually. “You’re in control of when you move on, so you just have to stay.”

 I’ll try to stay. She wrote back. Things are better now that you’re here. I like having a friend my age.

We were in middle school when we got into our first fight. It’s remarkably difficult to find a reason to fight with a ghost who can’t talk. I was at an age where I was desperately searching for some form of independence, and it’s really hard to do when there’s a constant presence hovering somewhere in your room.

It started when she started writing on my school worksheets. She’d try to solve math equations and write out the answers on my history assignments. For years she’d worked on my homework assignments, reading my schoolbooks and writing things down in a spare notebook of mine that I gave her. But that day, a teacher noticed the different handwriting. She’d pulled me aside after class and told me that cheating wasn’t acceptable. She said that if she noticed anyone else’s handwriting on my work, she wouldn’t just dock my grade, she’d have to call my parents.

“Mary, I told you for the millionth time, you can’t write on my homework assignments.” I argued.

I just figured it wasn’t that big of a deal, she wrote on the whiteboard. They never noticed before.

“Well, she noticed today.” I replied. “What do I always tell you, just write your answers on your own papers.”

 You’re just mad you got caught. She wrote back. How many times have you turned in my work?

I shook my head. “Don’t turn this back around on me. You’re made me get in trouble at school.”

Don’t you think I’d do my own homework if I could. Do you think I want to stay in this stupid house while you get to go to school and make friends.

I paused at that, staring at the blue words on the board. Her writing was slanted with hurried irritation. This was a conversation that we never seemed to have. Because while I can leave whenever I liked, she stays in this house. For her, there is no escape.

“I’m sorry Mary.” I swallowed. “I’m just upset I’m in trouble.”

For a moment, the blue marker just hovered midair. My breath stilled in my chest at her lack of a reply.

Eventually, she lifted the tip of the marker back up against the whiteboard.

 It’s okay. I’ll write my answers on my own papers.

She capped the blue marker before I could say anything else. And as she went back to reading her book, all I could do was stare at her words on the whiteboard.

In High school while searching the attic, I accidentally found her diary. It was in pristine condition, hidden behind a wooden support beam. The corners of the pages had turned yellow with age. On the cover her name was printed neatly, the familiar slope of her handwriting almost unchanged over the years. Mary Thompson.

A picture poked out from the side of the journal. I pulled it out to discover the image of a girl who looks to be about six years old. Her hair was curly and brown, eyes wide and green. This must be Mary.

It seemed like the kind of thing she wouldn’t want me to look through.

I’d brought it downstairs to our bedroom and placed it on top of her pile of books. At some point she’d traded in those children’s tales for some thick spined fantasy books. I went to the library each week to pick out whatever I thought she’d like. Occasionally she’d ask me to find books by a specific author, or in a certain genre. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the luxury of leaving to pick out the books she wanted. She’s forever stuck in this house.

The book hovering in midair slowly lowered down to the carpet. Moments later, the diary lifted off the stack, and its pages creased open. The picture dropped to the floor. As she grabbed it, the paper bowed slightly, still hovering in midair.

“I didn’t read anything if that’s what you’re wondering.” I said. “I just figured that you might want that.”

The paper stayed still for a moment, until eventually it lifted. She walked it over to the whiteboard, pulling a magnet off the side of the board before using it to stick the picture next to the frame.

“You look really young in that photo.” I said.

Back then I was. She wrote back. But I’m not anymore.

As I zipped close the last of my bags, I took one last look around the room. Sunlight streamed in through the parted green curtains. The boy band posters that I hadn’t had the heart to take down were tapped firmly to my walls. Books covered my shelves and piled on the floor by the window.

Despite that, with my closet and desk now cleaned out, the whole place felt…empty.

While my parents would be able to visit me once, I’m not able to come home until Thanksgiving break. My parents really wanted me to settle into adulthood and get better at living alone and I agreed. After all, getting my aviation degree is going to take a lot of work.

“Do you think there’s anything that I forgot?” I muttered. “I have all my chargers, my laptop, my clothes, and my toiletries. I think I have everything.”

Don’t worry, you have everything you need. She wrote on the whiteboard. I wouldn’t let you go if you weren’t ready.

I sighed. All my prior excitement about moving out and moving on in my life washed away. Because despite everything I wanted to do and everywhere I wanted to go, I’m still leaving Mary.

“It’ll only be like three months before I’m back for Thanksgiving.” I stated. “I’ll be back to see you before you know it.”

She paused, blue marker hovering midair over the whiteboard. Yeah.

Guilt gnawed at me as I grabbed the last of my bags. I had to go eventually. I couldn’t just stay in this house. I want a career, and I want to travel the world. Becoming a pilot was going to let me do that. As much as I wanted to stay with Mary, it’s not the kind of life I want.

“Okay, well I think I’m gonna get going now.” I said. “But don’t worry, as soon as I get back I’ll update you on everything.”

I paused in the doorway as Mary scribbled on the whiteboard. Goodbye, I love you.

“I love you too.” I muttered slowly.

Almost three months after starting college, I packed my bags and came home. It wasn’t far, only a two-hour drive away, but it was still farther than I’ve ever been from Mary. I had a new roommate, Sophie, and it was nice to share a room with someone I could actually see. We had the same taste in music and movies, and while we weren’t the closest, I still considered her a friend.

As I pulled my car into the driveway, I parked it on the side of the driveway before rushing into the house and bouncing up the stairs.

“Mary?” I asked, looking around the room to see if anything was moving around the room. Everything was still. “I’m back.”

My room looked exactly as I left it. My bed was still made, and Mary’s bookstack looked untouched. The whiteboard was clear of whatever Mary wrote before I left. My mom must’ve cleared it off after I left.

“Mary, I’m back.” I said again. “Where are you, I have so much to tell you about college.”

I looked at the whiteboard, expecting the blue marker to lift off the top of the frame any second now. But it never did.

Something cold and unfamiliar washed over me. The room felt empty. “Okay, Mary, where are you?”

As I looked around, I noticed her notebook was left open on my desk. I rushed over to it, trying to see if she wrote anything down that I didn’t notice.

Thank you for letting me grow up with you, Cassidy. But I think it’s time I go.

With love,

Mary Thompson

I looked around the room again. “Okay Mary, this isn’t funny.” I watched the whiteboard, anxiously waiting for her response. “Where are you?”

My words echoed out in the silent room. As I looked around again, my eyes caught onto the cover of the top book on Mary’s stack. It’s the same ghost research novel that I read as a child, The one we used to use to figure out why ghosts stay and how they can leave. My blood ran cold at the sight of it.

Mary let go.

Years after I’d last heard from Mary, my parents would jokingly tell any boyfriend I’d allowed them to meet about the monsters in my room. They’d tell them how forgetful I was and that I used to leave books out on the carpet. Everyone would laugh at the silly little girl who blamed a ghost for my messy room. I would just plaster a fake smile across my face, ignoring my heavy heart. I’d walk up to my childhood bedroom that had been left mostly untouched, hoping to see any sign that she was still here. The room always remained still. I’d spend the night sleeping in my old childhood bed, staring at the whiteboard where she used to write. But it always remained blank.