The Haunted House

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I haven't set foot in this house for many, many months.

As I inserted the key and turned the lock, I hesitated. I placed my hand on the knurled stainless steel door-knob and took a deep breath. What would it be like to return to a place so ingrained with memory and sadness? I could almost hear the echo of tears long gone, bouncing off the smooth painted walls.

The house is an apartment, somewhere off Jalan Ampang in Kuala Lumpur. It has never been the grandest or most prestigious place to live in, but it was once a home. Sometime ago it played host to the lives of people, who slept beneath the ceiling and walked on the parquet floor. That was sometime ago. Now it is an empty chamber.

I turned the door-knob and the first thing that struck me was the thick, dusty air. The windows and sliding doors have not been opened for months, and it was amazing how quickly debris accumulated. There was a fine layer of dust on the normally spotless floor. The furniture, untouched, lay covered beneath white sheets that now looked gray from the dust. It looked drab, gloomy... deathly, even.

I closed the door behind me and glanced at the floor. There were no signs of disturbances save for the tell-tale scurry of perhaps a mouse or cockroaches. I shuddered a little. I hated cockroaches.

Pale early morning sunlight filtered through the drawn shades, and as I pulled them open I had to cover my mouth and nose; it puffed up a dry cloud that was slightly choking. But the sunlight now came in strong and bright, and it gave a little bit of a cheer to the place, pushing away the initial gloominess. I paused a moment, and scanned my eyes across.

It looked like the house was ready for a re-painting; all the chairs and sofas and tables were covered with sheets, and there were no pictures on the walls. Those had been taken down months ago, when the inhabitant had unfortunately passed away. They now rested in a box in the defunct bedroom.

I walked around, leaving footprints on the floor. From the living room, I walked to the dining area. Somewhere in my mind I saw a picture of people having meals together there, laughing and talking over, say, a pizza or rice and condiments. I stood at the edge of the covered dining table and from there I saw two bedrooms, a study room and the kitchen.

I breathed shallowly, partly because of the dust, but also because the place was overwhelming me. The power of memory was slowly taking its hold upon my mind. With it came vivid recollections of a past that I, a certain times, long for, but know for certain will never live again. I walked slowly, deliberately, and made my way to the bedroom.

Like the living room, everything was covered in sheets. But I could still make out the outlines of the dresser, and of the pillows on the double bed. Again, my head blooms with images of a face long gone but still alive in my memories. A box, roughly 2 feet square, sat near the edge of the bed. I made my way to it and knelt down. The box was not sealed. I opened it and took out a bunch of framed photographs and a photo album.

I looked at the pictures and thumbed through the album. Curiously, at that moment, I felt that I was no longer alone in that house. I felt as if someone was there with me. It was silent; under different circumstances, perhaps that would have been eery, but strangely enough, the silence was comfortable. I packed the pictures back into the box.

I exited the bedroom and strolled around inside the house. My senses were beginning to overload. It seemed that everywhere I looked, I saw ghosts. And everything I touched pulled me back to the past. The memories were racing at the speed of light in front of my eyes, and it felt like my heart was being crushed inside me. I sighed, and a sudden upwelling of emotion threatened to make me weep. But I kept it in check, and held it in. I promised myself that I would not cry. Because I knew that it would be meaningless. Tears will not bring back the dead.

I will still see the ghosts, and not just in this now empty house. And no; the ghosts are not figures shrouded in white and moaning, nor are they apparitions that walk through walls.

No.

Instead, the ghosts are of a beautiful woman of whom I loved and left, only to realize I needed her. The ghosts are that of a time long gone, a past I had hoped to reconcile with this woman. But God loved her more, and Fate decreed that I would never have the chance to be with her again. And so I was destined to live with the ghosts of my past.

This house is haunted, you see. Not by restless souls. But it is haunted by a love that was unfulfilled. A love that, perhaps, did not have the chance to blossom. To live.

I made my way out of the empty apartment and closed the door; and just for a split-second, I thought I saw a slender, beautiful woman dressed in a white kebaya, with long, straight hair and the brightest eyes ever. And I knew it was only my imagination, but for that split second, I thought I saw her smile at me and say,


"Goodbye Wise--"

... but I closed the door before she could finish.

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this is very short and not very rich story-wise. i'm just having fun, and i need to keep writing to stay sharp.
TWAAY readers, hope you liked it. before you cry foul, read the story properly; it's not literally 'ghosts'.