I Don’t Believe in Ghosts

I don’t believe in ghosts, but ghosts believe in me. I can’t think of any other reason why they allow me to see them in the first place. I wish they didn’t.

If you believe this to be a gift and envy my position, please don’t. There are approximately seven billion living people in the world. Just imagine how many dead ones are out there. Yes, that’s right. Scared now?

Unlike what you see in the movies and such, the ghosts of the dead are mostly static, don’t move objects, don’t possess others. They’re like fleeting photographs attached to the memory of a place, in some cases brief videos on a loop. They’re predictable, yet that doesn’t make them less unnerving.

How can I take a shower knowing I’ll always see that squalid young girl kneeling by the bathroom rug foaming from her mouth from a cold medicine overdose? How can I have breakfast in peace if there’s a serial killer sharpening his knives sitting next to me by the kitchen? Even the innocent creep me out. I don’t want to play house with the girl her parents locked in the attic. I’m allergic to the dozen dead cats that sleep in my bed every night.

Move out, you’re going to say. I already did. More times than I can number. I’ve been everywhere, every continent. The dead want to be seen. I can’t keep my eyes closed forever.

Wait, perhaps I can. If I just cross the street, forgetting to look to the sides, I might… ah. That’s nice.

I didn’t believe in ghosts, but ghosts believed in me. I wish they hadn’t, but I have an eternity to forgive them now. If you happen to see me, please forgive me for the accident you’re about to have.