Ghosts are beings without substance but who carry great weight. Are they malevolent or sad and lonely?
In the darkness between the lights of the town and the sparkle of the stars, nestled between rugged peaks and a raging river, it is a magical place, with a degree of surprise detected unexpectedly hidden among the pines, a place that, once found, is never forgotten.
An elderly village, visitors never stay long and leave no impression except a sigh of relief. Its scent of fresh earth and its aura are perceived only by the lost, the desperate, or the forgotten.
Beside the weeping tree sits a diminutive cabin, a single rocking chair perched on uneven boards next to a fading green door secured by an oversized lock.
From the attic, sounds of fluttering like a poor bird thing trying to escape. Her energy is palpable even through the hand-hewn walls. Energy like the number eight, infinity turned on its side. Energy trapped, spinning around and around, frustrated, angry energy, unable to escape …until someone unlocks the door.
When you’re looking for them, ghosts are never in the easy places next to the front door or at the gate to the kitchen garden, they’re in the attic, the basement, under the bed, or hidden in the closet behind the old shoes and winter sweaters.
Are they angry, lost or afraid? Who knows?
They’re never exactly what you expect, not white sheets with cutout eyes, not green drooling ghouls. They’re vague, ephemeral, undefined yet focused.
Human shadows on unoccupied stairs. Wet footprints on a polished floor. Peeking eyes in dark doorways.
Unable to accept death, they’re focused on their own fears and inadequacies, on their lives…unfinished.
They haunt the living, seeking to regain what was lost or to find the missing pieces.
Our own fear is the key to the locked door. Ghosts gather energy from the fears of the living. The greater the fear, the greater their power.
The reality is, no monsters exist from another world— only from this.
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