(Told by a Poltergeist)
They never see me at first.
They feel me, though.
The breath of me in a cold draft where there should be warmth. The way their eyes flick to a shadow that just moved a little too quickly, a little too wrong. The tension in their shoulders when they walk beneath me, pretending not to hear the faint creak of floorboards above them.
They always pretend.
The new ones moved in just over three moons ago. A man with tired eyes and a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his throat. A woman who hums to herself like she’s afraid of silence. And a child—new, pink, and soft. Full of noise. Full of light.
I don’t like the light.
They came with boxes and paint cans and ideas. They said they were going to renovate. The word itched in my ears. Do you know what it feels like to have your walls torn open after you’ve grown used to the quiet? After the last ones finally stopped screaming?
The attic is mine. It’s always been mine.
They never ask permission. They never look up and say, “Can we stay?” They just move in, like they own the bones of this place. But I’ve been here far longer. Before they named the streets. Before the birds stopped singing in winter.
The house and I are one. I breathe through the air vents. I hum through the pipes. I dream through the old wiring in the walls, flickering and buzzing with every thought I can’t quite finish.
At first, I tried to warn them. A soft knock here, a swinging light bulb there. I thought they might listen. The child did. Children always do. She would stare up at the ceiling, wide-eyed and still, listening to my footsteps. She never cried—not until the mother started to hush her and turn up the lullabies.
They always try to drown me out.
But I’m louder than I used to be.
The man came up one night. He held a flashlight like it would protect him, like light could burn me out. He stood there, shivering, trying to find the source of the noise. I stayed behind him, just out of reach, whispering so softly he’d think it was in his head. He left quickly. Humans always run when they don’t understand something.
One night, I grew angry. They’d brought in a contractor, a stranger, someone who didn’t belong even in the echo of this place. He stomped through the attic, muttering to himself, mocking me with each step. So I showed him the corner where the wallpaper still bleeds, and I whispered the name I don’t remember having.
He left his tools behind.
They don’t come up anymore. But they watch. Oh, how they watch. Cameras, motion sensors, little blinking lights that try to catch me in the act. But I’ve lived in silence longer than their machines have existed. I can move between frames, live in the static. I show them just enough to keep them up at night. A hand. A face. A voice calling from the baby monitor:
“Come upstairs.”
They won’t, of course. Not now.
They left yesterday. Took the boxes, the crib, the soft smells of food and fear. They slammed the door so hard, I felt it in the nails holding the floorboards in place. They think they’re safe now.
But they forget what the man said when he walked into the attic that first time.
“This house has character,” he said. “Feels like it’s alive.”
He was right.
And what lives… can follow.
It’s 2:14 a.m. now. The time I became aware of myself. The hour when the house and I first fused into something more. That moment echoes across time like a stone dropped in a deep, still lake.
He’s waking up again. Sitting in his new bed. Wondering why the room is cold. Wondering why he hears footsteps on the roof when his new place has no attic.
He thinks he moved far enough away.
But I live upstairs.
And upstairs is wherever I decide it is.
Thank-you for reading.
Much Love and Light,
Brenda Marie
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