I felt her in my bones, a chill like a dead woman’s beauty, a sneer on a cold, winter’s morning. Frozen, I held my ground, or so I told myself, for, in truth, I couldn’t move. The female presence drifted across my vision like a schooner’s billowing sail. But there was no wind? What had I been drinking?
But I hadn’t been drinking, and thus she came to me every single day and every sleepless night. No sooner would I step from the car, the door, the bath, than she was there, my own personal ghost, eyes ablaze and translucent fingers. She never once touched me; she didn’t need to. Instead, she haunted from afar, but never too far. And so it was I learnt the power of fear upon a man. You couldn’t outrun it. You couldn’t out-think it. You couldn’t outlive it.
I feel her in my deepest sleep, my innermost fears, my soul. She lays beside me every night in our most secret place, our shared tomb coming to me when others shun me, non-judgemental and giving freely of her time. She comes to me in the grave, the grave she sent me to. One day, I’ll find out why.