Ghosts Don’t Scare Me When I Cry

Even when the clock strikes two in the morning, the room is pitch-black, and the whole world is asleep, I still somehow cannot muster any fear.

Outside, the world is eerily silent. The streets are empty, leafless tree branches stretch out in front of the silver moon like streaks of ink, and the wind outside seems to blow secrets away from earshot.

If I’d been on one of my usual all-nighters, scrolling through my phone and waiting for that split-second dopamine rush from reels that make me find anything to laugh at, maybe the hairs on my skin would stand up just a little.

Perhaps I would take my flashlight, clutch any hard metal object I could potentially use as a weapon, and hide under the comfort of my blankets. Monsters never check under the blankets; it’s an unspoken universal rule that had never been proven, but somehow always made me feel safe.

Ghosts would probably scare me if this were a normal dawn.

But the last thing on my mind is horror. Especially as I pull my tear-stained pillow into an embrace, sobs spill out of my mouth like dripping blood, and the weight of my heart grows heavier by the second.

My chest aches, my lungs are tired, and my eyes are bloodshot. I sink to my bed like it is a doomed ship, the only thing carrying my body from crashing and drowning into a sea of grief.

Oceans pour from my eyes until my soul feels transparent and empty. My mind is static, unable to think properly. Numbness encompasses my being, and for a moment relief washes over me, but emptiness follows quickly.

The mirror stares at me; my swollen eyes stare back, and with trembling hands I feel the roughness of my skin. A lump sits in my throat, and even the minuscule act of swallowing feels like a great tribulation.

I’m fairly certain that I myself look like a gruesome monster. Maybe that is why ghosts never come out to scare me, not if they already assume I’m one of their own.

Maybe part of me believes that these beings are capable of feeling an ounce of sympathy at the sight of my hysteria. Maybe they have heard my cries, gathered my tears, and looked long enough to pity me.

Perhaps even the dead would choose the kindness to leave me alone after seeing the hurt inflicted by the living.

Would seeing ghosts in mirrors, floating feet amongst creaking floors, and uninvited eyes tucked in shadows be more terrifying than anomalies haunting you in broad daylight?

For what truly shapes a monster? Is it the razor-sharp claws, wide hollow eyes, and unsettling smiles, or the vicious intentions, humiliation, and the wounds that leave traces of ugly sensations?

When the sobs die down, the only thing audible in the lightless room is the low hum of the ceiling fan. But listen close enough, and the abyss whispers back. The silence is imbued with hushed whispers that don’t sound like they come from beating hearts. Yet, they are the ones who seem to know the shape of sorrow; perhaps some of the vengeful have also suffered at the hands of the living.

I’d like to believe that every time I have wept in October, when scares fill the streets and monsters bombard every movie theater, ghosts would save the scare for another time.

It is quite Ironic how October serves as a game of pretend and safe scares for many, because shadows that lurk beyond this physical dimension cannot be easily escaped or taken off like a costume at the end of the night.

You can dress up as a monster: put on heavy makeup, stir up fake blood, and buy the costume. But masquerading as one might never compare to feeling like one of the monstrous.

But I think there’s more to the story. Maybe tired lungs from endless sobbing always beat the racing heart of trepidation. Surviving something far worse may have robbed me of the ability to be consumed by ordinary fears.

I have had deeper cuts that go beyond skin and bones, and comparing them next to the supernatural does not make me fearless. It leaves me desolate.

Maybe the waves of pain and anguish overpower my fear of the paranormal.

So where do I run to this time?

I could easily clutch my blanket once more and hide beneath it. Once, the warmth and softness were my sanctuary. It had always protected me from imagined monsters under my bed, uninvited eyes in my closet, and creatures outside my window. But it cannot protect me from memories.

Still, I pull the blankets over my head, even though what frightens me changed long ago. My body curls beneath the soft cotton, resting in a temporary shelter from a world that feels too difficult.

When I was younger, my favorite part of daybreak was always leaving the blanket and basking in the morning glow, feeling triumphant over the moonless night and monsters.

However, I wonder when I stopped being afraid of the dark and started fearing what the light might reveal.

Daylight might not always cure me, but it offers relief. When the birds sing and the sun rises, life continues. Life demands that I put myself back together. So I wash my face, cover my swollen eyes, and push through.

The pain is not necessarily erased, but I am given a moment in which I can breathe without crying.