Incident — In A Ghost Land

We are the ghost.

We're not locked in with the ghost.

Now I sit here in the dark with her, waiting for you to look into any reflective surface. Incident in a Ghost Land

I touched the mirror. My fingers went through.

On the other side, the little girl I'd buried—the one who learned to laugh while bleeding—reached out and pulled me through. We are the ghost

The door swung inward on its own, greeting me like an old wound that never healed. Inside, the furniture was draped in sheets that looked like ghost gowns. But that wasn't the worst part.

In it, I saw two versions of myself: one cowering, one grinning. The grinning one pressed her palm against the glass. "You remember," she said, "what Mother made us do to survive." I touched the mirror

So I returned.

The worst part was the mirror at the end of the hall.

They told me not to go back. Not to the house on Vermillion Street. But the dreams wouldn't stop—the same dream where I'm twelve again, and the floorboards creak like a whisper: "Come play."