This had been a difficult, disturbing year for me and I was exhausted as I fell back on my chair seeking the relief of a deep sleep, maybe even a permanent one. But as I tossed and turned on my chair, I opened my tormented eyes to see my past thumbing its nose at me from the chair across the room. I saw his demeaning face berating me, telling me I was worthless, his face contorted in a rage with veins bulging on his forehead.

“Can’t I even escape you in my nightmares?” I moaned in utter dismay.

Suddenly, it dawned on me that I was the master of my dreams. I could change my destiny by tweaking the circumstances, molding them to my needs and wants. I decided to get rid of the albatross that had been hanging on my neck for far too long. But I had so many fates from which to choose. I decided that an unknown force would slice the artery in his neck and leave him suffering while he bled out. I laughed out loud, knowing that I would never have the courage to watch him die if I were awake.

The next morning, for the first time in many months, I awoke refreshed and feeling ready to face the future. I realized it had only been a dream but it forced me to realize that I needed to excise him, neatly, from my life forever. Getting up to start some coffee, I was horrified to see a large crimson stain on my chair. I hated knowing that I had to get rid of my brand new chair!

The darkness falls and I drift off to a night of dreams and hopes of possibilities.

Faintly I hear in my subconscious a woman crying uncontrollably, Sobbing in so much pain.

I awoke disturbed and looked over at the empty rocking chair by my bed.

Looking face to face with myself.

As I layed there watching in fear of what was going on, I sat up.

Leaning over to a foggy hollowed eye image of me, realizing she is dead inside and crying for help.

Flashing before my eyes, all the times I sat there and rocked all my hurt away.

Everything came rushing to my mind, all my mistakes and others deceits.

All my broken dreams. My losses that I could barely take.

The debilitating hurt by lovers, my fuck ups and failures.

My suicide attempt that failed yet scarred me for life.

All my pain is stuck, manifesting into a disturbed lost soul.

I am being haunted by me.

I reach to console her,

Reassuring it's ok to let it all go and forgive thyself and others.

To not hurt, stop crying and be free once more.

To trust and love again.

Telling her she is a beautiful wonderful being on the inside, who needs to move on and go forward.

Release the demons that hold on tight forever making my soul ache at night.

I was able to convince her, and she submitted to my words, my disturbed soul became silent.

Laying her down next to me, holding on to her tight.

I put my past to bed, and I hope I never see her again.

I've never been alone

Surrounded by empty chairs

Yet filled with souls

Always concerned

They will spill their guts

Reveling my secrets

To tell what they know

I've never been afraid

Until now

I really, really don't.

But there's something in my apartment. 


Something that makes soft, human noises in the living room.

I hear it when I'm home alone,

Soft footsteps,

Plastic bags crinkling,

Things being moved.

…There's never anything there.

Nothing but glimpses at the corner of my eye

And a feeling of being watched.

Nothing but goosebumps on my skin

I don't believe in ghosts.


But I know that she is there.

And I feel that she is harmless.

I know that she is "she".


Previous occupants all say:

"Oh! You met the ghost?"

Then, inexplicably they add:

"Don't worry, she's harmless,”

Things I never mentioned... they knew.

Does that mean they could be true?

But I shake my stubborn head.

I don't believe in ghosts, you see

Not even when they’re there.

And whatever she was, I noticed

She didn't like to be discussed.

Mentioning her meant losing things

Missing trinkets and earrings 


We laughed it off, because she's harmless, right?

But even so my chest felt tight.

I don't believe in ghosts.

And she'd like so much to keep it that way.


When I tell her story, my hands go numb.

I feel a slight tremor.

See flashes of red.

Change the subject

“I don’t believe in ghosts” I scoff,

Because it seems to me,

more and more when she’s brought up

She likes to slam the door

So I pretend I’m not convinced.

Ignore whispered rumors and meaningful stares

I debunk the odd occurrence

dismiss it as "coincidence"

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I say

Because my throat is dry

She here to stay and gets her way

And talking about it makes it worse.

So hear my word, I’ve changed my mind:

I do believe in ghosts, I find.

I just don’t believe she’s harmless.

"Mahhhhhhhmmeeeeeee!!!!!"

Running, bat in hand, she stumbled down the hall.  Which door???

"Mommeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!" 

Trista, that's Trista.  Of course!

Susan turned sharply left, banging her shoulder, sweeping the air with the bat before dropping to her knees.  Trista was sitting up, sweat-soaked hair hanging.  Face flushed, she pulled in another breath to scream. 

"Honey, shushhhhh.  Stop honey, stop.  Just a nightmare.  Mommy's here.  Shush."

Trista's eyes squeezed shut, her thin ribcage was heaving wildly.  God, Susan thought, she's nearly seizing!

Susan felt awful for her eldest, caught in a recurring nightmare about a young boy with white eyes and a scratched face, who watched her from the old rocker in the corner.  Creepy.

Trista believed in him so strongly that she "gave" him things.  In the last week, Susan had found a package of oreos, Trista's charm bracelet and her favorite stuffie, Mr. Turtle, on the ground outside, near the parking lot.  Mr. Turtle was no worse for wear but the oreos were shattered.  Susan thought again now that Trista needed to talk to someone.  A professional.  The divorce had hit her hard.

Finally giving up the terror, Trista slumped forward, heaving cries into Susan's lap.

Running her hands over Trista's soaked head, Susan looked for Lucy, puzzled. The baby wasn't there, sucking her thumb and clutching the doorframe like she had been every other night.

Susan pushed Trista back up into bed, tucking the comforter under her still quivering chin. 

"Honey, I'm gonna check on Lucy.  You okay?"

"No." Trista says too softly.  "Lucy's gone."  How alike the girls look, Susan thought, not registering.

"Wait, what?"  She spit out, finally.

"Uh I..I gave her to Bad Brian.  I'm sorry Mommy.  He told me that, he told me...."  Trista's lip is quivering, tears are starting to flow again.

Susan looks down at her oldest daughter, lets her hand drop onto the comforter, and then walks, dreamlike, through the empty doorframe into Lucy's room.  Seeing Lucy's toddler bed in disarray, her gauzy pink curtains waving gently in the night air, the breath she was holding lets out into a single terrifying wail.

Is it possible

To see without eyes?

Or think with no mind?

You say no

But I can show you different

First my father died

A noose replaced his necktie

Then mother

One too many sleeping pills

My cousin next

champion swimmer

Found floating

Enough blood to fill a swimming pool

Nine year old sister

Didn't show up

to school in her bus

She was under it

Grandfather

Passed in his sleep

Aunt Judith

Tounge-tied

On her wrist

My best friend

Eyes gouged out

Arms where legs should be

And now

left here it's only me

The house

Dark and quiet

This room is square

My bed in one corner

In the other-a chair

In the light

Empty

But darkness falls

And eerie shadows

Dance the walls

I know he's there

He's waiting, patiently

In the chair that breathes

And lives and sees

It's watching me

I can't see him but

He can see me

I hear his presence

Whispers so quietly

"Time to die"

Nothing was ever supposed to be out of the ordinary in their small house.

When they moved into the neighborhood, everything had the HGTV style appeal; gardens were dotted along the well kept lawns of our inclusive community, and every weekend that summer, the street came abuzz with friendly banter and the aromatic smell of barbecue.

I have lived in this neighborhood for a while. I smirk at their arrival. I pity their ignorance, yet I am filled with relief.

The story goes that the family received the house as part of an inheritance, perhaps from an estranged aunt or uncle. They were just heading out from the city, and the belongings they brought that had once filled their tiny apartment were now scarcely enough to fit their new home. Hence, when us neighbors decided to through them an 'impromptu' welcoming party, they were thrilled at the gifts we presented them with.

Amongst these was a chair. We do not need to discuss its origins, but in order to understand its relevancy, you must know that all of us had been desperate to get rid of the object for years, but no matter what we do, it always returns to the one of us who is 'fortunate' enough to have been presented with it last.

And that is me.

Or was me.

Last night was their first night here. I had to close my windows to muffle their screams of horror. Their horror is a type I am all too familiar with.

I suppose I ought to tell you why, but if I expose too much, you may be putting you own self in jeopardy.

But what I can tell you is that when the chair was in my possession, I was the reoccurent victim of night terrors so paralyzing that I know I will never fully recover from them. Especially the blood. I'd dream it was everywhere, and sure enough, every morning , the white velvet cushion is saturated with blood. And there was always a series of bloody thumbprints on my face and chest, trailing out the window.

Sometimes at night, I drift from half asleep to half awake. My eyes open ever so slightly, and I catch glimpses of the chair. 

During the day, there's nobody there. But at night, she sits there. 

She keeps my dreams safe. She sits in the chair, and with rapier reflex and steel cause of strength, she protects me in slumber. 

I've seen her before, but I don't know where

But she keeps me real as she sits in that chair

I've kept my composure to almost no end

And I have her to thank; she is my heart's friend

Oh, my dear, why are you here? were you left or were you right, are you exhausted from all of the fighting last night? Don't be afraid, I say, as I run my smooth fingers across your dismay. I don't say this because there will be a way, for you to survive this, not on this day, but I choose to spare you the hope that just may, poison your last moments in this dream that you pray, I want to enjoy the thoughts you can't say.  

There is no point in fearing, just because you sleep. Your nightmares protect you from the truth I am masquerading. 

I drugged you my sweet. I drugged you indeed. Now I sit in this chair across from your need, and I watch as you bleed, each and every drop sending me into sweet, sweet blissful agony. You can't survive me. You want to know why?

I am your destiny, to help you die. 

(This was left intentionally vague, as the killer can be anything or anyone. The idea is that she fell asleep and is dying. Whether it is in her mind or in reality doesn't matter, but she will die, and this is the voice she hears in her final dream. The idea here is for you to imprint your fears onto the voice.)

Never fall asleep facing an empty seat

You have too many demons that like to watch you sleep

They like the sound of your life, your heart like a drumbeat

Their black eyes watch you relentlessly deep

If you were to ever awaken while they watch

It is doubtful you would ever see the light of day 

Even tonight, there sits a shadow drinking its scotch

Watching you with hollowed eyes, like a predator watches its prey