Night Marry

Crouching down in my cell, I wrap my arms tighter around my knees as the hand protrudes from the bars into my 7 by 5 living space. I can just barely lay down flat, slinking away from the ghost is not an option.

The ghost curls his wrath around the bars of my cell, the long ectoplasmic tendrils of his fingers overlapping each other in his large grasp. His face is close, too close. He's pressing his body through the bars and in front of me. But not his body. His face. He's detaching, dissolving. Piece by piece I watch as the ghost disappears into a puddle of mist on the floor, shapes swirling as he soundlessly glides into my space.

My space.

Space transcends time as the ghost begins to solidify. I can't breath. My tongue is too large. It's choking me. I can't breath, I can't, cannot, can't breath. Because the fingers are back, tightening their expansive clutch around my throat. My tongue is too large because it's swelling. My eyes are bulging from the blood cut off. From the pressure, which I can't handle.

Though the ghost has no face I can hear him laughing. I can hear the loose chains of my past clanking around his nonexistent ankles. I can hear the un-oiled hinges of my closet door, creaking as it blows open in the wind.

-Samm