Closets

There’s a ghost in my closet. Every night, it scratches at the wooden door. For hours on end, I hear it. But everyone tells me the ghost isn’t there. It isn’t real. It’s my imagination.

It must be. It must be a nightmare. A half-asleep imagining. But I keep hearing it. I hear it even now. Long fingernails, like stories I heard when I was young. I shut my ears. I crush the pillow to them. But still, the scratching keeps me awake.

I search the internet and find stories of ghosts like mine. I try everything that was suggested: incense, prayer, charms. Still, the scratching continues. You’d think I’d notice it less over time, but there is no getting used to this.

I can’t take it. I’m looking in that closet. I’m asking the ghost what it wants. All that I find are old clothes and photo albums. The ghost has no form, but it scratches with invisible fingers. I still hear it. Can you?

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