You know she’s there before you even see her. The static in the air, faint and thin, like something is about to snap. The chill and hairs on your arms, standing on end. You may feel her in the dark hallway, walking behind you, and when you turn, there is nothing. The opened door leading into a dark room. You turn, wondering if she was there. Maybe she is, by the bed, standing, watching you with dark eyes like a starless night.
The other day our TV blackened while Mother watched, alone, and the screen flashed with words like a ruined film reel. Where you there, scrambling the screen with your solemn stare? And once we recall that night our youngest sister lay on the couch, and the covering flipped over her legs, sudden and fast, unnaturally. Perhaps you lingered close as she jumped and ran, frightened, knowing she had not moved, and not a wind stirred in the house strong enough to flip the covers as such. Other days its a whisper into someone’s ear, or a brief, cold touch to an unsuspecting shoulder. And nights were you walk down the hall and stairs, your steps creaking the floorboards, our brother holding his breath and listening in his bed, knowing we were all fast asleep.
One night you were seen. By our sister who rarely saw such things. It was night. In the living room quietly sat our brother and one of our sisters, playing a game. The kitchen was dark, the only light streaming from the next dining room. She saw you, clear and like the living. You turned before your face could be seen, but what she noticed most was the red of your clothes. Bright red and deep, and you were tall. You turned further into the kitchen. She called out, wondering who you were, and followed, but you were already gone.
The only thing left was how we feel when you’re around and can’t be seen. The static snap in the air. The cold, malingering chill.
Ghost in red.