The ghost

A submission for IronAge Media's prompt "The Sylph"

Anne sat at the foot of the child’s bed like she had every night since he was born. She watched him him as diligently as any mother might, though, she was not his mother, or his grandmother, or even his great grandmother. She was his great great great grandmother. She watched him, not because she wished to be a mother once more, but for another reason.

She had died many, many years ago in a tragic incident that was not so accidental. Ever since then, she had tried to get the attention of her family and descendants, to get them to know the truth so she could finally be at peace. Contrary to all her efforts, she had never obtained this link with the living that she had so dearly wished for all these years.

The morning sun rose, and with it the child in the bed. He yawned, then got up. Anne rushed over to him, but he took no notice of her. She followed the child as he made his way downstair to eat his morning meal. She sat next to him, a hand on his shoulder, one he did not feel.

Her attempts had not gone fully unnoticed by the families, but were usually attributed to the house, or to the imagination. Many times, someone thought they had heard their name, only to find out someone had said something else, or that it was just a noise or in their head. Many times, someone had heard the floor creaking under her feet, only to think it was the house settling. Many times, someone had seen something out of the corner of their eye, or something in the mirror, only to look again and see nothing. Many times children called for their mothers in the middle of the night saying there was a monster or ghost in their room. Every time she had caught someone’s attention it was never enough.

She brushed his cheek with her hand, wishing she could feel his warmth, for a second wishing to be a mother once more. The child’s mother smiled as she cleared the child’s dishes and sent him on his way. Anne’s heart ached, but there was nothing she could do. She tried once more to make her presence known, but the child’s mother ignored her plea despite the ghostly hand on her shoulder.

Most of the time Anne took it in stoic silence, but on some occasions, she cried with all that she had in her—her despair becoming too much. She cried and never anyone heard her. This was one of those times. The mother looked about as if she had heard something, shrugged, then went back to cleaning the kitchen as the wind shook the trees outside in a hearty autumn wind.

Anne’s children, grown at the time of her death, had long since matured into adulthood and had families of their own, all the while someone keeping the house, passing it through the generations. They soon passed, and their children had children. Generations came and went with no one to notice her or help her in this plight.

Another child ran through the room, and exited through one of the doors. It was a grey autumn day, and the rain had just finished. Anne followed him, hoping she could finally talk to him. She knew she would fail, but still she tried. She stood in the doorway as he ran outside to play in the leaves and puddles with his brother. She held out a hand to them as their play took them farther and farther away. She called their names, and both boys looked back to see who had called them. The took a few steps towards her, trying to see if their mother wanted them. They shouted something, but Anne was too busy calling them to hear what they said. As usual, it was to end fruitlessly.

Anne howled as the boys disappeared into the woods, sure their mother had not called them inside. She had never been so close to being noticed by the living world, but like every time, it was not to be. How long? How long did she have to live this pained existence, never to be helped? She couldn’t let go, not on her own. But no one could hear her. How long must she wait? She cried out, trying to tear the room apart, but she was unable to do anything but scream and be ignored by everyone, while the wind blew the door shut.

The End,

God bless