#and i am so overstimulated that every drip of water or creak of floorboards is making me jump out of my skin

[ghostzzy]

the house we’re staying in is HUGE and FULL OF SPOOKY SOUNDS

[sky-limits]

[twwm] polaris prompt 8 - misty dock

I haunt this place, a ghost, a spirit, a transparent flicker caught in the warped, hand-blown glass of windows at the darkest time of night. I still remember when little children would tease each other about approaching me in my past life. I was a cryptid, unseen, a legendary myth in the woods that called to others, providing helpful healing and remedies for every malady known to those who ailed. I was tall, then, and I am stocky now. My head does not peer above these rotten windowsills, soft shutters hanging limply as they fall away and dissipate into nothing, destroyed by time and rain. Clay pots that existed outside my home have fallen into disrepair, dissolving under the harsh rains that possessed this land after I changed.

The door hangs loosely from its frame, last strong bolts holding it steady. The roof sags in, a sad drooping shape that barely shields the inside of the house, and constantly drips on the floors. I don’t mind though. It makes it feel homier. If I walk the routes I usually would, following a preset pattern from my past, I visit every room still left in my collapsed home. The kitchen, its shelves fallen down, old vials and bottles stolen by treasure seekers. The spice rack, once full of dried herbs I grew myself, is empty and rusted, a few legs missing so it sits askew. Floorboards creak under me as I creep around, a stranger in my home and the place where I belonged.

Often, the only place that feels like home is when I am not in my home. I will wander down the cliffs, floating on days when I am too tired to move my legs. The chalky soil follows me down in pitters and patters when I brush it, small crumbles falling to the sand as I fall with it. My lantern clings softly behind me when I walk down the shoreline, calling to it like tolling church bells spirits in need of help. Wearily, but with care, I help them, and move onto the next. I am tired of being the healer, and I am tired of being alone. The freshwater lake lapping at the cliffs below my home feels like a salve, a balm that I couldn’t possibly hope to recreate. One day, standing at the end of my mist-covered pier, I look deep into the water.

It waves over itself with the energy that is constantly running through it, soft as silk and dark, enfolding secrets and sadness in its depths. It seems like it calls to me, hums softly with a little song, chirping out a plea for my attention. It is magnificent, how the longer I stand there, the longer I stare down into this water, neck bent low and body completely still, the louder the instrumental that comes from this water is. It reaches a crescendo, the music from the water crashing cymbals and speeding its violins, deep cello plucking, and that is when I finally decide to dive in.

The water accepts me, curling me into its arms and wrapping me in the music, comfortingly soft now, a timid string section highlighting my world in pale blues, trembling drums echoing it, adding deeper undertones of purple. The warmth from the concerto, despite the shocking cold, seeps into me and I imagine the brass playing delicately beside the drums, wind instruments following along with the violas quietly, like a small dog, pale and pastel yellow spots in my vision, ringed by the blues and purples. Overcome with all I am feeling, I start to remember my past life again, fading away into the music. I am swimming, deeper and deeper, into the void that swallows me up.

It is almost overstimulating, the music crashing and stinging, pulses of light and color passing over my vision, and not letting me go. But what if I don’t want to swim up? I could stay down here, lost in the orchestra of a second watery grave, paddling forever with my only company being fish, no light coming to the depths...light. Light. I remember light, and it is her face, framed by frizzy, shiny hair. I remember light, and gleaming wood, worked with polish, and her smile. I remember the past, and what I would leave behind if I lived in the murky depths. These things are all familiar to me now, the memories of bleating goats and warm summer days, hammock naps and hard work.

I remember my life before, and I remember what I could make it into now. This water, these waves and their symphonies shouldn’t hold me any longer. I dove in here of my own choice, for peace and rest, and I leave by my own choice too. I break the surface in a few strong strides, and clamber back onto the pier, settling in the fingers of the mist that trail along my lantern, dissolving in the light. This dock had led me to another answer I could have for myself, for my purpose, but that wasn’t the right one. This was, I knew, as the wood creaked with the movement of the water. This was the right place for me – the place I haunted.

My home, filled with the memories of that beautiful face, the kind eyes, and slightly snubbed nose and toothy smile. Her coppery hair in all its fiery, halo-like glory. The rough softness of her small hands, the humming of songs to the rhythm of her needle as she sewed. Our past home, with our goats, and filled with the gentle lullaby of the woman, singing to a baby that was not yet ours. While it hurt, deep down, the suffering inside me, the hole, would likely never leave, I still knew that I could distract myself. I might not feel whole for a very long time, but I have a home, and I’m going to make it my own, that homey place I had with the woman in my past once again.