Work Text:
twenty years ago, a haunted house was his wildest dream. he would have killed for the disquieted halls, the cold tendrils tip-tapping between his shoulder blades at the threshold, the sense of not-alone loneliness. would have been over the moon with half-shadows and whispered revenants, proof of a past made present.
it’s dramatic irony then, that he should be granted his wish in frank, startling clarity, and wish even harder for its undoing. should be forced to walk those disquiet hall, to feel that chill at every threshold to every room, the barometric drop when he remembers they are all empty. empty but not empty, lonely but not alone.
she is everywhere, the ghost of her, satiny red hairs woven like thread into the linens and throw pillows and sweaters in the closet, the mugs she bought in arizona, before, their chips and cracks plastered with the memories of sunrise coffee and sunset whiskey. the sound of her laugh, unheard for months, dances in the bedroom, sighs from the creak of the porch swing, the judder of the eves on a windy night.
he crawls into bed each night next to the unshaped shape of her, the faded scent of green apple suave and oil of olay clinging to an unwashed pillow case, dented by the heavy memory of a head.
his wildest dream now is that he may wake up tomorrow, twenty years ago, and listen when they all tell him to stop.