She wasn't sure how long she was stuck in the in-between.
One minute she was hiding in the cellar, then it was
pain
pain
pain
Then nothing.
She was still in her house, but it wasn't the same. At first, she couldnt move. She lay where she was slain on the floor. She stared at the ceiling for what could have been years.
The passage of time is hardly noticeable when you're dead.
At first, people came and went through the house. She saw them when they came downstairs. They didn't come down there very often. She could hear them moving around the house, but then it was all quiet.
Silent.
If she were lucky, she could hear the wind blowing or the rainfall.
Eventually, she could move. She had to learn how to exist again. She wasn't alive, but she could hear and see. She could touch the rough wood on the staircase. Her steps were light. The third step from the top no longer squeaked when she stepped on it.
When she made it upstairs, she learned she couldn't cry. It was her house, but it wasn't. It was scattered with things left behind; the cotton curtains were just rags. She remembered the pretty blue they had been when she hung them up. The floor was dirty. The furniture was broken. Life went on while she was stuck downstairs. She tried to look out the window. She could see the sunlight, but everything else was a blur. She tried another window. In the kitchen, in the bedroom, upstairs. All the same. She couldnt see out. She first floated and then ran to the front door. She wanted to pull it open and run outside. But it wouldn't. She could grab the handle, but it wouldn't turn. It wouldn't open for her.
She tried the back door. The paint was chipped and peeling. It wasn't before. The door did not yield to her.
She was stuck
Life continued for everyone else. The only way she could tell the passage of time was when people came to the house. People came and went. No one stayed for very long. The house was changed around her. Lights and plugs were installed. Then came phones and TVs. New carpet, then pulled out for hardwood. Clothes and hair changed around her. Families moved in, grew up, and moved out.
Then no one moved in for a while, and the house fell into despair once again. She had nothing to do but watch the dust and mold grow.
Until he came.
He came and looked around her house. He wasn't disgusted by its state.
He said it was perfect.
It had potential.
He came and then didn't leave. His mattress was on the floor of her parents' old room. His boxes were stacked in the garage that was added on. He filled the place in a way she hadn't seen since she stopped being.
This man took up space. Ben.
Ben, who laughed and smiled. Who fixed things that were broken. Who played music and danced around the kitchen.
That's when the lights started flickering. She felt something she hadn't in an eternity. She felt happiness watching him. She felt longing.
When she felt, the lights responded.
She didn't want the man to be scared and leave her alone again, but she couldn't help herself. She longed to be needed. When he needed something, she brought it to him. And he didn't notice! Things were perfect. She could exist like this. In his orbit. Watching over him while he slept.
But then she made a mistake. She followed him into the bathroom. He took off his clothes, and he was beautiful. His body was strong and tanned. He had hair on his chest, and her eyes followed the trail down to where his manhood lay.
Desire burned hot through her. She didn't know she could still feel this way. She crept closer and closer.
He got in the shower, and she watched as he washed his body.
She watched as he swelled up, big and hard. The windows fogged up, but she had to see. She pressed her hands and face against the glass as he wrapped his hand around his hardness. He thrust into his fist.
She had never seen a man like this. She had never had a man like this. He groaned and flexed. She wondered what it would be like to touch.
There was no harm in watching.
But her man was smart. He noticed her handprints and got scared. He was brave, her Ben, but she could tell it rattled him.
He tiptoed around her house, but he didn't leave.
But she heard him. A ghost. That was what she was to him. His house has a ghost.
She was his.
He was hers.
That's why she had to act when he talked about leaving, about getting laid. She could figure out what it meant when he said he wanted to "get his dick wet."
It was unacceptable.
He was hers.