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A silent Dweller

I am a silent dweller of the old manor house that has borne witness to countless rising and setting suns. Once alive and full of vibrance, now I am reduced to mere specter, reliving an existence in the liminal territory between the lands of the living and the departed. It’s a peaceful existence, until the day it wasn’t. The day Lee and Mark arrived.

Lee and Mark are so-called ghost hunters, clothed in the armor of skepticism but armed with an array of gadgets that beep and blink in the dense, spectral atmosphere of the old manor house. They came under the cover of nightfall, disturbing the ancestral silence enshrouding my spectral sanctuary. They claimed to seek evidence, but it was clear as day they thirsted for the thrill, the suspense, the unearthly tales they could spin over drinks at the pub.

Night after night, they would scour the rooms, athirst for ‘evidence’. Placing small boxes that crackled with static and cameras that spied in the dark like silent predators. I found them intrusive. Still, I afforded them the courtesy of a host. But sometimes, they would push their liberties too far…

One night, Mark, the brawn to Lee’s brains, jumped in surprise as a chilly draft whirled past him. Encouraged by this reaction, Lee initiated a séance, speaking in hushed but determined voices, asking for my presence. Amused, I indulged their game and manifested a faint apparition, hovering in the outskirts of their cameras’ vision. Their gasps of shock and excitement echoed through the hollow halls.

As days turned into nights, their calls for grander displays of spectral prowess grew more audacious. They would challenge me to materialize before them or move objects. Their arrogance piqued, borne from the invincibility ignorance can grant. So, one night, I decided to play along.

Marks face turned deathly pale, matching my spectral hue as the grand chandelier in the manor’s antiquated living room swayed vigorously, without any terrestrial assistance. Lee stood gaping as a flurry of ancient books flew from the shelves, their pages fluttering like spectral wings.

I felt a delicious thrill, a sense of control and presence I hadn’t experienced since I was amongst the living. The fear in their eyes, the evidence of my existence shining brightly amongst their skepticism—it stirred something within me, reminding me of forgotten feelings.

Yet, after days of spectral theatrics, the men remained, their fear always overcome by their relentless pursuit of the unexplained. Mark even dared to yell, challenging me, while Lee always maintained a veneer of decorum, even when his inquiries crossed into the realm of disrespect for my existence.

In the end, they did not conquer their fear or unravel the mysteries of life after death. Their ghost hunting adventure became their personal ghost story, a thrilling tale spun over rounds of drinks at the pub. And I? I resumed my spectral existence in my old manor house, yearning for silence and respect, but knowing full well more ghost hunters would come, following in Lee and Mark’s spectral footsteps, thirsty for a glimpse of the unknown, of me… the unliving yet unforgotten resident of the old manor house.


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