The Stare

He would always stare at the same house every time we walk past it. It was as if he’s waiting for someone inside to acknowledge his presence. Questions of confusion always seem to arise as I walked behind him. Why is he staring? What motive does he have by doing this? Would those that live in the house think that he’s a stalker waiting for the right moment to strike? Is there something special about that particular house that intrigues him? Or is he simply staring at it out of pure want or desire? If that’s true, then it’s the weirdest desire I have ever seen and I know desire. I’m friends with the Devil after all.

One afternoon, I decided to take a stroll around the neighbourhood sans powers. As I turned the corner, I saw him walking ahead, his head turned as he stared intently at the house. When he disappeared from sight, I made my way toward the house, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. The house doesn’t look like much, with it’s faded yellow paint and a roof covered with moss. The yard was covered with weed and wildflowers, and some small shrubs along the edge. Raising a befuddled eyebrow, I once again attempted to deduce the reason why the mystery person takes pleasure in staring at the structure every time he passes by. Changing back to my normal self, I let my curiosity take charge, leading me toward the residence.

I raised a hand to knock on the white, wooden door. A shave and a haircut. I then waited for a few minutes, thinking that whoever’s inside will come to answer the door. After a short while, I remained standing outside, my Pegasus wings outstretched behind me. Coming to the conclusion that no one is home, I turned on my heel and walked back along the narrow pathway toward the sidewalk. Just as I was about to step on the sidewalk, the door of the house opened, and an elderly woman stepped out onto the porch. She appeared hagged and her clothes were starting to fall apart at the seams. The only striking feature about her is her light blue eyes that appeared unseeing.

“Hello,” I said, turning around to face the woman. “My name is Asanashia Renoir, I live around here.” The woman looked me up and down and said in a gravelly voice, “What’s a girl like you doing in this part of the neighbourhood?” Feeling like a kid with their hand caught in the cookie jar, I explained to the woman that I’ve seen a strange man walk past her house and he would often stare at it as he was walking past.

“Oh, him,” the woman said with a hint of recognition. “He’s my son. Though it’s odd that you would see him.” At her words, my mind became more confused than it ever had. “What do you mean?” I asked. The old woman then said, “My son has passed away for many years, I guess that he missed me and wants to come home but can’t because the dead cannot interact with the living.” My eyes widened as I absorbed her words. I saw a fucking ghost.


2 thoughts on “The Stare

  1. Anonymous says:

    This is a good one, a great analogy, the stalker should be tolerated to a certain degree given the challenges that are present, but it comes at a price of not being able to relax and not knowing where or when the stalker will appear, now if the stalker was of a different gender that would be more acceptable. But like most fiction, in the last paragraph ( your signature style) the ghost will disappear in a wisp of smoke.

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