I wasn't always a psychopath.

Neither was Adam.

There were 10 of us.

Five Adam’s and five Eve’s handcuffed together in a room with no doors. When I opened my eyes, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, my name was Eve.

I had no other names but Eve.

There were nine bodies spread around me, including a boy, a lump attached to me, curled into a ball. Our real identities were lost, though I could recall small things, tiny splinters still holding on.

I saw a dark room filled with twinkling fairy lights, a bookshelf decorated with titles I never read, boxes of prescribed medication sticking from an overflowing trash can. The walls were covered in sticky notes and calendars, a chalkboard bearing a countdown to a date that had long since passed.

“I thought you were going to try this time? Why do you make it so hard?”

The voice was a ghost in my head. She didn't have a name, barely an identity, but my heart knew her. She existed as a shadow right in the back of my mind, suppressed deep down. With her, I remembered the rain soaking my face, and my pounding footsteps through dirt.

When I tried to dive deeper inside these splinters, I hit a wall.

It should have confused me, angered me, but I couldn't feel anger.

There was only a sense of melancholy that I had lost someone close to me.

With no proper memories, though, I didn't feel sad.

I wasn't the first one awake. There were others, but neither of us spoke, trapped inside our own minds. Drawing my knees to my chest, I wondered what the others were feeling and thinking.

Did they have loved ones they couldn't fully remember?

I did know one thing. There was something wrong with my body, the bones in my knees cracking when I moved them. Everything felt stiff and wrong, my neck giving a satisfying popping noise when I tipped my head left to right. The room was made of glass.

Four glass walls casting four different versions of me.

It was like looking into a fun mirror, each variant of me growing progressively more contorted, a monster blinking back.

There was a metal thing wrapped around my wrist, and when I tugged it, the lump next to me groaned. I noticed the handcuff (and the lump) when I was half awake. But I thought I was hallucinating. The lump had breath that smelled of garlic coffee, and he snored.

Adam, my mind told me.

The lump’s name was Adam.

Everything about me felt…new.

Like a blank slate. I had no real thoughts or memories. The boy attached to me was different from the others.

Adam was dressed in the same bland clothes, but his had colour, a single streak of bright red stained his shirt.

I found myself poking it, and he leaned back, his eyes widening.

The red was dry, ingrained into the material.

Which meant at some point, Adam had been bleeding. Not a lot, and he didn't look like he had any wounds. I studied him. Or, I guess, we studied each other.

He was a wiry brunette with freckles and zero flaws, like his face had been airbrushed.

This wasn't the natural kind of airbrush. I could see where someone or something had attempted to scrape away his freckles too, the skin of his left cheek a raw pinkish colour. I wasn't a stranger to this thing either.

I could see where several spots on my face had been surgically removed.

The boy glued to my side was an enigma in a room drowned of color.

The red on him made him stand out in a sea of white, a mystery I immediately wanted to solve.

I couldn't help it, prodding the guy’s face, running my finger down his cheek and stabbing my nail under his nose for signs of bleeding. I was curious, and curiosity didn't belong in the white room full of blank slates. I wondered if the old me looked for that kind of thing.

Her bookshelf was full of horror and crime thriller, an entire box-set of a detective series my mind wasn't allowed to remember. There was that wall again, this time slamming down firmly on the room with the fairy lights.

There was too much of me in my fragmented memory, the girl who wasn't Eve.

I wasn't fully aware that I was violently prodding Adam, until he wafted my hand away. The boy opened his mouth to speak, his eyes narrowing with irritation, before his mind reminded him that irritation did not exist in the white room.

I watched the anger in his eyes fizzle out, and he frowned at me, adapting the expression of a baby deer.

I think he was trying to be angry, trying to yell at me. When I realized he couldn't swear, or didn't know how to swear, he distanced himself from me, turning his back and folding his arms.

I got the hint, shuffling away, only for the handcuffs to violently snap us back together.

“This is a recorded message stated by the United States Government on eight, twenty seven, two thousand and twenty three regarding The Adam And Eve Project. Please listen carefully. This message will not be repeated.”

A text to speech voice drew my attention to the ceiling, and next to me, Adam let out a quiet hiss.

“You have been unconscious for thirty five days and sixteen hours, following awakening. It is recommended that you remain where you are.” The voice was pre-recorded, but it definitely sounded aimed toward the Adam who was crawling towards a door that looked like a wall, but I could see the subtle glint of a handle.

“Two hundred years ago, on April 5th 2023, NASA announced the discovery of BlueSky, a potentially hazardous NEO (Near Earth Object) was estimated to miss our planet, flying by at just 19,000 miles (32,000 kilometers).”

Two hundred two years ago.

The robot’s voice wasn't fully registering in my brain.

The text to speech voice paused, and a screen lit up in front of us displaying BlueSky, and then flickering to several news screens. CBS, NBC, Fox News and BBC all with red banners and panicked looking presenters. “However. During its passing, the BlueSky asteroid’s collision course changed, striking our planet on April 13th, 2023, causing global destruction and a mass extinction event.”

A screen showed us the entirety of the West Coast underwater.

New York, London, Seoul, Tokyo, all of them.

Either wiped from the map, or uninhabitable.

“Wait.” I wasn't expecting Adam to speak, his voice more of a croak.

His eyes widened, like he was remembering who he was before Adam.

“That's Apophis.” He scratched the back of his head. “2029.”

Adam’s random declaration of words and numbers intrigued me.

I inclined my head, motioning for him to continue, but he just shot me a look.

Adam was a lot better at emotions than me. “What?”

“You… said something.” My own voice was a static whisper.

He blinked, narrowing his eyes. “No, I didn't.”

Turning away from the boy, I decided to ignore him, and all of his future declarations. I should have been terrified, mourning the loss of not just my loved ones, but my entire planet.

But I didn't have any memories of the world except the rain, and a dark bedroom filled with fairy lights. I could have been a traveller, visiting every country and documenting each one.

All of that had been taken away, and yet I couldn't feel sad or betrayed.

Why would I mourn a planet I didn't remember?

“Please listen carefully.” The voice continued. “You have been carefully selected in a choosing process for the Adam and Eve program. Humanity's last chance of survival. Two hundred years ago, you were cryogenically frozen in an attempt to restart in a new world. Presently for you, the earth is estimated to be habitable.” When the lights flickered off, the screen lit up, displaying exactly what the voice said.

A new world, and the bluest sky stretching out across a never ending horizon. I found myself transfixed, smiling dazedly at brand new oceans and newly formed continents. “We ask this,” the message crackled. “On behalf of the President of the United States, will you do what we couldn't? Will you make the new world a better place? Will you fix the mistakes of your predecessors and restart our sick world?”

I heard my reply before I was aware of the word in my mouth.

Yes.

The screen was brighter, that beautiful blue sky so hard to look away from.

“Will you create humans you are proud of?”

Yes.

“Yes.” Adam’s murmur followed mine, the others echoing.

“Will you be our future hope? Will you destroy every human being who goes against the new earth and spill blood in the name of Adam and Eve?”

”Yes.”

The room flooded with light, and I blinked rapidly, drool seeping down my chin.

It was the voice's next words that tore away my mind. “It is with great displeasure, however, that we must inform you there are limited resources in our stockpile.” The ceiling opened up, a large ratty bag dropping onto the ground. It was a brand new colour, but this time, a mouldy green. Something snapped in two inside my mind. It didn't belong in the new world. It was… poison from our predecessors.

I backed away with the others, yanking Adam with me. At first, he didn't move, cross legged, a smile stretched across his lips. I don't think he noticed the bag.

He was starry eyed, unblinking at the screen still filled with the new world.

Our new world.

That was ours to mould into our own.

“There is no need for panic,” the voice said. “Consider this bag an artefact of the lost world. There is nothing to fear.”

Fear.

I wasn't sure I knew what that was.

Did my old self feel fear running through the rain?

Did I feel fear witnessing my planet burn right in front of me?

“There can only be one Adam, and One Eve in the new world.” The voice continued. “Please choose among yourselves. You have two minutes.”

I didn't experience fear when the tranquillity in the white room dissolved.

Adam violently pulled me to my feet when an Eve with a blonde bob dove inside the bag and pulled out a gun. She shouldn't have been able to use it.

Our memories were gone, our old selves footprints in the sand. But it was the way her fingers expertly wrapped around the butt, that made me think otherwise. The Eve didn't hesitate, and with perfect aim, blew the heads off of two Adam’s, and then another Eve. I watched more colour splatter and pool and stain the white room, bodies falling like dominoes.

When an Eve stepped toward me, my Adam pulled me across the room, dipped into the bag, his fingers wrapped around a machete. He threw me a gun, and another Adam dived for it.

Still no fear.

I ducked and grabbed it, my hands working for me, shooting the Adam between the eyes. I realized what we needed to do to survive. But it wasn't fear that made me kill. It was necessary for the new earth. The words were in my head, suffocating my thoughts. We had limited resources. There was no screaming, no crying, or begging.

An Eve knocked me onto my face, but there was no pain.

She kicked me in the head, plunging her knife into the back of my leg.

Still no pain.

Blood stained me, running down my chin.

No pain.

I didn't think, I just acted. One Adam and Eve left, and they were hardest to take down. The Eve circled me, eyes narrowed, calculating my every move.

Adam and I communicated through nods and head gestures. Adam told me to go for the sandy haired Adam, while he would take a swipe at an Eve.

I was taken off guard when the Adam surrendered, only to kick me onto my back, knocking Adam off balance too. I thought we were going to die. But my Adam had been following and predicting their every move. Back to back, I reached for my gun. Two bullets left.

I managed to get Eve straight through her left eye.

I didn't notice we were the only ones left until the walls were stained red, my hands coated with Adam’s and Eve’s, and the final Adam was lying in a stemming pool of blood. I had pieces of skull stuck in my hair, and I was out of breath, but I felt a sense of triumph.

There was so much blood, but it was the blood of the old world. Both of us knew that. Adam turned to me, his eyes filled with stars, his skin stained red.

I thought he was going to hug me, but his gaze found the screen where our new world awaited us. The two of us were breathless, awaiting the next instructions. But none came. I counted hours, and then a full day.

Adam had gotten progressively less appealing the longer I stayed isolated with him. He sat against the wall with his knees to his chest, head of matted curls against the wall, the two of us suffocating in the stink from the slow decomposition around us.

The other Adam’s and Eve’s were in their first stage.

Bloating.

How did I know that?

“2029.” Adam kept muttering to himself, over and over again.

It was the same number, repeatedly.

I couldn't feel anger or irritable, but I was confused why he was saying it.

Another day went by, and I was starting to feel deeply suppressed hunger start to bleed through. I watched Adam counting to himself, his eyes closed, feet tapping on the floor, and wondered if the new world would accept cannibalism.

Adam stared at himself in the fun-mirror a lot, making noises with his mouth. I wasn't fully concentrating when he turned to me, blurting, “How big was Apophis again?”

To me, his words were alien, and I ignored him.

But then he started talking again, spewing random words.

“Huntley Diving Centre. Med school. Cheese sandwich. Man with a bald head.”

When I told him to stop, he continued. “Van. Cheese sandwich. Pretty Little Liars.” He knocked his head against the wall. “Professor Jacobs told me to go but I didn't want to go. I told him I'd call the cops, and then I'm seeing silver.”

“Adam.” I said. “Stop.”

“Bad news,” he whispered. “Very bad news I'm not allowed to tell anyone.”

“Adam.”

I think I was irritated.

Adam sighed, closing his eyes. “United States, Canada, Mexico, Panama, Haiti, Jamaica, Peru,” his gaze tracked the screen in front of us. “Republic Dominican, Cuba, Caribbean, Greenland, El Salvador too.”

*“We’ve found them!” an Adam’s voice, a human voice ripped me from slumber.

“Over here!”

Thundering footsteps followed and something in my gut twisted.

I stood up, swaying. Adam followed, half lidded eyes barely finding mine.

His expression was new. I think mine was too.

Fear.

Humans.

Before I knew what was happening, I was being grabbed by masked men, who were surprisingly gentle.

Humans. I didn't know what to say. I asked them how they survived the asteroid impact, and they told me to stay calm. Adam was behind me, his arms pinned behind his back.

He was being told to stay calm, but Adam was calm. He may have been nodding along to the human’s words, but he was thinking exactly what I was.

When an Eve cupped my cheeks and asked if I was okay, my gaze flicked to my discarded gun.

“Oliva!” She was yelling in my face. “Sweetie, you're in shock. Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?”

I nodded dizzily, unable to tear my gaze from my weapon. “Five.”

There could only be ONE Adam and ONE Eve.

I felt fear for the first time when Adam and I were led through large silver doors and into blinding sunlight. When it faded and my eyes found clarity, I wasn't seeing breathtaking views of mountains and newly formed oceans.

Across the road, a woman was walking her dog.

A school bus flew past, then an ambulance, a long line of traffic snaking down the road. I could smell Chinese food, my mouth watering.

When Adam started screaming, my fear came back, and it was enough to unravel me completely, sending me to my knees. I was still stained in blood, wrapped in a blanket I could barely feel. My mind that had been ripped apart, that had splintered for the good of our humanity, was starting to crumble.

Humanity didn't need fucking saving.

It only truly hit me when I was sitting in the back of a cop car, Adam in the front seat, that I wasn't a last savior of our species. The earth was still spinning, still alive in modern day 2023, and I was just Eve.

The Eve who sat next to me in the back of the car, gently rubbing my hands, told me my name was Olivia.

I was a twenty four year old student, and I had been missing for three years.

Adam’s name was Kai.

He was twenty three, and a med student.

No, we were Adam and Eve.

I spent a while in another white room, but this time I wasn't forced to kill people.

I was told I had been through brutal torture I could not remember. I told her that was impossible, and then she calmly showed me my legs and arms.

I was covered in burns, old and new bruises, my body sliced open and stitched up. With this abuse, my kidnappers had successfully turned me into a shell of myself. I was asked if I wanted therapy to revisit those memories, but I declined. I was happy being Eve, even if it was just for a while.

I saw Adam several times, but he was never fully conscious, either strapped to a bed, muttering to himself, or cross legged on the floor, head tipped back.

I was two months into my treatment when he barged into my room.

“2029.” Adam said, his words slurring. “Is when Apophis is going to hit us.”

I nodded slowly, dropping the book I was reading. My re-education was going well. I was getting my emotions back. Which, of course, included annoyance. “It's going to miss us.”

“Think!” Adam hissed, pressing his finger to his lips. “Gotta be quiet! Shhhhh!”

Shutting the door painfully slowly like he was in a cartoon skit, Adam stumbled over to my bed prodding at his neck.

“They stabbed me,” he said in a manic giggle, “But I'm not stupid! I'm smart! I'm like sooo smart and it's been driving me crazy, but now I see it.” Adam leaned forward. “Apophis. 2029,” he said, his breath tickling my cheek. “Is why we were taken.”

He burst out laughing.

“Can't you see? April? 2029? 19,000 miles! A biiiiig lump of space rock going zooooooom!” he stopped laughing, slamming his fist into his palm.

Impact.

“BANG!”

Adam’s eyes widened, his expression crumpling.

“Help me.” He whispered, before crumpling into a heap, and then dragged out by several Eve’s in white.

According to them, he ‘was experiencing mild side effects from treatment.’

Unlike me, Adam chose to get his memories back.

Yeah, that's not a good idea.

Olivia’s mind was too much, too painful.

My old life started to seep back in the form of loved ones as I was slowly deconditioned.

I stopped referring to boys and girls and Adam’s and Eve’s, and was firmly told “The New Earth” was just fantasy, all of the destruction I saw generated with AI.

I have a girlfriend, who visited me every day.

She said I didn't have to take the therapy, but I know she wants me to remember Olivia. Her name is Charlie, and when I was released from the white room, she took me back to our shared house.

I have two roommates. Sam and Matt. Both of them kept their distance for a while, especially when I accidentally referred to them as Adam’s. I'm still getting letters from the facility politely “inviting” me for a therapy session.

I’m ignoring them, but I have started seeing a single black van outside our house.

I think my kidnappers are back, and I'm terrified.

The facility told me to call them AS SOON as I see anyone suspicious.

I've told Charlie and the guys to hide upstairs, and right now I'm in our living room. It's pitch black outside, but I can see a figure standing directly outside our house. I've turned off all the lights.

Every time I blink, I swear they're getting closer.

I think whoever wants a new world has come back for me.

Ever since I was little, death was a next-door neighbor. I mean, literally right next door, I could look out the window and see it. I could watch through my bedroom window as Mom walked towards it.

Every day she would wake up before the sun and make her brisk walk to work. It took me a long time to discover what she did, and even longer to understand it. She would pry bodies apart and put them back together, prettier than they were when they arrived. They arrive in dark vans, bruises all over their bodies and they leave with eyeliner and makeup.

That’s where I learned that one can measure life in shades of purple, whether it be bruises or makeup. Measured, mind you, not defined.

Naturally, that’s where I saw my first body. I’d try to sneak in now and then, and I guess I was never successful. Mom always thwarted me. But I wore her down and eventually I just wore her down. It was too much being the mortician and the security guard. So, there he was, a fairly innocent death. He looked so normal but just- a little less.

I always thought I would take after Mom and for a while I was on track too. I’m not even sure how I got so sidetracked. I enjoyed making Mom’s job look nice. She always kept it so dour, and I had wanted to spruce up the place. It felt fulfilling when it all came together. And I felt like I normally do, just a little more. I did it for my house, then I did it for moms, friends, and neighbors and before I even knew what was happening, I was trying to convince people to buy a house.

My houses sold, and people took notice of how I put things together. I guess, if I were to be poetic, that’s how I took after Mom. I took these houses, the remains of them, and dolled them up as best as I knew how. And made it look so nice that you’d never have known it was dead at all.

For a long time, i thought that when people died, that was it. No ghost, no heaven or hell. It was a snap, and you were gone. Like a house. When the furnace gives out, when the walls rot away and spiderweb cracks consum every window, I thought the house was gone. I know now that is wrong.

Despite working with my mom for many years, I never entertained the notion of ghosts. It wasn’t until the house on Wilbur Street that changed for me. I won’t go into too much detail, but that house- was its own beast. And if it weren’t for a strange but generous buyer, it might have been the end of my career. It was a weed, though. Something that sprouted in me, unwelcome but beautiful, nonetheless.

A world you might not have ever heard of. A world that probably if not for what I’m telling you now, you would likely go your whole life without it. In the housing market, there exists a small but dedicated sect reserved for the enigmatic, influential, and even nefarious.

The buying and selling of houses that have, in one way or another, been deemed “Haunted.”

Just like any realtor, I’ll get my hands on a house. Sometimes I find the house myself, sometimes it is off-loaded by a larger reality company. Regardless, I’ll go in and make the house look as nice as possible. Just like I would with unafflicted houses before I discovered this morbid market. Except, unlike an unafflicted home, I research and experiment.

With enough searches, I can gather information on who perished within the house and the cause of death. I also need to be mindful of people who lived in the home but had relocated, as spirits can travel back to where their emotions were the strongest. Like a magnet pulling in metal sand.

After gathering the information, I conduct my small experiments. The severity and nature of the hauntings need to be distinguished and defined before I can even list the house. Something you might not know about most hauntings is how consistent they are. Sure, the activity will alter, but it will happen over and over.

I’ve had houses you could set a stopwatch to.

I use a marker to outline cups and dishes in order to check if they have been pushed. I take pictures of each room every hour, on the hour, so I can meticulously comb through them. Something you may know about most hauntings is that they are typically boring. Rarely do you come across an outwardly aggressive home. And when you do, the type of people that buy those. It’s not my place but, it is troubling to think about what they might want the home for.

That’s neither here nor there. Haunted homes sell to many people, though. You have eccentrics and ghost hunters who want a place for entertainment. There are people who “practice” the dark arts, though you can typically sniff out the wannabe types. There are even people who just really need a home and try to get a cheaper deal. And depending on the haunting and its interest, sometimes they do.

Call it a loss at some point and lowering the price just below market value is how you got to do it. That’s what this house was, I thought. Another suburban home I was going to take a hit on. I was wrong. Of course, that’s how tales like these come to be. If I was right, if all I ever saw was a coffee mug move across the counter. Then you’d never hear a peep from me.

The house was on Carter Ave. If you don’t know which “Carter Ave” out of the hundred that likely exists, then yes, you’re not meant to. I got it for a bargain from my peers because it was a house that nobody had high expectations for. There wasn’t a history of violence or any mention of the occult. Just a younger couple that passed away in their sleep. A carbon monoxide leak.

To me, though, the house was lovely. If not for a small string of reported activity, the house could’ve sold on its merit. Quiet neighborhood, everything looked new and taken care of. It was a picture-perfect suburb.

So, I hedged my bets and thought I would just make the house look like a proper home for anyone looking to buy. It took a while, an uncomfortable amount of time before I had gotten a bite. While I toiled away, looking through photos of the house’s bedroom, my phone buzzed. And it was a buyer.

A young couple looking to buy their first home together. The woman on the phone beamed about starting a family of their own. So, we set a date to meet, and I plunged further into Carter Ave. As bizarre as it is to say, I wanted to make sure the haunting was child-friendly. No loud noises or aggressive movements.

The house was quiet, though. Sure, there were signs, but the haunting was so mellow, you’d almost never know it was there if you weren’t looking. A slight push would move a cup from its outline. Pictures on the wall would go askew and a penny was even pushed off the counter.

It was all so… just enough. It was just enough activity for it to make the difference between haunted and natural occurrences. Maybe I should have had my wits about me in that regard. Though I know, when I offer myself grace, there’s no way I could’ve known it was anything other than the run-of-the-mill.

The day of the showing plays in my head all the time now. I always go back to when I was staring down the hall. It was right before the couple was supposed to show up. I stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down the hallway. It led to all the bedrooms and had light bleeding in from each. The sun was gentle and warm; it created a vignette in the hall.

At the end of the hall, there was a picture hanging above a small table decorated with various books and a small fern. The picture was a small oil painting. A stark mixture of black and white. Upon seeing it initially, you’d assume it was nonsense. A Rorschach Test of sorts. If you took the time to soak it in, though, at least for me, I made out the picture. It almost looked like an animal, with a wide-open jaw, a howl of anguish. Once I made out the mouth, the rest followed suit. Maybe the face was meant to be beautiful, but it looked straight out of hell to me.

It felt crooked. It, however, was a painting in the home that the haunting hadn’t affected. To the naked eye, the painting was perfectly straight, lined right up with the surface of the table under it. But it felt crooked. I could feel the painting making one side of my head heavier, craning my neck as if trying to see it from a new angle.

The hall itself felt as though it was stretching out, pulling the details of the painting further and further away from me. The once warm vignette igniting from the rooms, turning into static with the tunnel. So, it shouldn’t come as a shock when I say I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the front door shut.

My arms rushed to my chest as if guarding me from an incoming attack. Even without my hands actually on my skin, I could feel my heart smacking around inside. A few breaths in and out calmed me and I gathered my senses. Quickly rushing down the stairs, I spotted the couple.

Sandra and Owen Wellings.

The door startled me, but I had informed them that upon their arrival they could come in, as the house wasn’t exactly booked for tours. Bounding down the steps, I immediately started into the usual pleasantries.

They looked as normal as can be. The woman had blonde hair just barely touching her shoulders. The man looked tired, almost like he had headed straight to the house from work. His brown hair haphazardly swooped to the side. I couldn’t help but notice he was sheepish, letting the woman take the lead and speaking up very little.

Admittedly, this annoyed me. They were a couple and while every dynamic is different; I found it odd he had so little interest in where he might build a family. It happens though and swings both ways. Suppose it's nothing more than a pet peeve, but it did inform me to pay more attention to the woman.

So, with her trailing closely behind me, I toured the lower floor. It felt almost like it used to, showing off regular homes. The activity in the house was so sparse that I’d rarely stop and talk about it.

In the kitchen, I informed them it’s best to leave cups and dishes a respectful distance from the edge. In the dining room, I informed them that sometimes they could hear a knock on the floor above. This knocking noise is not audible from anywhere else in the house. Which is probably the most peculiar haunt in the home, but even it is harmless.

She asked questions here and there, but it wasn’t until we began to ascend the stairs that she started delving deeper. In the first bedroom, she asked who the previous occupants were. I told her it was a young couple, though I only knew their names. We sometimes find photos left behind by the previous occupants. But most times, especially with younger folk, the families affected will snatch up photos before I ever get my hands on the house.

It might seem odd that I don’t go too deep into the lives of those who are supposedly haunting the grounds. I did earlier on. I’d familiarize myself with their faces and histories, but I found that doing so would cause a confirmation bias. I would see faces where there might not have been one, or I’d pick up smells related to the previous death and assume it was paranormal when it was just a clogged drain.

The woman stalled for a moment and rested her hand on the door frame. I could only see her back. The sun beaming through the window wrapped a glow around her thin figure. “It’s cold.” I hardly heard the words she spoke. They were distant like they were afraid to leave the room. She was right though; it was cold and noticeably so.

The house was monitored for temperature variations, but nothing so severe. The skin on my arm pricked. I thought the cold had made me shiver, but after taking in the new chill, I realized my pocket was buzzing. I ignored it realizing the man had drifted out of sight, though only barely. He stood in the hall, looking up at the same painting that had mesmerized me.

“This would make a great nursery.” The woman said, her voice louder this time, but still distant. I was watching the man though, his arms sheepishly jostling from side to side like he was fidgeting with something. A tension had built in my chest, partially from the cold gripping my lungs.

Reaching into my pocket, I quickly retrieved the phone, intending to ignore the call as the vibrating was audible. “Oh absolutely, it gets great sunlight in the morning,” I replied, glancing at her as I spoke, glimpsing the same silhouette before returning to my phone’s touch screen. And just like the painting had before, the illuminated screen stole all my attention.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute, though. Despite how long it felt, the clock in the upper right corner didn’t change. An incoming call, the sensation of the phone rattling in my hand, served as a warning bell. A siren of things to come.

“Incoming call: Sandra Wellings” The words couldn’t have felt heavier in my hands. And her voice when I picked up couldn’t have been any louder in my head. I listened to the woman on the other line apologizing. She was embarrassed. They had fallen asleep on the couch and had no alarm set. She was asking me if they could still come by or if I wanted to reschedule.

A reply, no matter how desperate I was for it, did not leak from my lips. And as Sandra continued bidding for my attention, I could only look down the stretching hallway. In the deserted hallway, the only objects present were a small white plastic disk and two batteries lying nearby.

Suddenly, I became horrendously aware of the figure that was in the doorway. I couldn’t see her as I stared down the hall, but God, how I could feel her. Her presence felt so stifling I thought I might fall through the floor. A soft whimper of denial weaseled its way out of my throat.

It felt like I was being told a story. Or rather, it felt like a story I had always known, but that had been pushed deep down. Someone else’s story. A story of a death much more sinister than the public knew.

“This would be a great room for a nursery.” The figure spoke, and as if those words manifested, I could feel strands of hair drip on the side of my face. She must have been as tall as she felt, hunched over with her head pressing against the ceiling, dark strands hanging like stalactites. She wanted me to look. I could feel it. Her gaze fixed on me and burned holes through my scalp.

Closer and closer, I could feel her warm breath wafting on the side of my face. The smell was more noticeable, though, or rather. The lack thereof. I could only watch the painting, the hallway once again tunneling as I pondered if it was safer to look at or ignore her. Hauntings can get bad, yes, this bad. I have experienced little myself, but this wasn’t the first time. Though my heart still bumped like it was.

When the retching began, the decision to focus on the hallway became the one I picked. A guttural and whining scrap lurched from the women through. It sounded like pulling marbles down from metal tubing. And after but a moment, something spilled from her mouth. I could hear small thuds smacking the floor, one after the other. Once again, the sound reminded me of marbles.

And she was gone. I released the breath that had been held down as her weight lifted off me, allowing my skin to loosen. Looking down, they were all splayed out at my feet. They must have rolled around quite a bit after hitting the floor. Or portraits drawn with AA batteries. A tale of heartbreak scored by the chiding of a baby.

A soft whine, much softer than the woman’s. That room really does get so much sun. It had rested such a lovely glow on the crib inside. I could hear the baby crying from within it. I’m sure I could’ve heard it from anywhere in the house. It was ethereal, something I couldn’t escape.

It echoed through the halls and bounced around the room as I took my first step into it. The batteries around my feet shuffled aside and rolled, clattering against one another. A game of electric billiards. The sound of the baby crying became less defined with each step I took towards it. Its cries being pulled further through the veil.

The white wooden slates of the crib ceased to be an obstacle, and I could peek over the edge. I didn’t intend to step further; the bile was already churning. The sides of the crib acted like a dam for the wet and sticky mess inside. All that white was painted freshly red. A crimson that glistened in the sun. My legs gave out, and I crashed to the floor.

Hardwood vibrated on impact. I felt my throat choke and scratch. Breathing came at awkward intervals. I was getting air but never catching my breath. A burning rose on my chest, nails dragging. Looking down at my shirt, I could see long and dark lines running along my skin. Like aged scratching marks.

“I’m sorry.” A whisper. Cowardly and pensive. Looking up, he was lying on the floor. The boyfriend. The man. He was clawing at his chest, and his body writhed on the floor. The veins in his eyes crept towards the pupil like vines. His eyes rolled up, his gaze reaching far above my head. This mess of a man. He was watching her. So scared of her now.

She was looming over me again. All her hate and grief sat like a ball in my neck, all her unbridled horror wrapped around me, and I felt it. I could feel the hot, stinging tears running down my cheek. All that horror, waking up in the middle of the night, feeling how weak your body is. She must have known, or maybe she saw him taking them out. He probably told her he was replacing them.

A depth of despair I could only understand when I looked into her eyes. Dying, knowing the life inside of you, would follow. I thought, truly, that her face would be horrific. A mangled mess of bones and flesh, red and pulse. Horrific, indeed, she was. But there was no blood, just tears. The streams disobeyed gravity; they twisted around her face and slipped around the curves of her nose.

Her very own soul, a Rorschach. Pain will paint our lives. It can shape the way we see things. It can change the feeling of a room. It can haunt the memories you once held dear. And no matter how many times you try to paint over that pain, it’s still there. And I felt it on my face that day. As a few of her tears relented, falling to mix with mine. I knew her more intimately than I knew myself.

That is the real ghost and I suppose it always will be. Pain.

We locked eyes, and although I understood her, the fear did not subside. A part of me felt like if I moved, she would change. If I broke off the conversation, as it were, then I would see something worse. The pain was a mask, and I could feel that whatever was under it was a torrent. I still think about it.

The man, was there in all his horror, face beat red and swollen, his throat ravaged with clawing marks as he gasped for air. Feeling as though he was being suffocated, regretting the decision he had made. Probably telling himself in his final moments that he could have just left. And he was right.

Of course, he likely died thinking of himself. And that was a moment of solace for me. That in his last thoughts, he realized just how stupid he was. Even as I heard his body writhe around, putters of liquid spilling out of his mouth. Even as he smacked the floor with what little strength he had left, begging for mercy, I watched her face.

Long and black curtain like strands of hair cutting off my peripheral so all I could see was her. I stared into her face, dread growing closer. My eyes started to lose focus as she looked down at me.

Her face appeared to stretch away from me like it was retreating down a hallway. She moved further and further, the guttural noise from before echoing around the collum of hair she created.

It got louder, growing as she shrank. Before too long her face appeared like a 2-dimensional object in the distance, just her misery, hanging solitary in a museum. At that distance, the noise was suffocating, a chirp layered on top of a thousand other chirps until I couldn’t stand it anymore. And my eyelids slammed shut.

The noise halted then, a quite returned. My breathing was deep and ragged and, after wrestling with the thought, I opened my eyes again. Staring down the hallway, I felt the phone in my pocket buzz. Reaching into my pocket, I read Sandra was trying to get a hold of me again. Only three minutes had passed since her first call.

Accepting the call, I heard her rambling. I only focused on what she was saying when she asked if I was showing other people around. My words came out before I thought of how to phrase them. I just asked, “You heard her too?”

Sandra chimed that she did, but hung up when the baby started crying as it was hurting her ears. She continued talking as I zoned out, hypnotized by the hallway once again. “This house isn’t a fit for you.” I cut her off, cold and direct.

This house was no place to raise a baby. Someone will buy it, but I will not sell it.

A damn shame, too.

The light coming through the window at the end of the hall really livens up the place.