ghost stories

lights

The first apartment was haunted. Haunted might be the wrong word. There was an energy about it. Vibrating down walls, tension suspended in the air, pulsating through rooms. It wasn’t the apartment that we wanted. We wanted one in the building two blocks south, but no vacant units remained. ​ “You’ll love this view,” the landlord told us when he handed over the keys to the new place. We looked out at the sun setting over our view of a parking lot lined by dumpsters. Then things started happening. A music box played a few times in the middle of the night. Ten seconds of “You Are My Sunshine” jingling from somewhere in the darkness. We searched the rooms but never found it. The lights flickered on and off at odd hours, until finally, it didn’t feel unusual. Once it happened while I showered, the lights blinking rapidly like strobes. Soapsuds stinging my eyes, wet hair stuck to my neck. In my newly postpartum exhaustion, I yanked back the shower curtain and screamed, “Stop doing that!” They stopped. They didn’t flicker after that. On New Year’s Eve at 11:59 p.m., we drank cheap champagne and ate black licorice on the worn carpet. When the glittering ball dropped in Times Square on television, my husband said, “Happy New Year!” and all of the lights in the apartment shot on brighter than we had ever seen. They stayed like that until we finally shielded our eyes from the brilliance. We didn’t say much when the lights dimmed again a few minutes later. Ghosts celebrating with us between walls. Outside the window, a drunk couple slurred out some verses of “Auld Lang Syne,” and on television, confetti filled the screen like a snow globe.

Anna Doogan is a writer, dancer, and mother of three living in Portland, Oregon. Her work has appeared in Hip Mama, Mutha Magazine, and The Literary Kitchen. She was the winner of the 2015 Hip Mama Uncensored/Unchaste Readers Writing Contest.

For more work by Anna Doogan, visit her page on our Online Sundries site.