by Sara Veglahn
A ghost recovers itself, gathers its veil, its frost and fog, and descends the staircase and goes to wait in the car. It had been left sprawled on the floor, left to consider monuments, the monumental. It had been left outside the vortex and next to the wall. What could house this thing—with its variable temperatures, its moist and heavy movements? It clings to its nearest possession, hoping to descend into a vase like a genie. The days of horse-drawn carriages and finger bowls and calling cards and dressing gowns and forget-me-nots and that particular haze that used to cling to the city were over now. This past was gathered, warped, and straightened. It was ready to move on.
The floor is spread with hundreds of old photographs and picture postcards. These pictures have no order and most of them depict things I was not alive to know. The house in this one is no longer standing. The woman in this one has been forgotten. The man in this one has a nose I’ve seen before. There are so many postcards, hello-how-are-you-wish-you-were-here from the Trempealeau Hotel, from Winnipeg, from Milwaukee, Miami, Las Vegas, from Red Wing, St. Paul. Greetings from Lake Itasca, Greetings from Duluth. Greetings from New Orleans, Greetings from St. Louis. Greetings from Hannibal, Greetings from Lake City. These places still exist, but they are different now. We are all different. There are no clues here that will be of any use to me. All of these pictures are evidence of something else.
In the room there is a large mahogany bed frame and several people stand around it. Their hands are clasped at their waists or their bosoms and all of their brows are furrowed with worry. There is a woman in the bed. A man holds her hand. Another is at her feet. Men and women make a circle around them. They speak in low whispers. They turn to each other and then turn back to the bed. They stand in their suits and skirts, heavy and dark.
The woman in the bed has fallen asleep. The man stands by the window for a moment, hands in pockets, before he begins to pace back and forth. The floorboards creak loudly under his steps. The other man has stood up and grasped the arm of the pacing man. He says something to him and the pacing man brings his hand to his forehead.
The woman on the bed stirs. She reaches her hand toward the men as she calls out.
I am here too. I have seen all of this from where I hover near the chandelier dripping with dusty prisms.
The night is dark and long and I have been trying to sleep for hours. I get up from the bed and walk across the creaking floorboards to the window. I cannot bear to be inside. I exit the house quietly leaving the back door ajar so that the loud click of the latch doesn’t sound and wake my ladies. A dim yellow from the streetlight falls across the yard. I sit on the grass in my thin nightgown, the beam of light making the green look poisoned.
I sit there for I don’t know how long. I find myself digging. I am digging a hole with my bare hands. It is not difficult. The ground is damp and easy to pull up. I dig all night.
The sun comes up and I wake next to a deep hole and a pile of dirt. The hole is as deep as the length of my arm. The hole is dark and the morning light is weak. I start to go back to the house, but when I reach the door I turn and walk to the hole I made. I peer down into it but can’t see anything because it’s full of water.
She begins to have dreams in which she can see the future. At first, it is only small events that she foresees: getting up after an evening of rest, riding the bus, walking down the street, picking up the mail—regular things. Later, she begins to dream of bodies of water, of insects, the interaction between a river and something heavy plunged off a bridge, the manner in which a person looks sidelong at her shadow, the manner in which a person passing on the street runs directly into her as if she weren’t there, how someone will steal her breakfast, how someone, herself, will have trouble speaking.
She leaves offerings at various locations around town—a smooth river pebble on the banister of the stairs in the library, a handful of sand in the tip jar at the tea room, a folded paper insect left among the grapefruits at the market. She cannot stop doing it. To people in the library, the pebble goes unnoticed, as does the paper insect, which becomes buried among the heavy citrus. To the workers at the tea room, cleaning the sand off their dollars and quarters is an annoyance. They whisper about her when she comes in. They wonder about her life. Who she is. They find it strange that someone would wear a veil in the heat of August, in the cold of January. They see her take the veil off and throw it in the trash. Every day she does this and they wonder, how many veils does she have?
After the séance, everyone sat silent at the large mahogany table. No one looked at each other directly, although sharp glances flew around the room. They were all waiting to see if the woman who claimed she could communicate with the dead would come out of her trance. They sat with their hands in their laps, their mouths dry, their breath shallow, their hearts beating quickly. The idea of summoning the dead back into the real world was horrifying. Everyone thought, Am I actually here? Is this real life?
She left before finding out what happened to the medium. It was late and dark. Her steps on the sidewalk echoed against glass and concrete. She didn’t have a sister. Yet, this sister clearly existed. Exists. The horrible trance in which the medium was stuck was the only one she believed. Everything else that night was a performance.
I can see ghosts. Only some ghosts can see me. Those who can, say things like, “Why are you in my house?” or “Who are you?” or “Get out of my house!” or “Is this real life?” They live in a loop: always climbing the stairs, always walking out the door, always moving from room to room. I suspect they do not question their repetition until they see me—an anomaly, something outside their fated pattern. They become confused, angry. They want to know why things are the way they are. They want information. I never know what to say. I tell them they are dead, but it is hard to say because I am not sure what dead means. If these ghosts can see me and talk to me, they are like anyone else. The only difference between a ghost and a person who is alive is that the ghost must stay where she is. She can try to leave, and sometimes that works, but it is very difficult. Leaving means losing the pattern. Up in a puff of smoke. I have seen this happen. I think I have.
She has been looking at the same photograph for months. It is from a long time ago. It depicts an industrial riverfront—dark brick buildings with small windows, names of businesses painted on the side:
Thos. P. Benton & Son
Mfcs of
ELECTRICAL MACHINERY
SEARCH—LIGHTS
GASOLINE
ENGINES
The perspective is elevated in the photograph and the sky is cloudy and gray. One of the buildings has been torn in half. The front of the building stands, but the back of it shows severe white scraping where the walls were pulled down. The river is separated from the street and buildings only by a narrow strip of grass.
If you were there, you could walk right down to the water, which is dark and faintly rippled from a brisk wind or from a passing barge.
This place no longer exists. The buildings are vessels for no one. She is not sure why someone would have taken this photograph.
She dreams of a fountain. It is in the shape of a woman wearing a long robe. The robe is painted blue and has several silver stars that glisten beneath the water. The water trickles onto the statue’s hands and waist. Her hands are outstretched in a benevolent gesture and her gaze is aimed toward the earth. There are hundreds of them, all the same. They float high above the rooftops. Hundreds of them hovering. Identical fountains in the shape of a woman wearing a long fluid robe, floating high in the atmosphere, trickling water.
The weather was terrible and they had to stay indoors all day. It was frightening to stare out the window at the storm. The rain came down in sheets, the sky was dark green, and the thunder was so heavy it knocked the teacups off the table. When the wind threatened to twist itself into a tornado, they went down into the cellar to wait for the gale to pass over.
Her ladies were nonplussed. They had put on all of their r
ain gear and sat in the tiny round cellar in identical bright yellow slickers, broad-brimmed rain hats, and big black galoshes. As they waited for the storm to end, they shared a cigarette and periodically passed a small bottle of brandy from which they took small sips. They did not speak to or look at her. They sat silent and gazed at the ceiling in an effort to determine whether it was safe to go back upstairs.
After several hours they all fell into an uneasy rest. Their dreams were filled with floods and flickering lights and they woke with their feet sitting in an inch of dirty water. After their initial alarm they climbed the stairs, wavering on each step, and opened the cellar door to a dim morning where no birds sang. The house remained. All the windows were intact, the roof had not been lifted, the trees still stood. It was as if nothing had happened.
She went to the bridge mostly in the evenings, when the lights of the bridge and the headlights of the cars would illuminate the water below—a radiance unachievable in the daytime. She felt heavy and unmovable, observing for hours what seemed impossible: the graceful way the bridge maintained its structure.
Dead fish it was rotting mud and insects and we went walking there nights the impossibility of really being down in it, fish smell, reaching the bottom, dead fish, mud and insects, because the bottom was impossible we went there walking deep with mud whatever night in summer it was down there, something different than in history, a catfish, it never froze but hovered slowly suspended, a slime, scales like armor if you were ancient and submerged yourself in it and called to the past, you couldn’t get the smell right, we weren’t a part of this it was more than mud that got into everything.
From her room in the tall green apartment building next to the alley, she watches snow fall. There is a small light shining from the top window of the red apartment building across the street from her and a suggestion of movement. Someone there is taking off a coat, a hat, placing a pair of gloves upon the radiator to dry. This person is only a torso and head from where she sits watching on her wide windowsill, sipping steaming broth, her feet enclosed in wool socks, the steam from the broth and her breath making steam on the window. Outside, in the small postage stamp park between the buildings, two people wearing navy blue parkas are running around making patterns in the fresh snow. They yell and chase each other. Several times, one reaches out a hand in an effort to capture the other.
On the day in January when all water is holy, they plunged a heavy anchor adorned with red and white carnations into the river. A man—a priest or minister, I don’t know who— stood and spoke. From where I was, I couldn’t hear what he was saying. He held his hand up to the sky and faced the half-frozen water. His red and white robe whipped in the winter wind. As the anchor lowered his voice took on the cadence of song. It was rhythmic and slow. It was old and ancient. It seemed familiar.
The crowd dispersed after the anchor disappeared. No one said a word as they moved away from the river. The priest or minister sat on the levee. He had exchanged his robe for a parka, the hood making a fuzzy frame around his face. I watched him sit there in the dark gray day—the clouds heavy, a bitter wind.
I turned to walk home and saw one of the carnations floating near shore. I clambered down to the water’s edge and pulled it from the water. I turned to make sure no one saw me. I do not know why I did this.
She has a dream where she is shot by several bullets from a small gun. She can’t stop dreaming this dream. She tries to catch the bullets with her hands, but her hands are hooves and the bullets too fast. The bullets lodge deeply into her throat. Every time it is the same. A small gun hovers in her peripheral vision, the bullets are released without a sound, and her hands turn to hooves. No one else is there. There is only the gun. It shoots automatically. The gun shoots on its own. It hovers, it is small. It is the same every time.
The mayflies had hatched. She was walking to the river and saw the bridge coated with their fragile bodies. After the séance. All of their transparent wings, so delicate alone, became opaque in quantity. Under the swarm, she walked unafraid. The mayflies—clinging to the ironwork, the trees, her hair. All of them living and dying.
Once she reached the river it was impossible to see, there were so many insects swarming. She stumbled.
Come down, come down, come down to the river.
It was morning. The sun shone through new leaves. A slight breeze came through the windows and a sparrow sang on the high window ledge. There were people on the street below moving quickly, heading to stores, offices, restaurants. Some of them were sad and lost. Some had just spoken to their mothers, a few had yet to speak.
My ladies were still sleeping. They looked like a collection of old costumes piled up on the bed. They hadn’t changed out of their dresses. Layers of emerald and turquoise and aubergine chiffon covered their bodies and obscured their faces. They were peaceful and silent.
In the kitchen, I took out the coffee and things for breakfast. I put them on a tray. Through the window above the sink I could see the river. It glinted and shone. A barge was making its way slowly south. A few people had gone to sit on the benches on the riverbank. No one was in the water.
I stood and stared. I was full of silt, churning, moving beneath a bridge, the sky was so bright, blue and full of clouds, I could see all the way to the bottom, it was suddenly clear I was moving towards the bottom—a heavy body sinking, my wings caught and broken.
I am given a bouquet of peacock feathers and must carry them on my journey through mud. I am worried the feathers will be ruined—I can’t possibly keep them in their perfect state while walking such a long way. As I walk, they seem to become smaller, less grand, more like wet seaweed than feathers, and I keep them damp as if they were cut flowers. By the time I reach the end of the mud, the feathers are ruined.
She goes to the library. She wants to find out more about what she has seen or thinks she has seen.
She pulls several volumes from the stacks—a book titled Ghosts seems promising. She turns to the first page and reads:
A ghost can be many things and take many forms.
She puts the book back. She wants a different kind of information.
They are there in the photograph. They hover behind me in a semi-circle, their bodies draped in cloaks. They gaze down at me sitting stiff in my best dress. I cannot see their faces but I know who they are. I know who I am too. I am there in that photograph. I stand here at the window, holding the picture up to the light.
On the day it was taken it was hot, humid, and stormy. I was uncomfortable in the dress. The dark gray wool stuck to my skin and the high neck was damp with sweat, but it was the only dress I had that would photograph well. You cannot see my discomfort. I am unaware of the three women hovering behind me, looking down with grave concern. I stare straight into the camera. I keep still as I’ve been told. Then the brightest light I’ve ever seen and then a moment of utter blindness and then the bright light again each time I blinked.
This day is like the day that picture was taken. The sky hangs low. Dark gray light. A rivulet of sweat runs down my neck and I stand at the window hoping for a cool breeze. I turn around and as I do I know my ladies will be standing behind me, their summer dresses clinging to their legs, their wavy hair plastered to their foreheads. They will stand there silently and I will turn and say, “There you are! I was wondering where you were—Why don’t we go outside? It’s bound to be cooler out there. Let’s see if we can get caught in the rain!”
There was light and she was drawn to it. She slipped away and circled a beam. It is the same every time: she closes her eyes and counts to one hundred, there is a great and heavy vibration, and she emerges from below transformed. She cannot stop it from happening. No one can.
When she came back from the séance, her ladies were waiting for her at the door. They stood there blocking her way with arms akimbo and stern stares. They were silent until she tried to make her way through to get inside the small apartment with its bottle-green walls and pale furniture
.
“Where have you been?”
“Just out. I went for a walk.”
“But you’ve been somewhere else, too.”
“I went to the river and stayed for a while. It’s a beautiful evening, warm, not too muggy. There were more bugs than I expected…”
“You went to see that medium, didn’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t lie. We know about that girl.”
“What girl?”
“The one who drowned. We know you tried to contact her.”
Her ladies were ruffled hens, their hair was a mess, all the shiny curls going every which way, their thin crepe-de-Chine wrappers pulled tightly across their bodies. Their feet were bare and looked cold. How long had they been waiting? How long had she been gone?
“I don’t even know who this girl is! I made her up! I just wanted to see if it were really possible to contact the dead, so I played a trick. I don’t know why. I don’t even know how I got there!”
Her ladies spoke severely in unison, “We don’t believe you.”
“No! I don’t know her! How could you? She’s a lie!”
