the girl in the warehouse

I barely have any clothes and none of my belongings, but I make due — hiding my shame by getting to work extra early each day and staying late.

Shortly I come to realize that the place where I am staying is haunted — a small girl with dark hair and pale clothes flits about shyly in the evenings. She is sad and somewhat horrible as well. The is a demoniac sense to her, the way she pops up without warning.

Late in the evening, on my way back to my new “home”, I pass by a bar and some women out front shout at me. One of the comes over and after a brief conversation she suggests I bring her home with me. I do.

We get back to my small room. She is already all over me.and before I can lock the door she is kneeling on the bed, unclothed, pulling her dress up over her head.

I turn to see her there, and I stop for a moment.

She smiled wide and warm, and then I see her eyes dart to a place beside me and her smile falters.

There dark girl is there, hideous and livid.

And I suddenly realize that she is not a ghost, never was a ghost — this thing was never alive, never drew breath or felt joy. What has come is older than anything in creation, masquerading,

She looks at my companion, frozen in a parody of her formerly seductive pose, and she speaks.

I don’t remember what was said, but the truth of it strikes home with such force that my “date” is driven from the room, sobbing and weeping.

And, alone with that terrible pale girl, I wait. She looks at me for a moment.

And then she is gone.

The next day, in my dream, my secret is found out by the people I work for. I can’t recall how, but it is discovered.

The big surprises: First, they aren’t angry with me for being there, they’re sympathetic in fact. I find out that one of them also did a similar thing with his ex-wife — he stayed where I am staying.

Face with this information, I don’t say anything but I know my face tells it all.

“Yeah, I was there for a few weeks,” he says, watching me.

“Is the ghost still there?” He asks, offhand.

“Yes.” I am dumbfounded.

“Man, she used to scare the shit out of me.” He laughs.

One of the others says “What’s this ghost?”

We tell him and, goaded by his fascination, I offer to bring him down.

“I gotta see this,” he says.

As we walk down the hallway, it begins.

Far up the hall, we can see her standing there watching us.

As we approach, I recognize a familiar feeling of cold dread.

Brackets and boxes fly off shelves, thrown at us by unseen forces.

Prepared for this, nerves ringing like an alarm, I knock them away from us — grabbing a broom and brandishing it like a sword.

My friend marvels at my skill.

“Yeah, I’ve got a high midichlorian count.”

We continue on towards the girl. She is hideous and pale, and the lines other face are very dark, her eyes like pits.

I know what she is, and it is no ghost — she is something far older, engaged in a grotesque masquerade, playacting the child in a diabolically ironic manner.

We sit and speak of childish things. I am hoping to draw her away from my real thoughts but I can feel the rage boiling within her and I cannot stop it when it finally surfaces.

Nearby an old man sleeps on the sidewalk, drunk beyond all waking.

She finally reveals what I already know.

I am talking with her, realizing that my phony jocular child voice is not only annoying to her, but entirely unnecessary… I know she knows that I know what she truly is, and I know that she knows that I know that she knows that I know.

But I keep up the pretense; I can see her fighting it at every step.

Finally, we discuss the colder weather and Halloween is coming soon, I remark.