The Passion of Neglect

Some people are born into opulent mansions. Each room has gratuitous space, and, no matter how it is filled, the room feels cold and unbecoming toward life. The furniture and other accessories are made of such fine material that they are not wont to be used. The rugs and drapes are imported from various continents and countries and are of nonpareil craftsmanship. Every aspect of every room has not been spared of quality.

Other homes are meager yet hone a bold spirit. The walls provide little in way of protection from the brisk of winter and the fever of summer and on windy days the air tastes of dirt. The inhabitants thereof, however, find happiness by spending compassion in place of riches and finding comfort in others rather than goods.

Our lives are the homes of our souls. Some will appear luxurious, and others purportedly meager. All, however, no matter the appearance nor purport, are comprised of luxurious rooms that share walls with those of a meager nature. Lives of enervation are exhausted in the hope of perfecting the house by refurbishing the rooms deemed unsatisfactory. The truth to be learned, however, is that no man with any manner of experience can renovate the one without neglecting another. Thus, perfection in these homes can only be found by learning to love the imperfection.

The house that I was given was a good home. Its foundation was compromised, and it featured fissures clearly visible on its face, but it was a good home. (Cracks are merely signs of the house settling, after all) It will never be presented as palatial, but I know in which rooms my blessings are stored, and it will always be loved for what it is.

One day, however, my house began experiencing a haunting. In the first happening, each of the rooms became unrecognizable, indistinguishable, and tantamount to one another. Nothing had been added, and nothing was taken away, but the essence had changed. A pendulum was swinging—at one end, every room would feel luxurious, and, on the other, every room was meager. The more it swung, the more unbalanced the pendulum would become—rapidly swinging away from the end of luxury and sticking to the side of meagerness.

In the second incident, the walls were erased, and my house became a singular room. I didn’t know which item went where, and the rooms became entangled. Every item seemed out of place in the context of the items that were around it, and my house no longer impressed me as a home.

Then, in the last, each furnishing and article was stolen and replaced by a chair that sat at the center of the room, facing the door. The chair was black, with paint chipping and cracking, except for the ends of its arms, which had been worn clean of paint, revealing a light wood underneath. Each of the legs had a kerf that ran the length from the seat to the ground.

Sitting in the chair, I found that the end of each arm has been worn so as to manifest grooves that my fingers sat in comfortably. The chair was certainly an impressive piece to be had, but where had all that I was familiar with gone? Where was my once beautiful home? What must I do to bring it back? The answer came to me suddenly and tormentedly—I must do away with the source of the haunt.

I staggered to the front door and grasped its knob. I didn’t want to leave, but I knew the home would be better for it. Trying the door, however, I found that it was locked, and, where the key was, I did not know. I pressed my thumb against the keyhole and mused: I did not belong here—I knew it to be true—but how was I to vacate?

Confused—perhaps a tad frustrated—I turned again to the chair—the singular item in this suddenly dreary home. Now seated in the chair was a shadow of myself with neither feature nor contour—a dark mass from whom a brook of horror flowed out to consume the entirety of the space.

I could scarcely speak, but I managed to murmur through the jitter that overcame my jaw, “Who are you? Won’t you let me leave? I don’t want to be here anymore, for my soul is abusing this home with its presence. Will you let me leave, please?”

It nested its arms on the chair and grasped the ends thereof—truly this was its throne—but it answered me nothing.

Stepping closer, fear compounded upon me and my legs wobbled with every cursed step, but I, faltering, queried, “Surely this is your home, permit me to retire from this space. Please… can I leave?”

Its head swiveled my direction in acknowledgement of my presence, yet it spoke no word nor did it communicate in any way.

I began in again, now feeling crushed by the terror, and spoke as I walked, “Please, will you let—“

“NO!”, it bellowed pitifully, piercing my ears and causing a quake in my soul that threw me to the musty floor. I began to sob, nor could I stop sobbing. I attempted to retreat, but I was paralyzed to the spot.

I know what I am: I am the pernicious spirit of the home, and I no longer belong here. I am the poltergeist; I am the ghoul—it must be me: I am out of place here. This home, however, will never be spared of my malevolence, for escape is undoubtedly impossible.