Apparition by Ula Bitinaitis

Apparition by Ula Bitinaitis

I was baffled by how Mary Shelley's Frankenstein was birthed from a ghost story contest. My friends and I wanted to do the same. Me, taking it too seriously, had ideas floating around for a while. This is the culmination of what I came up with. (I think I can consider myself the winner because no one else made one. Hah!)

An apparition had come to my vision. It was as if my slow breaths and stirring senses of balance had galvanized the underworld.

The graveyard was quiet, and the sky was stained a velvet blue, dim and gray, the moon forgot to collect it when escaping the morning. I didn’t recall my purpose for coming. It wasn’t necessary; we often use our dreamlike trances as excuses for following the flow, a sickly slow river that we stick our hands, our bodies in, floating with dark murk, the water’s edge cupping our lazy bodies. But I would’ve liked to see someone; this graveyard is cold, and I longed to sit still in the water.

Its entirety was white, a violent, reflective white, a foe against any cream or milk. Its feet were planted on the dirt, and its color was reflective on the gritty dirt, endlessly stamped with the soles of grieving loved ones, the soil that drank the remains of the dead. It, she, looked through me, and I could feel my veins rushing; no longer did I make myself move, for if I breathed, I was sure the last of my soul would be carried in the vapor of the cold air. If it were anyone else, I would strain to look closer, but I was no life worthy of shifting in her presence.

Just as the thought came to my mind, it moved, and when it did, it was slow and methodical, lacking the life of water but holding her logic. She had long, straight hair, and it mimicked her when she strode, lifeless and rhythmic.

My hair is different, I noticed. It is curly, black and thick, and it coils lively down my chest and back. I’m known for it, the corkscrew ringlets that shifted along with me in my dreamy, drunken balance, a common conversation starter among strangers. But ghosts prefer to touch; in an instant, her white hand lifted, taking part of my hair in her delicate fingers. She stared blankly, and I felt my scalp raise, exhilarated by the wraith’s interest as if I was somehow worthy to be acknowledged by such an entity, and I knew then that she was my god. The lock pooled in her hand, a puddle of ink against her violently white skin, and I feared she would stain herself. I wondered if I should stop her. She shifted her fingers against it in her palm, and I was vexed by how close her hand was to my freezing skin. Was this divine intervention? A punishment, or reward for my life’s fulfillment? I can’t remember yesterday, last year, this moment, and I’m okay with it. Dreamy states always seem to hold the most vivid, real experiences, ones that lacked any truth. I wonder if all servants long to kiss their master’s shoes.

She bent over to my neck, and I felt her eyelashes press on my soft chin, my nerves spasming underneath in response to her touch, My cold cheeks bloomed red flowers. She had no breath, and she instead emitted an aura akin to the stone's frost in winter, the feeling of the first downpour of rain, the moment before a glass shatters, a cold finger against the film of an eye. She stopped when my mind became blank with euphoria. I felt guilty. I shouldn't be moving. My blood didn’t deserve to flow in her presence.

And thus, quickly, thin lips parted to reveal the touch of jagged teeth. As if the yard had been struck by lightning, I saw nothing but white, slick hotness began flooding below my chin, and I hadn’t noticed I hit the ground. Bury me here, or bury me in a creek where I can lie, the water that cupped my skin, because the kiss of the paranormal can’t burn there, and I would love to try again, to relive her touch, but a cold fire is setting me aflame. Is it a privilege to see the face of your predator? I've seen the spasms a mouse reacts with before resting to the venom of the snake, its glossy eyes aching to see it’s killer, why did I ache to see her, her unhinged jaw and stained fangs? I looked around for her, the side of my face scratched with gritty dirt, thawing as red flowers revived the lifeless earth, carrying my black hair down its stream, my eyes spasming. A smile broke on my lips; how lovely can it be when you're left alone with your thoughts.