There’s a ghost in my closet.

I told my mom, and she told me I was too old to believe in ghosts. I told my sister, but she thought I was kidding. I told Tommy that the ghost is the reason I don’t play basketball at the Y anymore; I told Mr. Franklin that the reason I punched Isaac Rosen during lunch is because of the ghost; and I told Marcia the reason I pull away when she touches me is because of the ghost, too.

They all told me that ghosts don’t exist.

But I see her. Every time I open the closet, she’s still in there, her green eyes wide and her mouth still open in a silent scream. I stare at her and reach between her golden hair and her shoulder for my shirt. She still stares, and when I put on the shirt, I can sense her on it.

The ghost is turning me into a monster.

I eat, I sleep, and I breathe, but every breath is full of her. I don’t speak anymore—I think I’ve forgotten how. I can’t even think, because every thought is bloodied with her image. My hands clench and unclench, but I’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place.

Every night, I watch the closet door, willing it to remain shut, but wanting it even more to come out in the open. Every night, I stay awake half the night hearing the screams only I can hear. And every night, I fall asleep to a living nightmare.
The worst part of living with a ghost is the zombies. I see Isaac Rosen, but his eyes are empty and lies crawl out of his mouth. I see the others on the football team, their limbs only stones in a graveyard. Worse, I see the girls that were and are there, still hanging onto their men even though each second they do, they loose more and more of their life.
I turn and gaze at the girl across the cafeteria. She doesn’t look back. She stares down at her food, her green eyes wide and her mouth still open in a silent scream. I want to tell her that I see her every night in my closet, but I’m afraid that it won’t be enough. Tommy asks why I stare at her every day. It’s because of the ghost, I try to tell him, but the ghost keeps me quiet.
I remember when they shoved me in the closet. I was drunk, I think; they were, too. I don’t know what we were drunk on, but whatever it was, the girl wasn’t drunk. She was scared. She stared at me like she stares now, and the voices from outside the closet were loud, too loud. Fists started pounding on the door and shouting numbers that didn’t make sense to me. I fumbled around in the closet, trying to pull the girl closer. The girl asks about Marcia. I lie. The ghost tells me she’s not ready. I listen to the voices hooting beyond the closet door. She screams at me as I jerk her clothes off, but I ignore her, until her screams…her screams…become silent.
And she becomes the ghost.
And now I live with her in my closet, and everyone ignores my screams, just like I ignored hers. So I take the gun in my dad’s closet, and I crawl into the corner of mine, right next to the ghost. And I tell her how sorry I am. I tell her that I tried to talk, and I wish she would speak, too, because no one will listen.
I shut the door to my closet, locking the ghost and me inside, and everything goes black.
There’s a ghost in my closet, but I think I’d rather deal with the ghost than deal with living.