The Doors in the Mist
an excerpt

Ghostly

But I will not tell you about Hell, Heaven, and Purgatory, and how they all were formed from one greatness, and one Fall. You can read them elsewhere, in that Epic, where the young poet travels with the ancient voice of Reason Entombed. For now, I will tell you of our souls, the living and the dead, and the war that united them.

You have no doubt seen them, these spirits – you may have felt them, once upon a time. You would not have known who they were, unless you were told by someone who could truly feel, and truly see.

They are ghosts – and you made them from memory.

Have you ever stepped on your problems, literally? Say, thought of them, buried them beneath your foot while stamping your resolve onto the ground? You made the ghosts, as you did so – as you thought you forgot them, as you thought you were keeping the sadness out. Yes, that’s it: when you thought of how he broke your heart, how she stole your senses, how your son or your daughter or your father or your mother or your husband or your wife or your friend or your enemy or even your own God – when you think of how someone wrecked and destroyed your life, you walked into the realm of creation and made a memory.

Ah, and yes, that’s it, too – when you thought of how he opened your heart, how she changed your thoughts, how your child or your parents or your grandparents or your ancestors or your grandchildren or your descendants or your dearest friends or your deepest lovers or even your own God – when you think of how someone made your life wonderful, made it expand and blossom and bloom, you became a maker and you created a ghost.

You stepped, walked, thought, pondered – you buried those ghosts into the earth. And sometimes, you saw them: when you looked at something that sent chills up your spine, you saw that ghost of the past; you blushed with happiness, you cringed inwardly; you walked away; you stayed and stared. You saw that ghost of something as it stared at you with invisible eyes, dug deep into your soul and made your heart beat again – perhaps against your ribs, so that you sighed and gasped with happiness; perhaps against your throat, so that you fought not to weep.

What if they returned, these ghosts? What if they came back, all together? What if –

You are laughing, I know. You are thinking: so what? Let them come back! They are nothing but memories, nothing but thoughts. They can’t hurt me – they can’t torture me or press into my head or make my heart stop or discourage me or remind me of anything. They won’t bring back that heartbreak or those tears. They won’t show me that man I walked away from, that woman whose heart I broke. They won’t tell me how someone killed herself because of me. How I killed someone because I was so selfish.

Oh, they can torment you, these ghosts. They already have – they played on your memories, crawled up your spine, crept into your skin, made you smile, laugh, holler, giggle, sneer, jeer, feel alive, wish you were dead. They are all around you, and yet beneath the earth; they are in you, because you, dear human, made them. You created your own ghosts.

And where are these ghosts, you ask? They are in the earth you tread upon,in your steps, in a little hollow that was once visited by a poet with a mighty pen. He called it the Inferno and Purgatory, but he was looking at nothing, save a world of his own imaginings, a world that housed his own memories. He spoke of seeing his old enemies simply because he remembered their grisly faces, their greed and silliness, their stupidity and selfishness in the face of mighty Florence. He spoke of seeing his idols from literature and history simply because he wanted to be like them. And he spoke of his dead love Beatrice because she haunted him, and he loved her still.

Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven are too far from you, human – too far from your world, too near infinity, too close to the midnight of your soul. You will see them when you die – but as you live, you shall not see a glimpse of the other world, the netherworld, or the afterlife. You shall only catch a glimmer of your own making.

And you shall see them all again, these glimmers. They will blind you with their light, for the time has come when humanity has thought too much, felt too much, buried too much – the time has come for a war of memories. Ghosts, you see, are not picky, unlike Mistress Fortune. She chooses her willing victims, chooses a balance of who wants riches and who needs them; and then she lets them fall, fall – fast into a world where even more ghosts are made.

They have come. Ah – they are here. Unlike Mistress Fortune, memories are common to us all. You can scoff and laugh if you wish, but you will see them – and you will weep.