There's this thing about ghosts, we are awake or we aren't, but we're always attached to something. For very many years I had been attached to a light switch in a closet crawl hole, don't ask me why, but there you have it; and for many years I had gone undisturbed, sleeping, oblivious to the houses occupants. Until recently, someone had dared to crawl into the closets hideyhole, reached up, tugged on my cord, and woken me from my slumber. I was grumpy, and I was going to show it. How dare they disturb my slumber. How. Dare. They.

But, when we wake up, we learn things. Ghosts are very attuned to the things were, well, attuned to. Fear, saddness, rejection, pain...so much pain. So I searched. I floated from room to room to find the cause of it all. And I came across a man, screaming at his wife, calling her all kinds of useless. Then, later, his wife, beating their son for a drawing he had made her of a tree. The son, crawling into the closet to hide, tears dripping down his face, clutching his torn crumpled drawn tree.

I may be a maeleavant spirit, but I remember how I died. How my brother hit me as a joke, and then one day he hit me too hard. I remember the look in his eye when he hit me as a laugh, the same look the mother has in hers when she strikes her son for not being good enough, the same look the father has as he screams at his wife for not living up to his expectations. I will not stand for this. Not again.

Never again.

I'm not a particularly strong spirit, sleeping for great amounts of time will do that to you, but I have the strength to lift one sharp object, and even if I dissipate with the effort I have the strength to plunge it into their laughing, twisted, hateful hearts. There will be death in this house, but not the boys.