Blame it on the closet.

Feeling like a lazy slop I mustered my strength this afternoon and got out of bed. 

The morning had been glorious; full of dreams with epic narrative and adventure and peaceful, cool fall sunshine 

(reflected off the window across the alley).

Breakfast was toast and coffee. Then back to bed.

Nuked chicken pot pie leftovers for lunch with two root beers. The sudden sugar and calories rush got me up and dancing to a post-work playlist I made last spring titled MGMT. Shuffle. The most depressing songs came on first. 

(Is all of this playlist so melloncholy?)

Now playing: My Body is a Cage by Arcade Fire.

The song was wrong. All wrong. No song could have been worse at that moment. With the aid of those melodic tones and suspenseful beats the darkened bedroom doors began to look like decaying gaping maws, yearning for me, their stench making it tough to breathe, toxic hands reaching out to pull me in. 

I pulled the doors closed.

(Don't approach it!)

(...not all the way closed...let some air in)

The first door pulled closed easier and had nothing obscuring it. 

My doorway had the stereo cord running through it. I couldn't unplug it. I'd lose my morose music. 

My room was dark. I had turned off the lights and gotten dressed before turning on the music. As I pulled the door closed I saw part of my room faintly illuminated in what must have been the florescent glow the closet makes when you open the left hand side of the closet's double-doors.

(I didn't leave that open.)

The door closed

(most of the way).

I tried to dance. Tried to exercise. 

(I must have left it open.) 

Song change. Five more song changes. 

Nor playing: Golden Years by David Bowie.

Much more relaxing. 

(That door is still open.)

With the brightest lights in my apartment on I tried to dance. Five songs later I couldn't take it anymore. I had to tell somebody about that door. First step to closing it is ackgnolegding that there is nothing scary going on here

(it's just your stupid negligence. There are no Ghosts here).

I start to type and instinctively glance over at the door to my bed room. As I'm looking at it a breeze runs through it and the door gapes open slightly, welcoming me back. Weakly I close the computer, walk over to the room, and turn off the music. 

(Nothing is there.)

The other door slams shut.

(wind)

I push my door open.

(There is nothing there.)

I turn on the big light.

(See? I told you.)

My room is exactly as I left it. I looked toward the light coming from my closet, to my right

(wasting electricity). 

 I walked over and closed both doors at once. A gust of wind rushed past me from 

(somewhere)

inside the closet as the doors shut with a click.

(They could just as easily click open again.)

(No they can't.)

I have homework to do. I'm supposed to be writing a business plan for my possible future goat dairy. I can't be obsessing over a closet that isn't haunted.

(then why the fear?)

It isn't haunted. That's a stereotype. It doesn't matter that every time I see it ajar a chill runs down my spine. I'm sure the reason I advert my gaze every time I close it is that I'm a coward. That must be it. There's no way my closet is inhabited with evil

(sucking my lifeforce).

There's just no way.

Faces

I may be the only person you've ever heard of who has a haunted coat. My memory keeps trying to protect me by making these images lost to the dark recesses of my mind only to resurface in the depths of night when the cold sweat of fear starts to creep up my lower back. It's then that you have to slow down. If you run or act panicked they will know and give chase. If you keep your cool they think they have the upper hand and allow you time to crawl back under the covers. Pull them up over your head.

I've been seeing faces. Then they disappear and I forget them. This is important--proof-- I need to remember.

Last Sunday I was up at my friend Scott's apartment in that giant old building on the corner of 72nd and Amsterdam/Broadway. You'd know it if you saw it. Huge and old and towering over the intersection. We were overcome by a longing for french onion soup so we took an excursion out to Fairway a couple blocks north. We came back, set the groceries down and took off our coats. It was cold this weekend. We needed our winter coats. Mine is this big gray thing with an intensely high collar I can get lost in. The inside of the sleeves is silky. I pulled my iphone out of the pocket and held it pressed against my palm, unaware of pressing any buttons. Suddenly the device sprang to life. The camera+ app opened and the flashlight turned on (I didn't know it could do that). Then the camera focused and refocused on the inside sleeve of my jacket. A sign kept popping up "Cannot take photo" or something like that. No explanation why not. When I saw what the camera was focusing on I wanted to take a picture but the button was grayed out.

There, in the crook of the sleeve inside the big gray winter coat was a face. A man's face. With a big gnarly nose and angry beady eyes. I tried to save the frame but pictures had been disabled. I blinked. The face was still there, glaring at me through the camera. All his features mysteriously in beige beneath my flash.

"Hey Scott," I said. "There's a face."

Scott looked and paled slightly. "V," he said. "I think you're the only person in the universe with a haunted coat."

I let that incident slip out of my mind a little. For the purpose of mental stability (a futile effort). Then last night I couldn't sleep. My head would droop into the book I was reading (The Shining) and I would snooze and drool a little on the page, wake up, wipe my mouth, turn off the light, and stay awake. Forty-five minutes later I'd switch the light back on and resume reading/snoozing. Around dawn the light was off and I had no plans of turning it back on until morning; but there was enough light to see by from the city's glow through my semi-opaque blinds.There was a woman in bed with me. Her face on the pillow next to mine. She was tan, brunette, and she smiled slightly when our eyes met. I blinked rapidly and she disappeared-- melted into the folds of the purple throw blanket she had possessed. Melted into the recesses of my memory to be forgotten as a dream.

I never had any dreams of being in my own bed before we were haunted.

As I'm writing this right now the cat ghost is staring at me. Her head turned, her ears pricked. I go over to look at her and she's back to normal. Floating in the center of her black canvas. Looking ahead. Blurry.

My Ghosts - a poem

Lucas says

I got my ghosts from the Chelsea.

I suppose that could be true.

I can't remember

(the trouble sleeping)

before the Chelsea.

I am sure (I had nightmares 

before my 

(divorced)

father moved us to the Chelsea Hotel.

It was in elementary school that I became aware

and obsessed

with ghosts.

Wonder how many kids

made their stories up?

(Mine were true.)

We would huddle in the closet.

Swap stories.

Then one time in college

we were five of us

(in a bed.) Telling ghost stories.

and Hawaiian Ledgends.

This one guy says "Wow,

You must have a Dark

---spirit

following you

or something. 

And it hit me.

I have ghosts.

Must have picked them up in the Chelsea.