In Love With A Ghost

It has been death, and a love of it. I've only familiarized myself with it all too much. Not only does it depress me, but a deep fascination grips me as well. I have researched the paranormal in every way. By reading books, researching online, practicing rituals, watching television shows, and visiting my hometowns most haunted locations. Nothing in my life has fascinated me more. If anything, my career would be a paranormal investigator. There is so much we don't know. And I know this is what invited him into my home.

I've always wanted to live in a haunted house. Not with a demon, or any angry spirits just restless spirits with their somber presences that only seem to intrigue humanity. I always wished, and have openly asked, that a spirit comes wandering into my home. Never did I think that I would be hopelessly in love with one.

It must have been all the places I have been to, haunted locations. Maybe I conjured the spirit up, maybe I attracted him.

I came home from school one day, as usual. My backpack slung on the back of one of our kitchen chairs, home alone until my mother got home from work. I sat in the chair and turned it around to face the window, looking outside. One of our table chairs slid out and turned around, facing me, all on its own. I was terrified, and ran back to the front door. I didn't run outside. My hand nervously gripped the door handle as I took in what had just happened. The way the chair turned around on its own. It didn't seem threatening. I'm not sure why, but I walked back to the kitchen and, despite my chattering teeth, took a seat back in the chair. I stared at the empty chair, trying to visualize whatever I could.

Then I started to see it, the outline. A hazy shade of a human form. It took a while of staring at the figure, and the longer I looked, the better it came to me visually. It looked like a teenage boy, no older than myself. Then it disappeared altogether. I blinked, truly fascinated by what I had just seen.

Later that night I got ready for bed. I sat on the side of my bed while flipping the T.V. Channels.

It was weird now that I think about it. I started to feel very cold; it became unbearably cold around my waist. There was pressure around my waist as well. I was shocked but shifted a bit, and the spot where I was sitting became unbelievably cold too. It felt like I was sitting in someone's lap and they had their arms around me. The pressure from the "hug" was treated very gingerly. And I will honestly say that I liked it. The "hug" lasted only for about five minutes and then it vanished. All cold pressure vanished, it didn't casually fade. I said aloud, for I did not want the spirit to go, that I wanted it to stay. But I had no further interactions for the remainder of that month.

I think that it started to become active again at least a month and a half ago. I had started to think that I only imagined the whole thing.

I had been reading, sitting in a plush chair in my bedroom when I felt a sudden cold pressure on my wrist, which was being held forcefully yet gingerly against the arm of the chair. Alarmed, I looked up and saw the apparition clearly. Like I had thought it was a teenage boy, maybe a year and a half older than I was. His hair was black and bushy; his eyes were a hazy green. From what I could tell he was athletic looking. His pale face had a pointed chin. A name was whispered in my mind, it was Jacques. I never expected anything like this to happen. The ghost leaned forward and kissed me, passionately. I was shocked, surprised and pleased at the same thing. For the rare (I think rare?) few of you, when kissing a ghost it involves a yawning motion of the mouth. Your lips will feel very, very cold, but from my experiences it's much better than kissing someone who is alive. Again, I admit that I liked this experience particularly. After at least thirty seconds the sensation of the kiss vanished.

I have had current happenings similar to the story I have written here.

A few days ago I came home, and had worried all day that my mother would get home before I did and find that my room was a mess, and that my bed was unmade. My mother is a bit of a neat freak.

I was surprised to find my room tidy and my bed was well made (my mom had beaten me home but I snuck past her). The way the bed was made was different from the way my mom makes it, and the way that I do as well. I figured that it was her and tossed my book bag onto my bed and said a small greeting to Jacques (Who by now I'm used to seeing/hearing from every morning/afternoon) and walked downstairs. My mom had come home before I had and was typing on her laptop in her room. She thanked me for cleaning up my room and complimented on the style that the bed had been made. It must have been the way people made beds from when Jacques had been alive, if he ever was. Just as my mother had said this a very cold breeze blew past my right arm. I'm not sure how this was possible but I detected an air of smugness.

I love Jacques, and love having him around.

If you're having a similar experience as mine please post a comment, and I will take all advice and hope to write more stories about Jacques.