Ghosting Lynette Mejía
You follow me, an overlay of light and shadows lost, then found, then lost again, fading in and out of existence like the memory of holding your hand in winter, or the flutter of your eyelids in gray light. Haunting is presence they say, the goodbye that lives in the margins, penciled, erased, and penciled in again, a palimpsest of days lost amid years and moments too faint to be seen with the naked eye. But we both know that’s not it; that’s not the ghosting we have come to know. Haunting is a line we walk, straight and hard, a path rutted with visions, and inside we lie in layers, mud mixed with ashes and salt, bitter, like the day I held your hand in the cold. You are the clock stopped in the hall. You are the light that steals through the last tired leaves fluttering, stubbornly hanging on, gripping knobby tree limbs in winter. You don’t haunt me. We haunt each other.


Lynette Mejía writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror prose and poetry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Goblin Fruit, Dreams & Nightmares, Strange Horizons, Mythic Delirium, and Star*Line, among others. She is currently working on a master’s degree in English Literature at the University of Louisiana-Lafayette, and lives in Carencro, Louisiana with her husband, three children, six cats, and one dog. You can find her online at

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