For a Moment, I thought She Could See Me by Edgar Harding

When she first moved in, I quickly became enamored with her. My purgatory in this house was halted when her boxes and bags began to fill the slightly aged and worn down looking hallways and rooms of the old building. When I first noticed her appearance here, I only watched her. I was slightly peeved that yet another person moved into my home, but alas, such is the way of life. At least, I think so. If I’m remembering correctly. 

I, at first, attempted to scare her away from my home; wanted her gone so I could have the place to myself once again. I ran up and down the halls throughout the night, the thudding of my feet stomping and echoing throughout the building. I opened and closed cabinets and drawers. I turned lights on and off and on and off again, and even knocked on the beige walls a couple times, just for good measure. 

However, no matter how much I tried, she would show no sign of fear. On the mornings after my escapades (attempting to frighten this girl) I would wait anxiously by her door for her to walk out, expecting a frightened glint in her eye, or a frazzled and terrified expression on her face. However it was never so. She would always walk out of her bedroom looking grumpy, and tired, and maybe even hungry, if I remember correctly what hunger looks like. This confused me. No one ever was able to ignore me. They always got scared at the first knock or thud or scrape. She was different.

One night, deep into the midnight hours, after I had once again spent the night so far trying my best to terrify her, I was shocked to see her storm out of her room, a look of exhausted anger on her face. Her hair was everywhere, and she was slightly hunched over as well. She heaved a couple times before sighing. She looked as though she was going to speak.

“I do not know who you are, nor why you’re doing this. But for the love of all things holy please move it to the daytime so I. Can. Sleep!”

And after that, she simply shut the door behind her. 

I stood in front of her mahogany bedroom door, a look of shock, mixed with confusion, dawning on my sunken face. Did she just tell me to be quiet? She wasn’t even scared, or even anxious?

My ears picked up the sound of her climbing back into bed, and I turned away from her door, walking back down the creaky hallway to the living room. I felt a small smile twitch onto my features, and something akin to excitement floating throughout my spirit. The rest of that night and every night forward was quiet.


My attitude toward my new house guest changed after that night. Now I would mindlessly follow her throughout the house, watching what she did with captivated fascination; I watched as she made her meals, she really loved pasta, especially alfredo pasta, read her novels, most of which were in the horror variety, and watched the weird screen in the living room with the moving pictures. The only place I would not ever follow her was into her bedroom, I’m not a pervert after all. I believe sometimes she would feel my presence there, however she never once seemed afraid. And despite my insistence on scaring her out to begin with, I began to grow fond of that fact. My previous house guests would jump and run at every little creak and sound, and I now believe that is the reason why I wanted them gone. Why would I let someone in my house who is terrified of me? They hardly sounded like good company. But she, again, was different. Not once did she flinch, or jump, or run, or hide in my presence, and that made me happy. 

I watched her go about her many days for months, maybe even years. She would look in the mirror and would unknowingly be staring directly into my eyes as I looked back at her. I brushed my long hair with my gray fingers as I watched her brush her’s with her comb. Every time our eyes met, I pretended she was really looking at me. I pretended she was really smiling at me, rather than her reflection in the mirror. I pretended that she could really see me.  She was the best company I could ask for, and even then, she could not see me. I could not thank her for not being scared. I could only watch her, and make noises with the furniture. All I ever wanted for her was to see me, and really smile at me. 

After years of this routine; years of me silently watching what she does and communicating with taps and creaks here and there, I one morning saw her beginning to unfold new boxes. I knew what was happening; she was leaving. This had happened plenty of times before with other guests, however it never felt this… bad. The only person who was never scared of me, was leaving. Instantly I grew scared, petrified, because I knew that I would be alone, once again. I desperately began unpacking her boxes in the night, attempting to remember the places for her various knick-knacks– although my memory is quite cloudy. Any empty box I would see, I would attempt to get rid of. It didn’t work out that well, because really the most I could do was smash them and throw them across the room. But my god did I try. I tried everything to get her to stay with me. But no matter what I did or how many items I put away or how many boxes I destroyed… she still packed. She packed until my home was nothing more than the empty corridors and creaky floorboards that I was all too familiar with. I watched as she packed bag after bag, box after box, until all that remained was my spirit. With this room I’d be able to float aimlessly through these hallways for centuries.

When the day finally came for her to leave, I stood at the door as she passed through me, the final box in her hands. I watch her begin to walk down the driveway before she stops suddenly, and whips her head around.

If I had a heart, it would have jumped out of my chest then and there, for she looked directly at me; directly into me. She held her gaze for a minute, and it started off hard, but softened as she looked at me, and she smiled. She smiled at me, so softly and so, so beautifully, before quickly turning around once again and finishing her journey to her car. I could only stand in the doorway, watching. 

For a moment, as our gazes met, I thought she could see me.


Biography: I have been writing since I was in middle school, and since then it has meant everything to me. It’s been my escape from the world, my creative outlet, and my emotional release. I was drawn to writing when I needed a way to express my creativity, as well as, in a roundabout way, to cope with my feelings. It’s always been special to me, being able to transfer my little daydreams of my little characters and stories onto paper for people to read. I am a lover of horror, mainly gothic and psychological. I also really love romance and mystery; my goal is to conjure up a story, someday, that includes all of horror, mystery, and romance. That would be really fun. I’ve been inspired by many of the greats, my favorite of which being Edgar Allan Poe; he is my biggest inspiration in terms of writing gothic works specifically. I hope to publish a collection of short stories someday, and maybe even a full length novel or series.