Foreword Preview

I write about ghosts. Ghosts are, simultaneously, the most elementary of concepts and the most complex of entities. In some ways, a ghost is just a thought, is something insubstantial, and ephemeral at the very edges of one’s mind. Writing itself is a ghost. A ghost is a story, is just a pattern of sounds, ideas, shapes. You can drumbeat a ghost into a table with your fingertips.

Ghosts exist in every one of our senses, and then they propagate exponentially as each sense and emotion cross-pollinates, as each warps with synesthesia. Ghosts exist in every one of our memories and emotions, the formless voices and faces that move us.

I am drawn, in particular, to women as ghosts. I have often felt like a ghost in the world, on a slightly different plane from everything else around me. And I have always been in pain, watching, and thirsting for some sense of power or justice.

My role models in literature and media were monsters, ghosts, ghouls. The ones vilified and feared for their profound and confounding power. These were the stories that showed me an ascension I wanted for myself.

Their suffering made me feel a little less alone, and the conceit of vengeance from beyond the grave gave me hope in a world where I felt downtrodden and caged. I was cheered that karma would catch up to an uncaring world, that one could not simply commit atrocity without expecting some kind of ghastly retribution. If that retribution was often misdirected, it was at least still virulent.

These things give me comfort even now and when I am at my best, or my worst, I always reach for my ghosts. They are everywhere, and they own everything. We are all a collection of ghostly breathes and stories.

The houses they live in, are us. The rooms they pace in, are us.

Every ghost in the house, is me.

AV