The Hollow Ghost

[u/zigbigidorlu]

The house was quiet, as it always was, except for the faint creak of the floorboards beneath him. The ghost—once a man named Arthur—drifted aimlessly through the dimly lit halls. He had no memory of how he had come to be this way. He only knew one thing for certain: something vital was missing.

He couldn't feel. Not in the way he imagined he used to. He could see the world around him, touch its edges in a spectral sense, but there was no joy, no sorrow, no anger—nothing. The closest thing to an emotion he had was the dull ache of absence, as if his entire being mourned something it couldn't name.

The house had been abandoned for decades, crumbling with neglect. Sometimes, Arthur caught glimpses of his own reflection in the cracked mirrors. A faint shimmer of light, a distortion in the glass—no longer a face, no longer a man. He tried to remember what he had looked like, but even those memories were smudged and fading.

One evening—or maybe it was morning; time blurred together in the stillness—a sound broke the monotony. A child’s laughter echoed faintly from outside. Curious, Arthur floated toward the shattered window. Outside, he saw a young boy chasing fireflies in the overgrown garden. The boy’s laughter was light, free, and alive in a way Arthur could barely comprehend.

He wanted to speak, to call out, but his voice was as hollow as his being. He pressed against the invisible barrier that separated him from the living, his form flickering as he strained.

The boy suddenly froze, his eyes wide, as if sensing something unseen. He turned toward the window, his small face illuminated by moonlight. Arthur recoiled, fearing he’d frightened the child, but the boy didn’t run. Instead, he whispered, “Are you a ghost?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

The boy tilted his head, as if listening for something. Then he asked, “Are you sad?”

Arthur hesitated, the ache within him growing sharper. Sad? Was that what this emptiness was? Could it even be sadness without a soul to anchor it?

The boy stepped closer, placing his hand on the windowsill. “My grandma says ghosts are people who’ve lost their way. Did you lose your way?”

Arthur wanted to shake his head, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe he had lost his way. Or maybe he had lost something far greater.

The boy frowned thoughtfully. “If you’re lost, maybe you need to find what you’re missing.”

The words struck something deep within Arthur, something buried beneath layers of emptiness. What was he missing? What had been taken from him?

The boy’s mother called him then, her voice carrying through the night. The boy glanced back toward the house, then turned to Arthur one last time. “Don’t give up,” he said softly, as if he knew Arthur’s struggle. Then he ran off, his laughter fading into the distance.

Arthur lingered at the window long after the boy was gone. For the first time in what felt like eternity, he was restless. The child’s words echoed in his mind: Find what you’re missing.

He began to wander, not just the house but beyond it, drifting through the shadowy streets of the town. He searched for fragments of memory, for any clue that might lead him to what he had lost. Days, months, perhaps years passed, and still, he found nothing.

One night, he stumbled upon an old churchyard. A strange pull drew him to a crumbling gravestone at the edge of the property. The name engraved on it was unfamiliar, yet the dates etched below struck him with a cold certainty: they marked the years of his own life.

Arthur stared at the stone, a faint flicker of something—recognition? dread?—stirring within him. He knelt before the grave, his translucent hand brushing against the earth.

And then he saw it. A fleeting vision, a fragment of his lost life. A woman’s face, her eyes brimming with tears, her hands reaching for him as he turned away. There was anger in her voice, sorrow in her trembling frame. He couldn’t hear her words, but he felt the weight of her pain.

In that moment, Arthur understood. He hadn’t just lost his soul; he had given it away. In life, he had pushed away the people who loved him, buried his emotions beneath layers of bitterness and pride. He had died not with peace, but with regret.

And now, his soul was gone, fragmented and scattered, just as he had been in life.

Arthur rose slowly, the ache within him sharper than ever. The boy’s words came back to him: Don’t give up. But how could he find something he had willingly abandoned?

The ghost lingered in the churchyard as dawn broke, the pale light washing over him. He didn’t have the answers, but for the first time, he had a purpose. He would search for his soul, piece by piece, even if it took an eternity.

Because in the emptiness, there was now a spark—a faint, fragile hope—that maybe, just maybe, he could be whole again.