Ghost Mom

by Sophie Ann Hinkson

Ghost Mom lives in countries she has never visited. She’s the invisible worm that enters your ear and finds her way to your brain. She cannot reach your heart, though, and this is something that drives villains insane.

Ghost Mom lives everywhere, really, but she prefers inhabiting the sounds. Recently, you heard her in the splash of the running water. She missed holding your head under the faucet.

If somebody had asked you how it felt, you would have said: unpleasant. Especially when Ghost Mom possessed the cat, because it was a good cat. You recognized her in its meows, the ancient song the stray cried at night. You started to chase the cat to shoo Ghost Mom away.

Then, your mother tried to reach you with repetitive sounds, because she was nostalgic about all the hours spent banging at your bedroom door.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

No. You shook your head. Can’t hear ya.

Then, Ghost Mom invited herself into indoor and outdoor sounds.

At home, she was in the thump of your upstairs neighbor, the nurse, getting ready to go kill people in a hospital.

At the bar, she ended up being in each slurp a Flannel Guy made, sipping his Miller like it was hot miso Soup.

When she stopped being everywhere, you got very afraid. Silence was lightning before Ghost Mom thundered the shit out of you.

She did the worst someone could do to you: she contaminated the words.

Every time you listened to an audiobook, it was her voice narrating it. She even added dedications at the beginning. “To my daughter, this crazy whore.”

You turned on CNN, and the anchor spoke like her.

Finally, stopped using Siri because… guess what? Yes. Ghost Mom again.

People say fire purifies a lot of things. You can’t burn a voice, though.

Just out of precaution, you killed the primary host. You didn’t want to leave any trace, but the cat was too big, the garbage disposal not that great.

You tried to set the place on fire but chickened out and ran away. You found yourself on the street, earplugs in place.

You left two weeks ago with three fun-size Butterfingers, a cool varsity jacket, and a small pillow, all gone now.

Now, you’re lying on the street, stuck in a beautiful dream. You’re back at your place, ready to open the front door. As you look into your pocket, you find yourself lying on the couch, your couch, the one you missed so much, and lying on you is like a hen hatching eggs is, oh no, Ghost Mom. Your eyes are on her lips. She starts speaking. She screams at you! Except nothing comes out of her mouth, except freezing cold air.

Sophie Ann Hinkson spent much of her life in France, where she worked as a bookseller and journalist for both magazines and radio. Now based in Chicago, she teaches French and ESL at various colleges. She’s the poetry co-editor at The Coachella Review. Her fiction will appear in the upcoming fall issue of Midwest Weird. At home, she shares her life with her husband, a black cat, and eight pet rats.