She couldn’t remember the last time anyone asked her if she’s okay. She wanted to be free of it, to be free of her endless existence in that creaky old house on the end of the block.

She didn’t eat. She didn’t sleep. She never felt anything except loneliness and boredom. When one of the family members was sick, she liked to pretend she was taking care of them, bringing invisible pitchers of water and cloths, sitting on their bedside with a fake smile on her face. When the kids were at school and the adults were off working, she chased the dog around as if it could see her, moved her hand over its fur as it slept.

Then the baby came, and she was finally entertained. The father stayed home all day, playing with the baby and tending to its needs.

It was almost two years later when she realized she could possess the toddler. It wasn’t like she tried to, she only pretended to touch her, and suddenly she was inside. The first time it happened, she sprung out immediately, shocked. She didn’t go within one foot of that girl for the rest of the day. The second time it happened, she stayed for an hour.

The third time, she spent a day living the life of a two-year-old, stuffing her face and laughing and taking naps and playing with her dad. The next day she observed the impact on the little girl, who gleefully told her dad that an angel visited her. The day after that she entered again, and she didn’t leave until the little girl was taken from her, taken outside to live in the sun away from her angel.

Then she was alone again, and it was unbearable. The father began to worry about his little girl, who acted so different inside than she did outside, who said she didn’t remember anything that happened except for snippets of the days they’d been inside.

Years passed. She spent every moment she could inside the body of that little girl, feeling again. When the girl began to go to school she was left alone, but it was okay because she knew the girl would be home soon. She began to enjoy her days, her interchanged interaction and rest.

The father took the little girl to a psychiatrist sometimes, but she didn’t make anything of it. There was nothing wrong with the girl in actuality.

Every day when the little girl came home she leapt up the stairs, taking two at a time. She ran into her room and threw her tiny arms up to the sky, waiting for her angel to join her.

But the little girl grew older and started to spent her days away from the house, spending time with friends, at school, going to activities, and playing outside by herself. The ghost grew lonely, cooped up only with herself once more. She grew angry. When no one was around, she taught herself to throw things about the house. When the father returned, it was always the dog’s fault, never hers. Once, though, the father came home and screamed, looking into her face. She was just as shocked as him. She ran to the girl’s room and slipped into the closet. When the girl came home that night she ran to her crying and entered. Immediately she could tell something was different.

She took the girl downstairs to her father and was about to grab herself a snack, but something told her not to. She turned to the window and longingly looked outside. Then she decided to leave for good, and take the girl with her. She didn’t care how hard it would be. She was strong now. She could do it. She opened the door and stepped out into the warm sun, smelling the air around her. She was out. Finally, she was out.

She never returned to that house, and neither did the girl. The family looked for her, but they never found her hidden in the woods, living with the trees. Eventually they gave up, grief-stricken, and eventually the thought faded.

The little girl is long gone, but they’ve never been happier.