Rules of the Haunt

I. Begin each day as though it is not with you.

Stand slowly. Keep your hands steady.

Let the mirror believe you.

Let the toothbrush do its work.

Whatever follows may follow—

but not before breakfast.

II. Do not let it teach you its language.

It will try to smooth the edges of speech.

It will offer simpler words,

flatter stories.

Forget its grammar.

Speak only in the voice you’re known for.

III. Make offerings.

Trim the basil.

Fold the laundry.

Touch the small, breakable things.

The haunted must tend the living—

not only for their sake,

but so the haunt remembers what it cannot touch.

IV. Feed it nothing you cannot spare.

It will ask for small things:

a missed meal,

an hour less sleep,

a joke you would’ve told.

These will feel like nothing.

They are not.

V. Let no one name it.

Not even you.

Call it tired. Call it winter.

Call it anything but what it is.

VI. Guard them from it, lest they know it too.

Build your body like a barrier.

Let it gnaw through you, not past you.

Carry it beneath the ribcage,

tight against the heart,

where it cannot touch their spirit.

VII. Most importantly—leave no trace.

When it passes—if it passes—

let the light come in

as though nothing ever lived

beneath the floorboards.