Old houses are difficult to live in. Extreme
heat and chill come from bad insulation, par-
tially due to aging window sills with painted-
over handles and shitty screens; summers
can be especially problematic. Radiators melt
shoe soles and burn curious visitors’ hands in
the winter months, but summer’s inescapable
heat is easily the worst part of an aging home.
That was why Chloe and Janet kept as
many windows open as they did in their tiny
abode: roughly 11 of them. (Chloe believed
that the north-facing kitchen window was
painted shut; Janet believed that Chloe just
wasn’t pulling hard enough.) They did not get
along, Janet and Chloe.
They met in a Facebook group before
their senior year of college, both Looking
For Housing As Soon As Possible. After one
month as cohabitants and recent graduates,
Chloe moved back home and Janet moved to
Utah with her boyfriend of three years.
Janet was an Aries sun with a Pisces moon.
Chloe thought astrology was for stupid peo-
ple.
They had nearly nothing in common,
and any chance of friendship was ruined by
Chloe’s inability to wash her dishes within 48
hours of dirtying them and Janet’s boyfriend
living with them for the first four months
of their lease. Janet made it a point to never
clean Chloe’s dishes and never say anything

about them until they began to overflow. She
did clean up the kitchen table, where Chloe
often left a mess — crumbs belonged in the
trash, not on the table.
During their first semester, Janet’s boy-
friend liked to watch football in their living
room and often yelled at the blaring TV while
Chloe studied for her environmental science
exams. Even after he moved out, Chloe avoid-
ed their shared spaces and otherwise looked
for any reason to be out of the house.
Their living room remained undecorat-
ed other than the TV and basic Ikea table
— Janet hated Chloe’s retro, slightly torn
National Parks posters, and Chloe hated the
sickly sweet smell of Janet’s cinnamon swirl
and cake batter candles. Chloe’s makeup con-
stantly took over the counter space in their
bathroom and Janet never washed their hand
towel.
It’s not that they hated each other, but
having nothing to talk about whenever they
crossed paths made for some uncomfortable
tension. Between the bad windows, dirty
dishes and constant, silent annoyance with
one another, it was no wonder they regretted
signing the lease.
Then they had their bug problem.
One afternoon, a few hours into a workless
Saturday in July, Chloe and Janet both hap-
pened to be home. This did not occur often,

and it never lasted more than an hour. They
were both enthusiastically crossing out the
calendar days until their lease agreement
ended, and Chloe had already packed up half
of her room while Janet hid most of her pots
and pans in her closet a month prior. She was
afraid that Chloe would finally burn them
past recognition or use or take them with her
when she moved home. Chloe never noticed
that they were missing because of her con-

sistent use of the same half-washed, left-out
kitchen ware. She did, however, notice the
giant housefly circling the living room.
“Hey, did you let a fly in?” Chloe called to
Janet in the kitchen.
“Why would I?” It was a stupid question,
but Janet had probably let it in when she went
onto the porch that morning.

Rule One:
The instant I open my eyes I start to disap-
pear.
It’s a pull that starts in the tips of my extrem-
ities and starts spreading me apart like I’m ink
diffusing into water. Something about this new
but familiar living room is making my sight
blurrier by the second. Blinking rapidly, I leap
up from the couch where I was sleeping. All I
am is an electric, echoing panic, drowsy under
the weight of this invisible pull. I’m becom-
ing less, and less, and less. I’m suffocating, I’m
suffocating, I’m suffocating. Chest heaving, I
collapse backward into a wall. My arms flail
uncontrollably, the wisps that used to be me,
my mortal, tangible form trailing through the
air. In my haze, I’m vaguely aware of a lamp
caught right in the crossfire of my flailing.
Snap.
I hit the lamp, and the lamplight flickers.
Mist coalesces back into the shape of my body
and my scribbles of thoughts begin to fall back
into legible lines. Somehow, I’m whole again.
I look over to where my right arm should’ve
broken my brother’s apartment furniture. The
lamp stands planted and absolute on the couch
side table, casting a muted hourglass-shaped
glow across the ceiling and the floor. The air is
still. The night is a deep dark. The rise, fall, rise
of my chest slows to a steadier rhythm.

I notice my hand is now translucent. I move
my open palm directly through the lamp shade
and through the glass bulb. The light stutters
as I do so.
Now that I’m able to think, I take in my
surroundings. Andy’s one-bedroom is just as
messy as it was when I went to sleep. A pizza
box sits open on the counter. Grease still shines
on the TV remote where our pizza-covered
fingers turned the volume up and down on
“Scott Pilgrim vs. the World.” I couldn’t
hear it well enough, but
Andy couldn’t risk
another noise com-
plaint
from
his
neighbors. It’s all
the same, yet some-
how wrong.
An
uncanny
fog rolled through
while I slept, and its
muggy moisture now
clings to every surface
in sight. It’s a new lens that’s
dropped over my eyes and I can’t
shake it off.
The gravity that was pulling me
apart seems to have left — what-
ever the hell that was. There’s
still a lingering tingle on my fin-

gertips, still a magnetism caressing the back
of my neck. But every time I swing my hand
through this lightbulb, the magnetism disap-
pears.
I’ve felt panic before, but this time it felt dif-
ferent. More removed, living more in my head
than in my body, and even then it’s like I was
watching myself freak out instead of actually
feeling it. I should be lightheaded from how
heavy I was hyperventilating, but I’m not.
There’s a draft
in the top of my
soft
palate
that’s missing
— I’m not feel-
ing that curl of
air that pivots
at
the
throat
and cools the
body from the
inside out. My
chest rises and
falls, but I real-
ize it’s more out of
habit than anything else.
Not because it needs to. Not
anymore.
Because ghosts don’t breathe.
Rule Two:
Andy found my body that morn-

ing. I left the room. An older brother is not sup-
posed to find his younger brother’s corpse on
their couch. That’s not something I needed to
see. But not even a wall could’ve muffled his
surprise.
Andy has always been stronger than me.
Whenever I needed a jar opened, it went
straight to him. When our parents told me
about my heart condition, it was Andy who
reassured me I wouldn’t drop dead the second
I left the house. Andy was who I went to when
the world became too much for me. I never
knew what I’d do without him. But now I have
to watch him figure out what to do without me.
The first thing Andy did was call our par-
ents. I’ve never heard him cry before. The
sound drew me, or this post-life embodiment
of me, back into the room, partly out of disbe-
lief.
His broad shoulders are shaking. His eyes
are squeezed shut. I stand before him, the
invisible subject of his sorrow, unsure of how I
could possibly help, unable to even attempt any
semblance of comfort. So Andy sat inconsol-
able on the floor, our mom and dad sat on the
phone, and I sat across from him, unable to feel
the welling up of my own dulled pain as it gave
itself away by rolling down my cheeks.

Carter’s Four Rules For Being a Ghost

A house for flies

BY DANIELLE CANAN, STATEMENT CORRESPONDENT

BY GISELLE MILLS, STATEMENT CONTRIBUTOR

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Design by Kate Shen

Design by
Emma Sortor

Design by Phoebe Unwin

4 — Wednesday, October 5, 2022 // The Statement