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

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Emma Sortor

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

