Max

I remember the first time I saw him. I was sleeping over my grandparents' house one summer in Seaford. They were watching the eleven o'clock news in the den, and I was in the guest room. I was in bed, waiting for them to tuck me in. I called to them, and they told me to wait. I called to them again, and they said to wait. The news was almost over, but I was impatient. I began yelling for them, and he appeared beside my bed.

He looked like a negative in a photograph. He was a man, maybe mid to late thirties, tall, and annoyed. He was annoyed with me. He was annoyed at how I couldn't wait for my grandparents to come into the room, tuck me in, and turn out the light. He didn't tuck me in. He just turned out the light and then turned to leave, but I surprised him. I said, "good-night." He realized that I was looking at him, and after a long moment, he said, "Good-night."

I didn't see him again until 1997. My grandmother passed away that summer, may she rest in peace. She was making plans for me to come and live with her and my grandfather. She knew how bad I was suffering, how bad my depression was, and how oblivious my parents were. She wanted to give me a chance to start over, and that plan almost didn't happen. But then my aunt decided to change my life, sitting me down during Shiva and telling me of what my grandmother intended to do. She gave me a choice. Go home, or stay here. I chose, and I stayed in Seaford.

My family never believed in ghosts. The supernatural was nothing more than the wild beasts of imagination. The closest my family ever came to believing back then was when we sat on the couch together and watched television shows such as The Outer Limits, Twilight Zone, and Amazing Stories. In real life, there were no monsters, no ghosts, and nothing that went bump in the night. I knew different.

He knew that I could see him. He tried to stay out of sight, but I heard him walking the floors late at night. The steps creaked as if someone were walking down them. A closet door drifted open. The walls felt like they had a million eyes, but they were his. And he watched my every move, hesitant to appear.

I started to dream about him. We would talk, and as time went by, I realized that I knew more about him. I didn't know how such a thing was possible until I saw The Sixth Sense, and now I understand. I could hear him, and while I slept, we talked. He felt comfortable enough to get close but only then. When I awoke, he was gone.

He had died there. I don't know what year he died, but he was trapped. He couldn't leave the house. He had watched me grow up, and he knew that I was suffering. Maybe that was why he kept his distance, but he liked me. He liked talking to me because my family never spoke to him, and when I started to talk about him to my family, they grew nervous, afraid. They thought I was crazy, and so did my mother.

My mother stayed over the house often after my grandmother passed. She and my aunts were worried about my grandfather. I should have been just as concerned, but my head was a mess. I was struggling to overcome my depression. I was struggling to start over, but I continued to make the same mistakes. And now, I was sharing this life with a ghost in my grandparents' house.

My mother would sleep in the guest room with me. There were two beds in that room. They used to belong to my mother and my aunt, but that was a long time ago. Those beds used to squeak, and the covers were heavy, itchy. But I felt at home here.

It was the middle of the night. My mother awoke to use the bathroom. It was down the hall near the kitchen, and as she walked toward it, an unsettling feeling raced down her spine. She wasn't alone, so she quickly did her business and returned to bed. As she got into bed, someone stood behind her and said, "Hello."

My mother wasted no time and dove under the covers. She was afraid to peer out, sensing how close he was. She begged for sleep to come, but she was wide awake. When she felt that he was finally gone, she pulled the covers away from her head and looked around the dark room, and her gaze settled over me. I wasn't crazy, and she told me so the next day.

I named him, Max. We spoke every night, but when I grew exhausted, he would give me time to sleep. To this day, I still don't know much about his life before death. He was just happy to talk about anything, nothing. Our relationship did begin to deteriorate some time later, and he left me alone. But I'll never forget the day, where he crossed over.

It was 1999. I was to transfer to a four-year college. I was making all the wrong mistakes as usual, letting the wrong men into my life. It was one man that broke my relationship with Max, something about him, but to this day, I'm not sure what that was. It didn't matter. We rarely spoke to each other.

Toward the end of that year, I had a dream. My aunt packed up my grandfather's things into a small suitcase and walked him to the front door. I begged him not to go. I begged her to let him stay. I knew once he left, he would never come back, but the front door slammed shut behind them. And Max stood behind me.

He grabbed me by the arms. I could feel his anger, but what was he so furious about? He screamed at me, but I can't remember his words. All I remember was a blinding, white light, and then he was gone. And I woke up. When I woke up, I felt his absence, and I knew that he was not coming back. And to this day, I still remember. I still remember you, Max.