A shiver like a plummeting penny into a clear, still pond; it causes ripples. The ripples may not move in the same way, but they are ripples nevertheless. The calling of the dead, the other-side; it’s hand reaches for us, and reaches for us. Does it ever reach us? Does it ever quite grip our shoulders? Does it ever take us?
You sit in your room, alone, at your worst, and let go of the outside world, and that’s when you feel it. A ripple down your spine, a shiver, causing you to grow exasperated; it stops you in your tracks. What were you doing? What was that thought? What was that feeling? It rippled through your spine, but did it come from there? Was someone here? you felt a hand on your shoulder; it sifts a memory from your mind, as if it took its presence from you. What was that? It doesn’t matter, it was just a shiver down your spine…
But what if you could remember?
What if you could see?
Was it a reaction, a biological response to the drop in temperature?
But why was there a drop in temperature? You’re in your room and the sun is still out?
Was it a ghost, a person, a memory?
Why don’t you remember?