Mother Doll Sets Fires

By Catlyn Ladd

They call me by name but I do not answer. At first, I enjoyed watching them, following from shadow to shadow as they roamed the building. There are always plenty of shadows. Ghost hunters think they have to do it in the dark.

I float near the ceiling and watch a woman with Day-Glo orange hair fiddle with a full-spectrum camera. They charge their equipment in the kitchen on the only outlets that work, where the ovens are cold and the stove is clotted with rust. The sink gushes icy water that stinks of sulfur. Cheap sandwich cookies, sugary snack cakes, iced coffees, and energy drinks full of bull testosterone pile on the scarred table, spilling over onto the old lino, feeding the small, hungry creatures who share this building with me and the other ghosts.

The ghost hunters all ask the same questions and bring the same equipment: EMF detectors, infrared cameras, motion sensors. They invite me to speak into their voice recorders, to approach the glowing lights, to interact, to “make my presence known.”

I do not want to be known.