Chapter two :The ghost in the living room
1381 Words
The living room never looked haunted. At least not in the spooky, creaky-floorboard kind of way. No flickering lights. No sudden chills.
But Peculiar swore it held ghosts—just not the kind anyone could see.
They lived in the silence between footsteps. In the paused glances. In the way her mother never quite looked her in the eye anymore. And in the way her father turned the volume down on the TV whenever she entered the room, like her presence demanded quiet.
This morning was just the same
She moved quietly out of her room at 7 a.m., still wearing her oversized hoodie. Her feet moved soft across the tiles as she tiptoed into the kitchen. Her goal was simple: grab cereal and vanish.
But as she poured the milk, a low voice drifted from behind.
“You’ve been coming in late.”
Her fingers froze mid-pour.
She turned slowly. Her father was seated in the living room, arms folded, though the tv was on but it was muted. His face was unreadable. Not angry.Just… watching.
She swallowed. “I… I’ve been working on school stuff. Group projects.”
He said nothing. Just gave a slow nod. “Hmm.”
That was worse than yelling.
She stood there holding the cereal box like a shield.
“You’re still under this roof,” he added, turning the volume back. “Be mindful.”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered, and retreated like a ghost herself.
Back in her room, the silence followed her.
She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. It was painted off-white, but she always imagined it gray. Her sanctuary felt more like a waiting room lately—somewhere between childhood and something unnamed.
She opened her notebook, then closed it again.
Her phone vibrated.
Noah: You good?
Noah: Want to rehearse later? Got something special.
She smiled despite herself.
Peculiar: What time?
Noah: 4 p.m. Garage?
Peculiar: I’ll be there.
Noah didn’t ask too many questions. He just showed up—and maybe that’s why she trusted him more than anyone.
Her mother was in the kitchen when she left the house later that afternoon. Pots knocked together, filling the kitchen with a dry, restless noiseI'm going out,” Peculiar said, halfway out the door.
“With that boy again?”
Peculiar froze.
Her mother didn’t even look up from the yam she was peeling.
“What’s his name again? That singer?”
“Noah.”
Her mother’s voice was sharper than the knife in her hand. “You think you can sing your way out of this house?”
Peculiar turned fully now, chest rising. “No. I think I can sing my way into the life I want.”
A pause.
“Be back before sunset,” her mother finally said, voice cold. “I don’t want the neighbors asking questions.”
Peculiar wanted to scream. Or laugh. Or cry. But instead, she just nodded and walked out the door.
Noah’s garage smelled like guitar strings and dreams. He had turned it into a mini studio—one mic, a laptop, and a wooden stool. It wasn’t much, but to Peculiar, it felt like oxygen.
Noah greeted her with a soft smile. “Rough morning?”
She nodded, dropping her bag.
“Wanna talk?”
She hesitated. Then, “Do you remember the first time you ever sang?”
He tilted his head. “Yeah. Church talent show. I forgot the lyrics and made them up.”
She chuckled. “I was eight. I sang at home… well, I tried. I was alone in the hallway humming this old gospel tune. I thought nobody was home.”
Noah sat down quietly, listening.
“My mom walked in. She didn’t yell or hit me. She just looked at me like I had done something shameful. Then she said, ‘Singing is for people who have nothing better to do.’”
Noah’s jaw clenched. “Ouch.”
“I didn’t sing again for years. Not until I met you.”
He opened his arms like a hug but didn’t move until she nodded.
He wrapped her in the softest hug she’d ever known like being held by peace itself.
“I’m sorry she made you believe that ,” he whispered.
Peculiar swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Let’s turn that memory into something,” he said. “Let’s write it out.”
They worked for hours.
She poured her pain into the melody. Noah shaped it into something beautiful. The lyrics weren’t perfect, but they were real:
“I made myself quiet so I could be loved,
Folded my voice like laundry.
But you see me, unwrinkled, undone.
You let me sing messy.”
When they played it back, her voice filled the room. She closed her eyes.
It wasn’t just music. It was something alive.
Not polished. Not perfect. But hers.
Noah looked at her instead of the screen—like he was seeing something bloom.
“That’s not just a song, Peculiar. That’s you.”
Her throat tightened. She blinked fast and nodded.
Something flickered inside her. She’d never really heard herself this way—full, unhidden, bold. It was like discovering her own heartbeat for the first time.
She stood from the stool, stepped back, and placed a hand over her chest.
“I’ve never loved anything I’ve done before,” she said. “Not like this.”
Noah smiled. “Then we keep going. Until you believe it’s yours.”
As she packed her things, the sky outside shifted into a soft violet. The streetlights blinked on. Time to go.
Noah offered to walk her home. She shook her head gently. “I need the quiet.”
“Okay. Call me when you get in?”
She nodded, then left.
The house felt colder than usual when she returned. The light in the living room was on. Her mother sat on the edge of the couch, her back straight, her hands in her lap.
The TV was playing, but no one was watching.
“You’re late,” her mother said.
Peculiar dropped her bag. “I stayed longer than I planned.”
“Was it worth it?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
A pause.
“Good,” her mother replied flatly. “Just remember… the world doesn’t owe you applause. Especially not for noise.”
That line. That same tired line.
Peculiar felt her jaw clench. “It’s not noise.”
Still, no eye contact.
“It’s who I am. And I’m not sorry for it.mum ”
That made her mother look up.
There was no fire in her eyes. Just exhaustion. Not from tonight, but from years. The weight of everything unsaid.
“I used to sing too, you know,” she said, so softly Peculiar almost missed it.
“What?”
“When I was younger. I wanted to be a music teacher. But… life. Marriage. Responsibility. Your father didn’t think it was practical.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her mother shrugged. “What would’ve changed?”
“Everything mum,” Peculiar whispered. “It would’ve changed everything.”
They sat in silence. Not the cold silence that usually lived between them—but a pause that felt like something else. Something is aching.
“I was good,” her mother added. “At least, I think I was. But I stopped before I could ever find out.”
She stood.
“There’s food on the stove. I’m going to bed.”
Her footsteps disappeared down the hallway.
That night, Peculiar lay on her bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.
The weight of what her mother said settled over her like a second blanket.
She used to sing. She used to dream. She was me… before she gave up.
Peculiar sat up and reached for her lyric notebook.
“I come from silence,
But I wasn’t born to be quiet.
I was born to echo—
Loud, flawed, and full.”
She didn’t know what would happen next. But she knew one thing:
She wasn’t going to bury her voice like her mother did.
No matter what the living room said.
No matter how many ghosts lived there.
- Writer
