It wasn’t until after I’d grown up that I realised the old house was haunted. I thought of ghosts as sad, or angry, so sad and so angry that they couldn’t stop being sad and angry over and over forever, no matter how dead they were.
But the people who sang late at night in the old house were happy, so happy that it stayed with you afterwards like a scent caught in your hair. And they didn’t seem dead, not really. It was more that time didn’t work quite the same, in the old house.
Every note someone sang there, every word someone spoke, lingered on the edge of hearing and never quite died away. And every feeling lingered too. It was all still there, an endless chord of complex harmony.
I used to creep downstairs at night and sing with them. They never seemed to hear me, but it didn’t matter. The thread of my voice was twisted in with theirs, part of the old house for ever and ever.