There were places, I believe, that were broken where the spirits of the dead were restless and want to be released. I wouldn't consider myself a psychic or spiritual person but I could see and feel things, specters and ghost since I was a baby. My family were not religious. My dad was a University Professor teaching English literature and my mom was an art professor teaching oil figure painting. Religion was not important to them and we only went to go church in Christmas or Easter.
The first time I saw a ghost my mom explained was when I was six months old. I was laying in my crib and pointed. "Grandma." Both my hands were held upwards as if somebody was going to pick me up.
My mom said, "Grandma is not here. She was supposed to come tomorrow."
The phone rang and at that moment my mom knew my grandma died. She always had this six sense and I inherited some of it. I didn't know how I knew my Grandma was there but I felt her presence. Incidentally, that was the first word I spoke.
The spiritual word wasn't like how it was in some Hollywood movies with a semi transparent person standing over you or a book falling onto the floor but more like a phantasm trying to communicate or warn you.
But as I got older and I matured my connection to the spiritual word ceased because to be frank it scare the shit out of me. I could be walking to the library and see a person waiting at a corner but this woman or man would be bloodied or missing a limb. I don't understand why the dead always appears at the moment of their death. It's like the experience of their death was acted out forever in their dead minds. And when the specters realized that could I see them. They would try to talk or come at me like I was a link to their old "alive" life.
I know you're wondering when the story would begins and when the problem would show. It's funny. I never thought having problems were real. Watching TV sitcoms, the main characters always solve their problems either by the end of the show, usually thirty minutes, or by the next show (watch out cliff hanger in the first act). But problems were part of life and it shows up without anybody noticing.

***

It started when my parents who were usually cordial and respectful of each other started yelling at each other. My older sister, Joyce, named after my fathers favorite writer - James Joyce, ran into my room. Joyce eyes were wild eyed.
I was about to asked what was happening but she shushed me to be quiet. She cocked her head to the side and she beckon him to listen.
My mom said, "So, how long have you been seeing her? How long?"
My mom's voice was hysterical. She was sobbing as she spoke. I heard my dad but he seemed to murmuring.
"The kids can hear us," he said.
"How long Kevin? Be honest with me."
"Not long. Only a few months."
His mom said, "I want you out."
"Darla, please. The kids are hearing all this."
They were quiet for a little while. Then my mom said, "Stop, you cannot comfort me. You did this to yourself. Say bye to your kids and then get out."

***

The door opened and my dad stepped into my room. He wasn't surprised Joyce was inside my room. His usual cheerful face had a weariness over it like he aged ten years overnight. He sat on my bed.
"Joyce, Hemingway (yes, my dad named me), I have to go away for awhile," he said.
Joyce said, "Why? Can't you stay. Mom will understand."
Even though I was younger than my sister, I knew my dad would never come back. Our family had splintered and nothing at this moment look like it would every be rejoined again.
"No your mom had made up her mind. Maybe later things would be different but now I have to leave."
His dad hugged me and then Joyce and then left my room. We both looked at the opened door and I felt something. I couldn't describe it but it felt like dark melancholy and for a brief second I thought I saw a group of dead people staring back at me from the small corridor beyond my bedroom then it was gone.
Joyce ran out of the room. I heard her speaking mom about why dad had to leave but I didn't move. I was about fifteen years old and hadn't seen a ghost since I hit puberty. Until later, sometime during my sophomore year. Something happened. Like dust motes floating in sunlight, a sign coalesced and held my focus.