The coat was red. It should have been blue.

I wore it to the funeral. My own. Or so the paper said. The *Herald* ran the obituary on a Tuesday. My face looked tired in the photo. It did not look dead. I looked like I was waiting for a bus.

I stood before the mirror in the attic. The coat hung on the hook. The wool was thin. It had stretched. The elbows were bald. The red had faded to the color of dried blood. It was not my coat. It was never my coat. It belonged to the woman who lived here before me. And the woman before her. And the one before that.

We are all just wearing the same skin.

The house is old. Brick and soot. The air tastes of coal and rust. I am not human. I am a thing that lives in the walls. I am the draft under the door. I am the creak of the floorboard at midnight. I have been here for a hundred years. I have watched the families come and go. I have watched them age. I have watched them die. I have watched them try to hide the fact that they are dying.

I am not allowed to speak. Not really. I can whisper. I can scratch. I can move objects. But I cannot say my name. I do not have one. I am the residue. The stain.

The funeral was for Mrs. Eleanor Vance. She was the last of the Vances. She died on Monday. The paper said she died of heart failure. The paper is wrong. She did not die of heart failure. She died of exhaustion. She died of trying to hold the coat together.

I felt the shift when her heart stopped. A click. Like a lock turning. I felt light. I felt free. I thought I could leave. I thought I could walk out the front door and into the snow.

I tried. I walked to the door. My hand touched the knob. It was cold. I turned it. The door did not open. It was locked from the outside. Or perhaps from the inside. It did not matter. I was stuck.

I turned back to the room. The coat was still on the hook. It looked heavier now. It looked like it was waiting for me.

I am not the ghost. I am the garment. I am the thing that holds the shape of the dead. I am the vessel. The body rots. The soul moves on. Or so they say. But the cloth remains. The cloth remembers. The cloth keeps the weight.

I have worn many bodies. I have been young. I have been old. I have been thin. I have been fat. I have been sick. I have been well. I have been loved. I have been hated. I have been ignored. I am the constant. I am the thread that runs through the fabric of the house.

The new owner came on Wednesday. His name is Arthur. He is young. He is clean. He smells of soap and ambition. He does not know what he has bought. He thinks he bought a house. He bought a trap.

He stood in the kitchen. He looked at the walls. He looked at the floor. He looked at the coat in the attic. He did not see me. He saw only dust.

I wanted to tell him. I wanted to say, *Do not wear it.* I wanted to say, *Do not touch it.* But I could not. I am the coat. I am the silence.

He moved his boxes in. He unpacked. He hung his own shirts in the closet. They were bright. Yellow. Green. They clashed with the red. The red coat looked sadder in the middle of the color. It looked like a wound.

That night, he heard the scratching.

I was in the walls. I was moving. I was trying to stretch. The house was shrinking. Or perhaps I was growing. It is hard to tell. Time is a strange thing in this house. It moves in circles. It moves in knots.

He came up to the attic. He carried a flashlight. The beam cut through the dark. It hit the coat. He flinched.

"What is that?" he whispered.

I did not answer. I am not allowed. I am the answer.

He reached for it. His fingers brushed the wool. He froze. He pulled his hand back. He looked at me. He saw the shape of me in the coat. He saw the hollow eyes. He saw the mouth that did not move.

He ran.

He ran downstairs. He ran out the front door. He ran to the street. He ran to the neighbors. He ran to the police.

They came. They brought lights. They brought questions. They brought fear.

They looked at the attic. They looked at the coat. They looked at the walls.

They said it was nothing. They said it was a draft. They said it was a pipe. They said Arthur was tired. They said Arthur was confused.

They were wrong.

They are always wrong. They do not understand the nature of the thing. They do not understand that I am not a monster. I am a memory. I am a burden. I am the weight of the years.

Arthur did not come back. He left his car in the driveway. He left his keys on the table. He left his life. He ran. He ran until he could run no more.

I am alone again.

I am alone with the coat.

I try to take it off. I pull at the sleeves. I pull at the collar. It will not come off. It is stitched to me. It is stitched to the house. It is stitched to the earth.

I am the root. I am the thing that holds the tree up. When the tree falls, the root remains. It is buried. It is forgotten. But it is there. It is rotting. It is growing.

I look at the mirror. The face in the glass is not mine. It is Eleanor’s. It is her mother’s. It is her grandmother’s. It is a composite. A collage of grief.

I am tired. I have been tired for a century. I have carried this weight for a century. I have carried the pain of every woman who wore this coat. I have carried the sorrow of every man who loved them. I have carried the silence of every child who was ignored.

I am the sum of their silences.

I want to stop. I want to rest. I want to let go.

But I cannot.

The coat tightens. It squeezes my ribs. It crushes my lungs. It binds my arms. It is a hug that does not end.

I scream. No sound comes out. I am mute. I am the coat.

The house creaks. The windows rattle. The wind howls. It is a storm. Or perhaps it is just me.

I am the storm.

I am the thing that breaks the glass.

I am the thing that cracks the foundation.

I am the thing that will not leave.

The new owner will come. There is always a new owner. They will see the coat. They will think it is strange. They will think it is haunted. They will run.

Or they will stay.

If they stay, they will wear it. They will put it on. They will feel the weight. They will feel the cold. They will feel the eyes.

They will become me.

And I will become them.

We are all the same. We are all just clothes. We are all just shapes. We are all just memories of people who are gone.

The coat fades. The red turns to brown. The brown turns to gray. The gray turns to dust.

But the dust remains.

I am the dust.

I am in the air. I am in the light. I am in the shadow.

I am everywhere.

I am nowhere.

I am the faded root.

I hold the house together.

I will hold it until the bricks crumble.

I will hold it until the sky falls.

I will hold it until the end.

And then I will hold the end.

And then I will hold the silence after the end.

I am the silence.

I am the waiting.

I am the stillness.

The coat is on the hook.

It is waiting for you.

Do not look away.

Do not turn your back.

It knows your name.

It has always known your name.

It is waiting for you to put it on.

It is waiting for you to become me.

It is waiting for you to stay.

The house is quiet.

The house is dark.

The house is full.

I am here.

I have always been here.

I will always be here.

The coat is red.

It should have been blue.

But it is red.

And I am the red.

And I am the stain.

And I am the scar.

And I am the truth.

And I am the lie.

And I am the end.

And I am the beginning.

And I am the middle.

And I am the space between.

And I am the breath you do not take.

And I am the word you do not say.

And I am the fear you do not name.

And I am the love you do not show.

And I am the life you do not live.

And I am the death you do not fear.

And I am the ghost in the machine.

And I am the demon in the wall.

And I am the angel in the attic.

And I am the coat on the hook.

And I am you.

And you are me.

And we are the house.

And the house is the root.

And the root is the earth.

And the earth is the grave.

And the grave is the home.

And the home is the heart.

And the heart is the coat.

And the coat is the body.

And the body is the soul.

And the soul is the silence.

And the silence is the end.

And the end is the beginning.

And the beginning is the end.

And the end is the beginning.

I am the loop.

I am the circle.

I am the wheel.

I am the turn.

I am the return.

I am the fade.

I am the root.