Christie George

“This ghost's still alive. I'm still alive.”

-Rosalía, Divinize

1.

It’s been weeks since you left this dimension. I’ve spent a lot of that time wondering where you are after the mania of walking in circles looking for the tree and the shred of rope I heard was still there.

So where are you anyway? I haven’t been able to figure it out. It strikes me that religion would be handy right about now. Any theory would do, really (paradise, hell, reincarnation…), but I don’t think faith is a thing you can borrow as needed. I keep hearing about the bardo. Is that where you are? Where does that leave me?

2.

I’ve also been struggling with writing this essay. My editor asked me to write something about ghosts, so I’ve been doing research as if this were a school assignment.

I Googled “how to write a ghost story”, and the AI instructed me to “create a strong atmosphere, developing complex characters (both living and dead) and building tension through the fear of the unknown.” It strikes me that America in 2026 has all the elements of a good ghost story. The entry continues, “Writing a ghost story requires balancing atmosphere, psychological tension, and a clear reason for the haunting.”

Let’s take these one by one: 1. A clear reason for the haunting - my friend is dead. 2. Psychological tension - I don’t know where she is.

As for atmosphere, is this the time to mention that it was a dark and stormy night? It really was! Howling wind, driving rain, an isolated walking path.

An auntie in her minivan in the parking lot spotted me wandering around, rolled down her window and asked me if my ride would be there soon. She seemed to be torn between not wanting to leave me there alone and needing to get where she was going before the storm got worse. A bardo of sorts. I didn’t know how to explain what I was doing, which was looking for the tree where my friend’s life ended (and where maybe she turned into a ghost).

3.

I don’t really believe in ghosts. I’m not sure if this is the appropriate time or place to admit that; it seems a little rude considering the circumstances (both the circumstances of my friend and the circumstances of this assignment). I think my stance on this issue reflects poorly on me. Like I’m unevolved or my mind is colonized or like I’m a flat earther or something.

That said, I have had some ghost-adjacent experiences. When I was 21 and studying in Madrid, a group of scholars honoring the centennial of Gabriel Garcia Lorca’s birth mistook me for a gypsy ghost sent there to celebrate with them. I stayed out with them all night and played my part. Let them believe what they needed to believe. Isn’t that what ghosts do?

I am haunted by a thing I never had. And it is relentless. I make a note to read more about the Buddhist idea of the hungry ghost, a tormented spirit characterized by insatiable hunger. That's what this searching feels like. The more places I look, the hungrier I become. I'm gorging on absence.

I keep thinking about those Rosalia lyrics: This ghost's still alive / I'm still alive. Maybe that's the problem—I've been looking for you as a ghost when you're just... elsewhere. And I'm the one who can't leave.

4.

I’ve become so desperate about this assignment that I turn to my children for ideas. I tell my 10-year-old that I am having trouble with a writing project. He is playing Zelda. “What’s the trouble?” he asks without taking his eyes off the screen. “I’m supposed to write something about ghosts, but I can’t think of what to write.”

He doesn’t say anything, so I’m not sure if he has heard me or not. Just as I am about to repeat myself, he turns to me with a look he has probably learned from me. Patient, not without sympathy, but faintly bemused - the look you give someone who is working very hard to complicate something so very simple.

“You could just write about the time I saw a ghost in J’s basement. I would be okay with that.” Having resolved the issue, he turned his attention back to Zelda.

We talked later about J’s basement ghost. Whether it was scary or not (it wasn’t). Whether the basement was a bardo or more like a permanent hang spot, a cool chill zone. The details didn’t seem to matter to him; he didn’t need to know. He wasn’t sure why I needed to either. When I asked him whether he believed in ghosts, whether he thought the ghost was real, he gave me that look again. “Obviously.”

It makes me think I need a different relationship to not knowing, to mystery. Perhaps presence doesn’t require proof. Maybe being somewhere doesn't have to mean being found. I’ve been looking for the wrong thing. What I need is not a location or an explanation, but permission to let you be wherever you are. Maybe it’s the bardo; maybe it’s the basement. And maybe this is enough.