I’ve Started Leaving Offerings For The Little Ghost Boy Who Died In My Chimney. It’s Hard For Him

I’ve started leaving offerings for the little ghost boy who died in my chimney. It’s hard for him to reach them (he died because he couldn’t free himself after all) but he seems to appreciate them. The house has felt a lot warmer recently and smoke has stopped bubbling from my floorboards. I think I may have struck a pact of sorts, but as long as he is placated and I don’t have to wake up with soot in my lungs I’m fine with it.

When I first realised he was there I was more aggressive. I hired a number of professionals to try and remove him. First a chimney sweeper, then an exorcist after the first choice fell out of the fireplace coughing up blackened blood. The exorcist tried to help, to offer words of comfort and invoke words of banishment, but every time he spoke the only thing that fell from his lips were thick plumes of smog.

After that I fell into an empty melancholy. I could no longer step foot in my living room, both because I did not wish to acknowledge the problem and because every time I would it would feel as though my feet were being burned by a fire from beneath.

About four months later, my sister and her son came to my house for my birthday. The last we saw each other was the funeral, but that was a year ago. I longed to see her again but I feared she would find the state of the house repulsive and never return. I spoke to the little boy the night before, begging and threatening and pleading for him to go unnoticed. The wind screamed down the chimney flue the whole night and I was unable to sleep.

When my sister arrived, she commented on how unkempt I was. Like I hadn’t slept in days. I pushed it aside and asked about how she was doing, what was going on with her career, how her cat was. She answered them all quickly and positively but I could tell something was off. When I inquired about it she went very quiet and told me that she was still grieving mum, that she knew she wasn’t perfect and what she did can’t be excused, but she still misses her. I held her hand and brought her some tissues and listened to her patiently as she spoke, while I unconsciously rubbed the scar on the back of my neck.

A few hours later, they said their goodbyes and left. The next day, my sister sent me a text telling me her son had left one of his stuffed toys at my house and asked me to return it if I found it. Looking around the room, I found it in the fireplace, nestled gently in a pile of ashes. I realised I hadn’t noticed any of the usual happenings since my sister’s visit and made a plan.

I went down to the antique shop on the high street, ignoring the strange looks I got, and bought a small wooden rocking horse. I placed it in the ashes, took out my nephews teddy and shut the door.

I bring a new toy every week, as usually the ones he plays with for too long start to char where he touches them. He makes his presence known, sometimes even lashes out, but now we have a home together that we can both exist in