There are things you don't learn in school. My father, for instance, never helped us with mathematics, but he taught us something far more useful: how to live with a spirit. A glass of water placed on the doorframe, always full, always fresh. The house immaculate, every object in its place. The toilets so clean you could take tea there. A flower bed in pots, cleaned every Sunday, whether it rained, stormed, or the world collapsed. And the garbage, thrown in the communal bin at the end of the street, without exception, even in pouring rain. These weren't the quirks of a maniac. They were rules of cohabitation. The kind of lease you don't sign at a notary's office but respect to the letter if you want to sleep peacefully.
We lived on the ground floor of a two-story house, in a neighborhood where people spoke of such things only in hushed tones. At our place, everything was fine. The house was clean, water flowed on the doorframe, spirits didn't disturb anything. We lasted sixteen years, which in this house was less about perseverance than an Olympic record. Because on the upper floors, tenants only passed through. A few weeks, sometimes a few months, rarely more. Tables moved, chairs changed places, in broad daylight, before the eyes of those still living there. The adjoining office space, with its annex, never fared better. People came asking us for advice, their faces a bit worn, their suitcase already half-packed. We told them: clean, organize, put water. They nodded politely. They left anyway.
The whole neighborhood knew the house was haunted. It's actually the only thing the entire district still unanimously agrees on today. And yet, for us, this house was a blessing. My father's business never did better than within these walls. Which goes to show, a spirit well-treated doesn't necessarily wish you harm. You just need to know the rules. The problem is that no one else wanted to learn them.
Since my parents left, the house has been empty. A dozen years without a tenant, the office too. The owner never lowered the rent, mind you. He didn't need to. The spirit took care of it. No real estate agency in the world drives away clients with such consistency. No renovations, no water damage, no noisy neighbors. Just a chair that's no longer in its place in the morning and a silence a bit too thick to be normal. A dozen years of lost rent. You could say it's the most faithful and most ruinous tenant in the history of Malagasy real estate. It pays nothing, never leaves, and discourages all the others.
A few days ago, on vacation on an island off the east coast, the thing caught up with us. Shadows in the bedroom, especially near the mirror. My partner and I saw the same thing, felt the same thing, without speaking of it in front of the children. We removed the mirror. The shadows calmed down. A reflex inherited from my father