Ghost in the Hallway

Chapter 1: The Light Under the Door

My earliest memories aren’t wrapped in warmth. They aren’t the kind people write about in childhood books—no bedtime stories or safe arms tucking me in. Instead, they start with a light.

A single strip of light beneath the brown-framed bedroom door at the end of the hallway.

It always came in the early hours—2am, sometimes 3. That light on the floor became a signal. A whisper that he was home. That maybe this time, he’d stay long enough to see me.

I’d slip out of bed, feet padded softly on the cool floor, and walk the hallway like a ritual. The house silent, still heavy with sleep. But I was awake. Always awake. Always hoping.

And there, in the lounge room, I would find him—my father. Half-conscious, sprawled across the couch with The Simpsons playing low on the TV. On the coffee table in front of him were rows of Carlton Cold bottles. Dozens, maybe more. Lined up like a quiet testimony.

Chapter 2: Couchside Worship

That couch became more than furniture—it became an altar of hope. A sacred place where I thought love might live if I was small enough, quiet enough, still enough.

He never looked surprised to see me. Never asked why I was awake. He just drank, barely acknowledging me, eyes locked on the screen. But I didn’t need much. I just needed proximity.

So I’d crawl up beside him and sit in the glow of the TV light, watching yellow cartoons and pretending it meant we were spending time together. Pretending that if I stayed beside him long enough, he’d eventually see me.

I’d fall asleep in the space between episodes, comforted by the illusion of closeness. And every time I woke up… he was gone.

The couch empty. The bottles still there. But the man I waited for—vanished again, like a ghost slipping through shadows.

Chapter 3: Becoming a Night Owl

It happened so often that it stopped feeling strange. I became a night owl before I understood the word.

I would wait for him. Chase his presence in the hours where the world slept. Not because he invited me—but because I was desperate for him to see me. I cleaned up his bottles. I helped carry them to the kitchen. I never asked questions. Never made noise. I stayed small and helpful and present—hoping presence would be enough.

It never was.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t choose me. He chose the bottle. He chose disappearance. And I stayed behind, collecting crumbs of attention, convincing myself they were a meal.

Chapter 4: The Night Everything Changed

I was about 4 or 5 when the illusion shattered.

We had just had a street barbecue—one of those events where the whole neighbourhood comes alive. Laughter, sausages, folding chairs on lawns. It was a tight-knit street back then. The kind where everyone knew everyone. The kind of place that looked safe from the outside.

But behind the smiles and gatherings were things no one talked about.

That night, I woke up thirsty and wandered to the kitchen. What I walked into wasn’t just unexpected—it was devastating.

My father. Pants around his ankles. The woman from next door—shirtless, laughing, touching him.

She had known me since I was born. She had held me as a baby. She was part of my world.

And in that moment, that world broke.

There was no explanation. No apology. Just instant yelling. Aggression. Shame. He sent me back to bed like I had done something wrong.

But I wasn’t crying. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even run.

I walked away—shocked, frozen, and already learning to bury pain.

Chapter 5: The First Secret I Kept

I didn’t tell my mother. I didn’t mention it to anyone.

I swallowed it whole and locked it away. Even as a child, I understood this would hurt people. That it could destroy things. So I stayed silent.

And that silence became my signature.

This was the first time I kept a secret so heavy it bent me. The first time I chose someone else’s comfort over my own truth. The first time I learned how to make myself invisible so no one else had to feel the pain that I was drowning in.

It wasn’t just a secret. It was a blueprint.

Chapter 6: The Wound That Looked Like Devotion

Now I look back and see it for what it was.

I wasn’t just a little girl wanting her father’s love. I was a little girl working for it. Begging for it. Sacrificing pieces of herself just to be noticed.

The silence I kept. The effort I gave. The forgiveness I offered without ever receiving an apology.

It wasn’t devotion. It was survival.

Because love wasn’t freely given. It had to be earned. And I earned it in moments no child should ever have to live through.

I thought the wound was mine. But now I know—the wound was theirs, and they let it bleed onto me.

✍️ Reflection Prompt

What secrets did you carry too young?
Who did you protect while no one protected you?
And if you could go back to that child version of yourself… what would you tell her she deserves?

🙏 Healing Prayer

God, I give You the little girl who walked hallways in the dark.
I give You her confusion, her silence, her shattered moments.
I give You the wound she thought was love, and the secret she thought she had to carry.
Please speak truth into her story.
Restore her innocence.
Wrap her in the love she never received.
And remind her that even when the bottles stayed and the father vanished—You never left.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.