The fan in this room always creaks, no matter how many times it is fixed. It is its signature— its contribution to this home. None of the other doors in this house creak except the two doors belonging to this room.

The door to the room has been oiled too many times to count because the owner of the room hated it when doors creaked. The door to the room's bathroom has never been oiled because it is a sliding glass and has no rust or reason to creak. For a while, the room owner believed there must be a ghost in the room, trying to announce their presence by the creaking. Joke's on her, really.

Now, she lays spread eagle on her bed, humming along to the creaking door. It was left open on purpose, so it would do what it does best. The creaking would stop her from sleeping, yes, but it would stop her from thinking as well, and that's what she wants. To turn her mind completely off, because that is the best way to remain grounded.

Her mother would return soon, heels clacking on the floor with such violence, one need only have a decent imagination to envision madam koi-koi, the popular ghost in most Nigerian boarding schools.

Her mother is like a ghost herself, save for her ability to be loud. She covers her absence with clashing pans, sizzling fish and a booming voice. It used to work on the neighbours— they always spoke of her like she was present. Maybe the echoes of her whirlwind presence carried over till the next blue moon when she returned. She never stayed longer than three days at home, and she never stayed away for anything less than four months. It is different now, but it is too late.

The room owner used to dream of becoming a mother. Sometimes. She knew if she did, she would father her child. She would return from work exhausted and still humour her hyperactive daughter. She would fight the dragons and the monsters with the kitchen spoons and play dead when her daughter poked her belly. She would answer questions about her absent partner with such grace, her daughter would find that she cannot inherit any hate from her. She would say 'she has duties', and when her daughter grows old enough to ask if the duties were more important than she was, she would pull her into her arms and sniff her hair.

'Of course not, but I am here now and there is nothing like the present with your favourite ghostbuster! I sense a ghost in your hair, when was the last time you washed it?'

It never really worked, but the room owner would let her father wash her hair, and claim her tears were from the stinging shampoo. He probably knew she was lying, because at night she would hear him pleading with a loud woman over the phone and a week later, the house would become a cacophony of pots and pans and hollow laughter and heels on tiles when socks were homelier.

The door creaks open slowly, halting her lids in their slow descent. She will not fall asleep.

After some lonely years in this house, the room owner realised that every time she listened to the creaking doors, she was trapped in her favourite state, a foot with Morpheus and the other with Electryone. It was always in this state that she saw the being moving her doors, making sure they creaked. Making sure she heard and woke up.

It was always in this state that she could meet this being, speak to him, fight dragons with him.

She let him wash her hair like old times, crying her soul out and lying that it was the shampoo in her eyes. Now she does not cry for her absent mother, her loud voice and even louder heels muting the sounds of the creaking doors.

No, she cries because she cannot live permanently in her favourite state, with her silent father whose love is louder than a mental illness claim and her mother's overbearing noise. Even her mother's apology is loud — a trip only once a month and at least fifteen days spent at home.

They are sitting on her bed, talking about her adventures as her father dries her hair when her mother returns.

Loud clacks, a louder voice and the shattering sound of reality.

She clacks her way into the room with the creaking doors, turns off the creaking fan and pulls her husband off the bed with eyes full of pity.

"Come, love, I know you miss her. I miss her too, but the Lord knows best. You really shouldn't keep doing this to yourself."

Her mother doesn't look back as she drags him away, but he does. He always looks back.

He sees the drips of water on the mattress and the depression made by two different weights.

The room owner smiles and closes her eyes, waiting for the loud noise to leave so she would hear when he comes looking. When he makes her doors creak and turns the creaking fan on.