We like to believe in ghosts because we can’t explain the thing that keeps us moving. There must be some magic in death because magic is what makes us live. We can’t pinpoint beginnings, so who says the endings are so clearly defined?
We like to believe in ghosts because we can’t let go of old regrets or nostalgia. If there’s a chance we could see an echo of our ancestors, we would know that the afterlife is another opportunity to mourn missed chances and days past. We want to know that we are not alone in feeling remorse.
We like to believe in ghosts because we love to connect to the history of a place. Haunted houses are houses with stories to tell, stories we want to become a part of. Ghosts invite us to step into the tale and tell it, again and again to anyone who will listen.
We like to believe in ghosts because we love being scared. We love the creeping chill of something unexplained, something sudden, something that causes us to wake in a cold sweat because our lives afford us so few chances to confront mortality. We like to survive.
We like to believe in ghosts because we think we’re alone. But we want so very desperately to not be alone. We want so much to not be alone that we’re willing to invent mystical beings so that there will be someone else in the room and someone within us, just waiting to join the infinite.