The Ghost in the Glue Trap
A midnight conversation with something that refused to stay dead.
I set a glue trap because something was eating my cookie at night, and honestly, I was tired of waking up to teeth marks in my snacks.
The crisp autumn air slipped through the cracked window, and a flickering candle on the counter cast long shadows.
I thought it was a rat. Turned out it was a ghost.
No, seriously.
I found him stuck in the glue, a small rat, his eyes, too still.
I raised my slipper.
Ghost:
Wait.
Don’t kill me.
I’m not just a rat.
I froze. Because rats don’t talk. At least not in my experience.
Me:
What... are you?
Ghost:
A ghost.
Been living in this rat for a while.
Easier to move around.
Easier to snack.
Me:
You possessed a rat for food?
Ghost:
Better than wandering cold alleys. You’ve got good leftovers. Don’t judge.
Me:
That’s insane.
Ghost:
No. That’s hunger.
I sat down on the floor, beside the rat, glue trap and all, while the candle’s light flickered softly, and the fridge hummed like a distant heartbeat.
Me:
You were human once?
Ghost:
I think so. Not sure anymore. Memories fade but cravings stay.
Me:
Cravings? Like hunger?
Ghost:
No. Like wanting to be seen. Heard. Needed. Small things. Like heat and cookie and a name.
We were quiet for a while. Even the fridge hum softened.
Me:
What happens when you die?
Ghost:
You don’t. You just slip out. Like breath from a window. If you’re lucky, you keep going. If you’re not, you haunt what you miss.
Me:
So you missed food?
Ghost:
I missed being alive without knowing how to let go.
Me:
You believe in the soul?
Ghost:
I am the soul. The body is the coat. This rat? Just my last shelter.
Me:
Is it like reincarnation?
Ghost:
No. Reincarnation is a map. This is getting lost. There’s no journey. Just wandering.
Me:
Why my house?
Ghost:
It felt warm. And quiet. And you have those peanut butter cookies with the sugar on top.
Me:
...You ate those?
Ghost:
Twice. You chew too slow.
Me:
Okay, okay. So, since you’ve been hanging around, what’s the juiciest secret about the neighbors?
Ghost:
Juicy? Hmm. Mrs. Jenkins talks to her plants like they’re old friends. And Mr. Lee? He’s secretly an amazing dancer. Don’t tell.
Me:
No way! I’d pay to see that.
Ghost:
Yeah, but he only dances when he thinks no one’s watching. Kind of like me, sneaking cookies.
We laughed. Me and the rat, or whatever was inside him.
Me:
Do you regret anything?
Ghost:
Regret is for the living. I just replay. The soul is a loop. You become what you repeat.
Me:
So you’ll haunt me forever?
Ghost:
Only if you keep talking to glue traps. I’m tired, man. I want to rest. But I need help.
Me:
What kind?
Ghost:
Let me go. Not with salt or fire or chants. Just, forgive me for entering your house without knocking.
I sat there for a while, with the rat still stuck and the ghost still speaking, the candle sputtering low.
Ghost:
Here’s a message from the dead to the living: Don’t wait for a ghost to remind you to live fully, love fiercely, and forgive freely. The soul’s loop can be broken. Start now. Be kind. Be bold. You’re alive for a reason.
Me:
Okay. But no more cookie theft.
Ghost:
Deal.
I peeled him free. He squeaked once, then slumped.
And something light drifted out, not glowing, not spooky, just free.
That night, one cookie disappeared again, but this time there was a note:
“Thanks. Not for the snack. For listening.”
the end
(or maybe not)
Sometimes even ghosts just want a cookie and someone to talk to.
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I enjoyed reading this. 😊
This is a beautiful and quietly haunting piece. Both tender and eerie in equal measure. You balance humour and grief so delicately that it almost feels like a whispered confession between worlds.
What stands out most is how the “ghost in the rat” becomes a metaphor for loneliness and the aching need to be seen. The setup — a mundane domestic moment turned supernatural — feels like magical realism at its best: the extraordinary hiding inside the ordinary. The dialogue reads almost like a late-night therapy session between the living and the lost, where cookies replace communion bread, and forgiveness replaces exorcism. As usual, I love your writing Tahir.