the ghost and the small voice

This place is quiet, it seems to the ghost.
Still, however, nothing appears to be.
Form, motion, distance, depth.
A photon’s breadth from uncanny.

A sound like mist against a window.
Now rain, smaller somehow with gain.

The ghost is not alone.

A small voice, a strange little face;
of all things, another altogether.
Here, of all places, and it must be-

“Good morning,” a bright voice breaks in;
the hush shatters to static.

“You do not belong here,” it shines;
melodramatic, not unkind.