Anyways, I decided to start a new story... a ghost story. Told in the ghost's perspective. Just experimenting.
It's been twenty-three years since I was alive. It's been two years since anyone lived in this house. I'd like to say that old Mrs. Palmer's heart attack wasn't my fault, but, well, it kind of was. She was oblivious to the fact that a ghost lived in her house with her. That is, until she saw me at the top of the stairs.
Whoops.
I'm Melissa Anderson. I was killed- murdered- in this house. 125 Little Flower Road. Instead of crossing over, like spirits are supposed to, I stayed.
I've read my share of ghost stories over the years. Unfinished business, blah blah blah. Yeah right. Ghosts can cross over whenever they want. They just can't cross back. I hadn't had my fill of this world. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to leave the house- the house I'd lived in all my life and then after my life ended. As you can imagine, I grew sick of it.
125 Little Flower Road. Boring.
Nothing ever changes if you're a ghost, except for if you're the lucky few that get to have someone else "haunting" the house with you.
I mean, there's some change. Just not much. People walk by the window, people who glance at you, glance away, and then look back, thinking Did I just see what I thought I saw? I want to shout at all those non-believers, "Hey, you idiot, there are ghosts in this world." I want to smack them almost as much as I want to smack the authors who make ghosts seem like horrible things that need to be gotten rid of and the person who made the nightie and bedroom slippers that I have to wear until I cross over.
Ghosts can't hurt the living. I would know.
Before you ask, I'll tell you. Yes, they did find my murderer. Big deal. After twenty-three years, getting murdered isn't such a big deal any more.
So let's skip ahead, shall we, past all the boring details and, worse, facts about me. Let's skip past the brief time that my mother lived after my death. Let's skip past Mrs. Palmer's brief existence in this house.
So, we're now just a few years back. Okay, maybe eight more years isn't a few, but when you've been a ghost for twenty-three years, eight years is nothing. Eight boring years.
Not so boring any more.
Let me explain.
I glanced out the window. Where were they? They were supposed to be here half an hour ago!
A new family was moving into my house. I hoped that they would have kids, someone that I could let see me. Someone my age, twelve.
There it was! A silver car, like a Honda or Chevy, pulled into the driveway. The same man I'd seen check out the house a few weeks ago stepped out of the driver's seat and clapped his hands loudly, like he was trying to get someone's attention.
"Come on, Carrie," he said. "Don't you want to see the house?"
Carrie? Did he have a daughter?
A woman got out next, and my spirits fell. Just a man and a woman.
"Carrie," the woman said sharply. "I'm getting tired of your ridiculous pessimism. You're just going to have to get over the fact that we moved. You'll make new friends here, I'm sure."
Wait. So there was another person? The woman wasn't Carrie? I stretched forward eagerly.
A girl got out of the car.
She looked kind of like me- when I was alive, at least. White-blond hair, blue eyes that were a bit too large, pink lips that were a bit too small. Pale skin, rosy cheeks. The lips were frozen into a scowl, like mine used to be most of the time.
The similarities stopped there.
I was tall. Carrie was short but not stout. She looked kind of fragile. Her cheeks were a bit too round, and, as I inspected her closely, her nose looked way too tiny compared to her eyes. I'd been considered beautiful, though I'd thought differently. This girl was kind of plain.
But she was a girl! Someone else in the house!
"Come on out, Carrie," the girl who I thought was Carrie snapped.
Now I was confused.
The other door opened.
The girl was more like me in shape, but not color.
She was tall and slim, like me. Her hair was long enough to touch the middle of her back. Instead of being blond, it was inky black. Her eyes were blue, like the other girl's. She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, even though it was November. Her face was cold and stiff. Her skin was a creamy tan.
"Home sweet home," she commented sourly.
"Oh, come on, Carrie," the other girl said.
"Don't talk to me, Ellie. I'm not thrilled to be here."
Two girls, living at 125 Little Flower Road.
Two girls who would change my life.
Forever.
And that's a long time.
Whoops.
I'm Melissa Anderson. I was killed- murdered- in this house. 125 Little Flower Road. Instead of crossing over, like spirits are supposed to, I stayed.
I've read my share of ghost stories over the years. Unfinished business, blah blah blah. Yeah right. Ghosts can cross over whenever they want. They just can't cross back. I hadn't had my fill of this world. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to leave the house- the house I'd lived in all my life and then after my life ended. As you can imagine, I grew sick of it.
125 Little Flower Road. Boring.
Nothing ever changes if you're a ghost, except for if you're the lucky few that get to have someone else "haunting" the house with you.
I mean, there's some change. Just not much. People walk by the window, people who glance at you, glance away, and then look back, thinking Did I just see what I thought I saw? I want to shout at all those non-believers, "Hey, you idiot, there are ghosts in this world." I want to smack them almost as much as I want to smack the authors who make ghosts seem like horrible things that need to be gotten rid of and the person who made the nightie and bedroom slippers that I have to wear until I cross over.
Ghosts can't hurt the living. I would know.
Before you ask, I'll tell you. Yes, they did find my murderer. Big deal. After twenty-three years, getting murdered isn't such a big deal any more.
So let's skip ahead, shall we, past all the boring details and, worse, facts about me. Let's skip past the brief time that my mother lived after my death. Let's skip past Mrs. Palmer's brief existence in this house.
So, we're now just a few years back. Okay, maybe eight more years isn't a few, but when you've been a ghost for twenty-three years, eight years is nothing. Eight boring years.
Not so boring any more.
Let me explain.
I glanced out the window. Where were they? They were supposed to be here half an hour ago!
A new family was moving into my house. I hoped that they would have kids, someone that I could let see me. Someone my age, twelve.
There it was! A silver car, like a Honda or Chevy, pulled into the driveway. The same man I'd seen check out the house a few weeks ago stepped out of the driver's seat and clapped his hands loudly, like he was trying to get someone's attention.
"Come on, Carrie," he said. "Don't you want to see the house?"
Carrie? Did he have a daughter?
A woman got out next, and my spirits fell. Just a man and a woman.
"Carrie," the woman said sharply. "I'm getting tired of your ridiculous pessimism. You're just going to have to get over the fact that we moved. You'll make new friends here, I'm sure."
Wait. So there was another person? The woman wasn't Carrie? I stretched forward eagerly.
A girl got out of the car.
She looked kind of like me- when I was alive, at least. White-blond hair, blue eyes that were a bit too large, pink lips that were a bit too small. Pale skin, rosy cheeks. The lips were frozen into a scowl, like mine used to be most of the time.
The similarities stopped there.
I was tall. Carrie was short but not stout. She looked kind of fragile. Her cheeks were a bit too round, and, as I inspected her closely, her nose looked way too tiny compared to her eyes. I'd been considered beautiful, though I'd thought differently. This girl was kind of plain.
But she was a girl! Someone else in the house!
"Come on out, Carrie," the girl who I thought was Carrie snapped.
Now I was confused.
The other door opened.
The girl was more like me in shape, but not color.
She was tall and slim, like me. Her hair was long enough to touch the middle of her back. Instead of being blond, it was inky black. Her eyes were blue, like the other girl's. She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, even though it was November. Her face was cold and stiff. Her skin was a creamy tan.
"Home sweet home," she commented sourly.
"Oh, come on, Carrie," the other girl said.
"Don't talk to me, Ellie. I'm not thrilled to be here."
Two girls, living at 125 Little Flower Road.
Two girls who would change my life.
Forever.
And that's a long time.
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