A/N: A story that has sat for weeks in my documents. Thought it was about time I posted it. Any mistakes are my own. Based off a story one of my teachers told me during my school days. I don’t know if I believe her, either way, it’s darn scary. Of course, the ending here is twisted. My teacher, as far as I know, is alive and kicking.
Everyone has a story about their childhood experiences growing up into adolescents, however more often than not, these stories are mundane. There is something soothing, something nostalgic about these stories, they bring a smile to the face of the speaker and those around them. If you are expecting that kind of story, then maybe this tale is not for you. We have not told many people this story, for it is far too terrifying to utter out loud. Awful things have happened, frightful things that haunt me to this very day.
I was fourteen when I discovered ghosts were real and they have never left me alone since. They lurk in the shadows of your mind, in the darkness that creeps into your bedroom when the night falls. Sometimes, it is the whisper heard in the wind, the touch of frost on your skin, but they are there, they are watching, touching our souls. And there is nothing we can do to stop such occurrences. Ghosts are real and one day, they will be all you will ever see.
In a town where nothing supernatural or frightful of the sort had ever happened, a young woman, named Anya, began working at the local secondary school, teaching English Literature. Her first week there had been moving along smoothly, until that dreadful Friday. It had grown dark outside and the evening was slowly wrapping itself around the day, plunging us into the black night. And the school was silent; all that was heard was the howls of the winds, screaming in the distance. Some people believe that those sounds are that of the souls buried beneath the school, in a graveyard that has been long forgotten.
Anya sighed tiredly, muttering things under her breath as she packed up her bag and prepared to leave. Marking could wait until she’d had some coffee and was at home, wrapped up in blankets and her husband’s arms. Too preoccupied in sorting out her desk, she didn’t notice the door to the classroom open. It was the creak that followed that caught her attention. The sound was deafening in a room of complete silence, like nails scratching against a white board, painful and spine tingling. Anya looked up, prepared to see nothing by a door that had been pushed open by the wind. Unfortunately, that is not what she saw.
“Oh hello,” Anya said gently, looking at the young girl who now stood at the door’s entrance. She was dressed in white from head to toe and seemed to glow in the evening darkness, as if being illuminated by the moon itself.
“Are you lost?” Anya asked, noting how young the girl looked. She could not have been more than twelve years old. Her face held that adorable innocence only children possessed, but her eyes seemed wiser than her very few years of living and her skin was pale, too pale.
The girl smiled and laughed, but did not speak. Anya watched her face, open and honest, but underneath there was something hidden, something lurking behind those large doe eyes. It was something dark, something unnerving. Something not human.
“Why are you here?” Anya tried again, “you should be at home. It’s late. School finished two hours ago.”
The girl giggled again, shaking her head and said, in a voice that seemed other worldly and not of this earth, “I am home.”
Anya frowned, watching the young girl twirl on the spot, beginning to walk towards her, “how can this be your home? We’re at school. Would you like me to call your mother?”
“My mother is with me,” the girl replied, closer this time. Anya could see the darkness in her eyes and the tattered state of her dress.
“Well, where is she then?”
The girl smiled and Anya could see something wicked about her face, something unnatural. Stepping away from her, Anya hurriedly grabbed her bag and prepared to leave.
“Don’t leave. It gets lonely here. And it’s so cold,” the girl asked, her voice softer this time, playing to Anya’s weaknesses.
“I’m sorry I have to get home –
The girl grinned, and there was something in that smile that told Anya that she wasn’t going anywhere.
“You are home, silly.”
Anya’s scream went unheard and the young girl was never seen again. Some people do not live to tell their tale. Some people do not have the chance to warn their loved ones. Like me, I should know. For Anya is not a mere story telling device. She was real; she was flesh and bone, but now she is mere memory, lost to the past, screaming in the winds that sound like a ghost’s sobs. The girl in the white dress had taken her far away and she was never coming back.
So, yes, ghosts are real. After all, who do you think is writing this?