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Logic, Vivian. Use your damn head.
Okay, so the ghost can move, and she isn’t a prank. I mean, there are lots of other perfectly sensible explanations for what I’m seeing.
Most obviously, I’ve gone crazy – my mind has finally cracked. That explanation makes a bit of sense. This situation? This makes no sense.
The ghost doesn’t answer me, and all things considered, I’m not too upset about it. What was it they say about your imaginary friends? ‘It’s okay to see them, but if they talk back to you, then you’ve lost it completely.’
Okay, maybe no one says that. But I’m going to run with it, regardless.
I might have one foot in crazy town, but my other foot is firmly rooted in sanity. Both could use some dry socks, though.
The ghost has the gall to smile at me. At least it isn’t one of those maniacal crazy-person smiles, just a softhalf-smile. Maybe she thinks she’s successfully calmed me down.
Hah! Jokes on you. I just have no skills in self-preservation.
“What do you want?” I ask.
Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about the whole see-through thing or trade phone numbers.
Perhaps non-corporeality is atouchysubject for her. See what I did there? I may not be able to move my ass in scary situations, but by God, I can crack puns.
Again, no answer from the ghost. She points behind me, then urgently waves her hands at me.
Oh God, is there something even freakier behind me?
I snap my head around, momentarily forgetting that I’m not supposed to take my eyes off the ghost. There’s nothing there, and I quickly look back to see whether she is now on top of me and ready to kill me. Okay, maybe I am a bit lucky. She still hasn’t moved.
Relief floods me, and it’s enough to chase away the fear paralysis.
I think this is one of those rare occasions where running from your problems is encouraged.
So, scrambling now, I jump off my dripping wet ass and hightail it out of the field back in the direction I came from.
A more intelligent person would probably look behind them to see if they are being chased. I am one hundred percent the first person who will be murdered in a horror flick because I don’t bother to check. I just run.
I don’t slow until I’ve reached my house.
Finally reaching my front step, I double over, gasping for air.
My house is a small duplex nestled in a suburb’s corner lot.
This is the kind of neighbourhood where the housing association takes pride in the fact that everyone keeps their grass at the mandatory length of three inches. Usually, it gives me the creeps. But right now, I’m reassured by how there’s no way a ghost would dare show up on this side of manic suburbia.
Once I finally have my breathing back to a normal level, I quietly open the door. Hopefully, my mother and stepfather are deep into some television show and won’t hear me arrive.
I really need to stop giving myself false hope.
A familiar, pinched face is waiting for me in the kitchen doorway. She isn’t looking up at me from her tablet, but I can tell she’s annoyed.
“You didn’t tell me you were planning on staying out late.” My mother snaps, not taking her eyes off the screen.
I’m soaked from the waist down, and all the woman cares about is that I’m late. No parenting awards are to be won here.
“Sorry, mom,” I say.
It’s all I ever say.
My mother finally looks up from her tablet and takes in what state I’m in. She wrinkles her nose in distaste before walking back into the kitchen. She’s already back on the tablet, typing away a message. I slip off my shoes and consider whether I can reach my room before I’m grounded.
