Ghost Stories

My mom doesn't get it, but I like chilling in my bedroom. Always have -- it never was a punishment. I sit here on the perpetually clean sheets and just breathe. It's nice not to worry about my brother Aleon barging in on me.

I hear footsteps above me, I assume from the attic. That's strange, I think, Aleon went to bed an hour ago. I shrug. Maybe it was just a couple of balls, which the neighbor kids like to throw up at our highest windows.

The sound continues. Glowering at the ceiling, I roll under the covers and pull them tightly over my ears. Soon, I am fast asleep.

The next night, I decide to chill in the living room. It's warmer and brighter than my room; it's just less private. Suddenly, I hear a creaking sound in the hallway. For a while I ignore it, thinking Aleon's found the first squeaky panel in the house and is beating the poor thing to death.

But it's not my little brother. I can tell by how it walks. My heart starts racing, and I feel a cold sweat bead on my brow.

A shadow falls over me. I feel the blood draining from my face even as I fall to the floor, the blackness encircling my vision closing in.

I awaken to a soft touch and groan lightly. "Mom?"

My eyes open. No one is there. The clock on my desk is beaming "1:58 a.m." into the room. My skin crawling, I shrug deeper into the covers and desperately try to fall back asleep.

The next night, I tell Aleon about what has happened, the first time I've ever taken him into my confidence. He believes me, every word. His eyes are wide as he promises to keep me awake to find out what is stalking the halls of our house.

Midnight comes. We're blurry-eyed and staring at the TV, barely comprehending it. Sleep isn't far. Then a light breeze blows up, inside the house, like a hotel air conditioner just turned on. We exchange a glance. We don't have an air conditioner.

The breeze picks up. It becomes wind, and then it is a tornado, swirling pages right out of books and sweeping objects off the coffee table. My brother covers his eyes and tries not to scream. I want to do the same, but my gaze is fastened on the lamp that is quivering in the corner. It levitates and charges us. We have no time to move.

When we come to, we put on our bike helmets and stand close together near the front door, very much awake now. The clock is still saying it's midnight. I can't remember if it's been an entire day or just a few seconds.

Then I see it. It's a ghostly thing, trailing flecks of white behind it like a disconnected tail.

It points at me.

I walk forward in a trance. Its sunken eyes are beckoning me forward. It drops its pale, vaporous lips to my ear and whispers, "The attic."

Then it is gone.

I grab Aleon's arm and pull him to the attic. We climb the ladder without a word and I pull on the overhead light. There is a pile of broken wood that wasn't there before, but nothing else.

Aleon starts to move the wood. I help him. When we struggle together to shift the last piece, we see it.

The body.

We call our parents, who call the police, who call the forensics team. The body is over fifty years old, but hasn't decayed at all. It's the body of a woman who was pronounced missing back in the 1950s. Apparently she was murdered, if the stab wounds in her stomach and neck prove anything.

Secretly, Aleon and I attend the belated funeral.