My Little Friend
I have always been able to see things that most others cannot. Ever since I was a little boy, spirits have talked to me – usually friendly, but sometimes violent. But the one that stands out the most is the little boy in my backyard.
Everyday, when I come home from high school, I walk to our backyard. Normally, this would be an unusual thing for a high schooler to do, but I have a good and slightly disturbing reason. In my backyard, ever since I have lived there, is a little boy. His name is James, and he is seven. Apparently, he was killed by a serial killer, who took children from their homes, kept them in his basement, and then killed them in extremely gruesome ways.
You may think that James would be surprised that I could see him, after these long years of being alone. But he has quite an upbeat attitude towards me. Every day, he is out running with his toy airplane, or attempting to play both sides of the chess board. He laments to me about his days adventures, and is never sad.
He has only once told me how he died, and it makes me uncomfortable repeating it. He was six when he was kidnapped from his room by a man he will only identify as "The Milkman." He was gagged and tortured beyond belief. Being a child, he thought he was being punished for stealing an extra cookie from the jar at his home. After about a month of extreme torture and suffering, he was axed to death, starting with his toes, and moving slowly to his heart. I cannot imagine how much pain he has been through, but he still addresses it cheerfully, as though it was just a friendly game. He has told me he remains in this world to find his now deceased parents, and apologize for what he had done.
This is just one of my stories, but I believe this one to be the one that NEEDED to be told.
