Ghost Stories

No one in my family is normal. I wish I could point out that one weird cousin, or say that we all shun my strange step-uncle during holiday gatherings. But the truth is, we're all weird. We see things, we kill people, we go mad.

We witness murders.

My cousin and I often went to visit the graveyard when we were younger, six and eight. We like to trace the headstone engravings with our fingers, and sometimes even make rubbings of them. One day, we were walking back from one of our graveyard excursions, and we passed the house that used to belong to my uncle.

He's dead now. He shot his wife in that very house, just before my mom and my cousin were born. People say you can still hear the gunshots and the screams, echoing over the hills.

Something on the wind whispered into my ear that I should look over at the house. My cousin was looking too; he must have heard the voice. There was man sitting at the table inside, the smoke from his cigar forming a thick cloud around his bearded face. He stood up, stretching and trying to pop his back, just as his wife came through the door.

My cousin and I exchanged a glance and crept forward simultaneously. We heard raised voices, and saw the wife throw up her arms. Suddenly, a gun was in the man's hand. He shot her in the stomach, point blank, punching two holes in the window.

I buried my face in the grass to keep from screaming. My cousin's face was whiter than the clouds above us, especially when we heard the footsteps.

Two of the man's children were pelting down the hill, tears streaking their faces. The older one was dragging the younger behind her, sobbing, "We have to get help for Momma...we have to help her..." As they rushed past us, they turned into mist and disappeared.

We whirled around and stared at the house again. It was as if the front of the building had been cut away; we could see inside to the bedroom, where a boy, older than the other children but still young, lay curled under the bed. He was hugging himself and rocking back and forth. Above him, a young girl lay sprawled, crying tears that looked like blood.

The wind shivered through the grasses, catching us unawares. My cousin jumped up. "We have to go see it."

When I looked back at the house, it was back the way we first saw it. I didn't want to go, but there was nothing I hated more than being a chicken in my cousin's eyes. We crept up to the house, stealthy and watchful, until we came to the window where the bullet holes should have been.

My cousin traced the glass with his finger. "Nothin'," he said softly. The window was solid. There were no holes.

I pulled myself up on the window ledge and peered inside. The house was empty. Dust bunnies danced in the corners from gaping holes in the rotting roof timbers. Not a single chair or bed or table livened the room.

Everything felt cold. We turned and ran, our legs pumping without slowing until we reached the place where our fathers were working side by side. We told them everything, and they gave each other a meaningful look.

"That's exactly how it happened," my uncle told us. "Exactly how our brother killed his wife."

I will never forget the way my terrified face was mirrored in my cousin's eyes. Despite my best efforts, I'm becoming more like the rest of my family every day. Doors slam themselves and things turn off before I can reach to touch the power button. All of this is regular, casual dinner conversation fodder in my household.

And I always feel a presence over my shoulder, waiting for me to trip and fall into the arms of insanity.