Ghost Stories

"Did you know that the right scary story can conjure up a ghost?" my friend Randall asked me.

It was Halloween, and we were bored of the preteen party going on in our mutual friend Elizabeth's living room. I shrugged. "No. Is it true?"

"Let's find out," he said with a huge grin.

We gathered a few more people. To my irritation, one of them was my enemy, Trisha. Kevin, one of my good friends, and two others I knew from school but hadn't talked to much rounded out the group.

Randall made me start with the stories, and I told the tale about a man obsessed with knives and cutting objects. His personal favorite was scissors, I explained, painting an image of scissors in the air -- because they are like double-bladed knives.

"Mr. Rusty is his favorite pair of scissors," I said, making my voice as spooky as possible. "Over and over again, he stabs people with them. He's had them since he killed his parents with them, and he's killed too many people to count...but he was never caught."

My audience was starting to look a little bored, Trisha especially. I frowned. "One year, he took his old Mr. Rusty and slit his wrists and neck, just like what he did to his victims. He was found in the garage of his own home. But, the police couldn't find the scissors. It was a gruesome scene. But no one knows where Mr. Rusty is today."

Trisha rolled her eyes. "Boo-ring."

"Let's conjure up the ghost!" Randall said, lifting his hand for high-fives. All but Trisha agreed with him, and Kevin dragged an old Ouija board from under the couch.

"It's my grandma's," he explained when we gave him skeptical looks.

Moments later, we were speaking with a withered man whose neck and wrists marked him as my scissors killer. He stared straight at me, then drifted his gaze around the fearful little circle.

"The most hateful of this group will die and meet me in two weeks," he said in an ominous voice.

And then he vanished.

We all knew who he was talking about, even Trisha. Alfreedi, one of the girls, and I saw the look on Trisha's face and jumped on the opportunity to make it seem like a joke. We taunted her about her fear until she ran out of the house sobbing.

When it was time to go home, Randall walked me to my mom's car. Right before we reached it, he stopped and swiveled to face me. "Do you think it'll really happen?" he asked in a voice that betrayed his worry.

I laughed to disguise mine. "We can only hope."

Two weeks later, I turned on my computer to see an IM from Kevin. "U hear? Trisha died in car accident trying 2 go 2 school."

I was truly shocked. I walked around school that day in a daze, and only my equally dazed friends knew why. The next day, I snuck downstairs before my father was awake and retrieved the newspaper, pawing through it until I found the section on the accidents.

"The victim, Trisha Long, was lying dead after being struck by the car. Police have stated that her neck and wrists were slit by some rusty instrument, most likely scissors, though none were found at the scene. The only solid evidence was a piece of rusted metal embedded in her neck. Authorities are searching for further evidence at the scene today."

I'd conjured up a ghost that took someone's life. A young life -- hated, sure, but still, now her chances to ever change were snatched away.

"Dammit," I swore softly.