Ghost Stories

It started when I was four. That was when we moved into the house I've lived in for the last eight years. Even as a toddler, I could feel that something wasn't right -- now I think I was sensing the movements of the spirits haunting the rooms and the grounds.

I was a curious kid, interested in everything that moved and a lot that didn't. One afternoon, I found the screen door open and wandered outside. Mist swirled around me, and I squealed with delight and ran into the heart of it. Twirling and giggling, I went deeper into the fog until something grabbed my arm. I looked up, still unafraid, to see a tall, dark figure looming over me.

I screamed at the blood. There was so much blood, gushing from the figure's throat and wrists. The trickles on the arms oozed over its fingers, disappearing when they touched my skin.

Breaking free of its grasp, I ran to the house, still screaming. I couldn't help but look over my shoulder as I slammed against the half-open screen door, but the mist swirled around the figure and it was gone. My mother came running. "Mariah, honey, are you alright?"

I told her it was a bee. Something inside me begged me not to tell her.

Two years later, I was smarter and stronger but still as curious as our cat Mittens. I wandered into my playroom, reaching for my favorite dolls, when the door slammed shut behind me.

"Mittens! Stupid kitty," I muttered.

Then the room whirled upside down. Wobbling for balance, I suddenly found myself floating. I drifted toward what was once the floor, thrilled by this short flight, when I felt hands clamping on my sides. They were strong, sure hands, and I thought it was my father -- but when I looked down to see who it was, I was hurled across the room.

I slammed into the cabinet with my mother's collection of glass plates. Shards exploded all around my head, and I squealed and covered my face as I slid down the cabinet, some of the glass embedding itself into my skin.

The room swiveled again, and all was quiet. I stood, gingerly picking shards from my skin. "Can't tell Mommy," I whispered to myself, the words coming from deeper than my consciousness.

Making my way to the bathroom, I bandaged myself up and tried to forget about it as I played with Mittens on the living room floor.

Four years passed. At ten, I thought the attacks were over and started letting my guard down. The night I came to the conclusion that the supernatural was finished toying with me, I went down to the basement.

I froze at the bottom of the stairs.

Standing a few yards away was a huge humanoid figure. It was at least eight feet tall; its eyes were bright red and staring straight into me; and the dark liquid oozing down its clothes had to be blood. I couldn't move as it crept toward me, its spindly fingers fiddling with something in its pocket.

Slowly, it began to withdraw the object. Its face split into a ghastly smile, full of sharp, stained teeth, like a piranha's. Stifling my mouth into the hem of my sweatshirt, I turned and bolted up the stairs, a wave of fear propelling me. Before I could reach for the handle, the figure materialized in front of me, hands extended, a ticking, broken pocketwatch dangling from two fingers.

My hands groped against the walls of the basement, and suddenly I felt the most reassuring shape in the world. I wrenched the old cross off the wall and held it against my chest, clenching my jaw to prevent chattering. Every step deliberate, I marched toward the figure. It seemed to shrink against the door, but stayed where it was, red eyes glittering, daring me to approach.

Suddenly I lunged forward and pushed the cross into the figure. It let loose a blood-curdling shriek and pushed me against the wall as it vaporized down the stairs. I collapsed onto the stairs, still hugging the cross. The echoes of its shriek and the ticking of its watch swirled around my head like tiny ghosts.

To this day, I wear a cross whether sleeping or waking. The spirits have left me alone, for now. I don't expect my good fortune to last.