Ghost Stories

I fear glass. I fear reflections. Every time I try to fix my hair or check my appearance, I see a strange little girl. Just for a few seconds, but she's there. And then she vanishes.

For over a year, I've seen this girl, with no word from her or further message. She just gazes at me and then turns, disappearing into the air as if she weren't even there. I wonder if she is trying to tell me something, but I can't know. She won't say.

She always makes sure to look me in the eyes. She is seven, maybe a small eight-year-old, clad in an old, wrinkled, moth-eaten white dress. Her black hair contrasts against her pale skin and clothes, and she wanders around barefoot -- or at least the few times I've seen her feet, she's had no shoes on.

I have to find out who she is.

I come inside from the backyard, ready to go pack for a trip to my cousin's house. A voice, a tiny, gentle whisper, says my name. Then, before I can place my hand on it, the knob begins to rattle, as if someone were on the other side trying to open the door. Despite the fear rising in my throat, I open the door and stare around outside. Nothing is there.

Swallowing, I take a step into the afternoon. The whisper is still audible, but it is far away now. I take a few more steps towards the trees on the edge of my backyard.

Suddenly, a piece of wood flies out of nowhere and hits me between the shoulder blades. It falls to the floor and shatters as if it were made of glass. I whirl around, but there is nothing there.

Could it be the same girl? Could she finally be trying to tell me something? The sound of my uncle's car horn out front breaks into my thoughts, and I rush out, grabbing my backpack along the way.

The car ride is quiet. Because it is dark, the windows have no reflection -- until we turn onto a side street brightly lit with streetlamps. Then I see the eyes of the girl, right behind me. She puts a finger to her lips.

"I'll tell you someday," I hear a small voice whisper, and then there is nothing.

I do not see her again.