Status: on hiatus while i do some rewrites. bear with me.
The Twelve Percent
Lydia
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There are experts in the field of paranormal activity that say when we are young, we can see things that adults cannot. Eighteen percent of all ghost sightings are reported as being seen by children. The experts say that they estimate another forty-six percent should be tacked on for the children that are not believed by their family. Factor in that seventy-two percent of adult ghost sightings are false reports, and you have a lot of statistics just to say that children see more ghosts than anyone else.
These same experts have also claimed that twenty-one percent of the children that have seen ghosts continue to see them even as they age. That number drops to twelve percent after these children hit age twenty-one.
I, am part of that twelve percent.
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When I was a kid, my parents moved us around a lot. As house flippers, we would move into a new home and live there for six months to a year; depending on the state of the house. My father, a contractor like my grandpa, does all of the carpentry work and electric. My mother, a home designer, does the painting and chooses the fixtures and such for the new design of the homes. They usually hire out to plumbers wherever we are. When I was five my dad tried to install a new sink. I remember walking barefoot into the kitchen, water splashing to my ankles. So, they started hiring local plumbers.
I didn’t see my first ghost until I was four. At least, that I remember. We were in the sixth home since I had been born, and I was sitting on the kitchen island. Mom was making cookies and dad was upstairs putting in my new ceiling fan. I sipped at my cup of milk and kicked my feet back and forth, letting them thud against the bare wood of the new island.
“Amethyst, please stop kicking against the counter.”
I stopped kicking, letting my bare feet dangle in the air. But beside me, the other little girl kept kicking her feet. They didn’t make noise like my feet did. She frowned at me and pointed at my feet. I giggled and started kicking them again. Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Amethyst. What did Mommy just say?”
“But, Mommy, she isn’t stopping so why do I have to?” I pouted, pointing at the girl in the tattered dress.
My mother turned to look at me, blonde brows furrowed together. She tugged at the ends of her long hair, twisting them up into a bun and wrapping a long thin piece of fabric around the bun. She watched me, following my outstretched hand, while she pulled her hair up. Finally, she seemed to decide that, at the ripe old age of four, it was natural for me to have an imaginary friend. Of course she would think that. She had no way of knowing it was a ghost.
Nor did I for that matter.
“Amethyst’s friend, would you please stop kicking our new island?”
The pale girl beside me frowned, but nodded. I smiled, and quit kicking my feet.
For five and a half months the little girl and I played together constantly. We would run around the yard until my chest burned, and then I’d make her follow me inside to show her my toys. Each time I offered her food or a toy though, she’d shake her head. I used to insist, shoving the doll or cookie at her. Mommy taught me to share, and I was trying to be good like she told me to be. But the pale girl in the tattered dress would just shake her head, and then walk away.
The house had a new coat of paint, new wallpaper, new fixtures in the ceiling and sinks, new bathtubs, and new appliances in the kitchen. I would sit at the top of the stairs, at the landing, my panty-hose clad legs stuck through the railings, watching strangers enter my home. An ‘open house’ as Mommy called it. The girl sat beside me.
A few months back I had grown tired of calling her ‘girl’ and started asking for her name. She shook her head. She never spoke. I thought for a while, then started pulling books from my shelf, squinting at words that started with tall letters, and tried to figure out her name.
“Dallas.” Head shake. “Abigail.” Head shake. “Natalie.” Head shake. “New York.” Head shake. “Lydia.” At this name, the little girl jumped up from the ground, pointing at me happily. I smiled and clapped. “Lydia!”
My mother didn’t seem concerned at all when I suddenly started calling the invisible girl by that name. Later in life she would tell me about the time I had an imaginary friend named Lydia. She would tell me that before she and Dad bought a house, they always researched it as far back as they could. In 1945, a seven year old girl named Lydia fell off the landing and broke her neck.
She had died.
Lydia and I sat with our legs through the railing. We watched people come and go, touching the wallpaper, and testing the new stairs with cautious feet. They didn’t seem deterred by two small girls at the top of the stairs, and came up to look at the second story. I kept catching Lydia looking at me sadly.
I shrugged. “This is okay.” I told her. “This is how we live.” I gestured around me, at the throngs of people. Lydia had a sudden flash of rage on her face, like she realized that these people were here to look into buying the house. She evaporated into a cloud of angry white smoke. The smoke flew up to the chandelier that dangled over the entry. It swirled around it, until I saw Lydia’s tiny hand reach out from the smoke and grab the chain that connected the light fixture to the ceiling. She had never touched anything before. She had never been able to. Every time I tossed a toy or ball at her, it went straight through and she’d run off, angry.
But here she was, shaking the chandelier. Possible buyers started talking loudly and getting spooked. A few darted through the open door. And the chandelier shook. An air of terror and annoyance surrounded me as I saw my mother looking desperately up at the lights, as if begging them with her eyes to stop.
I stood up, little hands balled beside me as I shook. Lydia’s head poked from the cloud of smoke. She smiled at me as if she was helping me. I shook my head. “Stop.” I muttered. She frowned, and kept shaking the lights. “Stop.” I said a little louder. This seemed to make her angry, as she reached another hand through the smoke and shook harder. The light swung hard in one direction, before spinning in a large circle.
More people left, screaming. My mother watched, hopelessness and dread on her face. I took a deep breath, until my chest was puffed up and my head hurt, and then screamed. “Stop!” Abruptly, the chandelier quit swinging and stood still. Everyone that was left was now looking up at me. My tiny hands had balled up the ends of my favorite dress. The white one with the purple flowers. I glared angrily at Lydia as she, in her cloud of smoke, floated back to me and landed beside me. Shame crossed her face. I turned on the heel of my paten white shoes, and went down to stand beside my mother. I glanced up at Lydia, as she slowly disappeared.
We sold the house and moved within the week. I never saw Lydia again.
|||
There are experts in the field of paranormal activity that say when we are young, we can see things that adults cannot. Eighteen percent of all ghost sightings are reported as being seen by children. The experts say that they estimate another forty-six percent should be tacked on for the children that are not believed by their family. Factor in that seventy-two percent of adult ghost sightings are false reports, and you have a lot of statistics just to say that children see more ghosts than anyone else.
These same experts have also claimed that twenty-one percent of the children that have seen ghosts continue to see them even as they age. That number drops to twelve percent after these children hit age twenty-one.
I, am part of that twelve percent.
|||
When I was a kid, my parents moved us around a lot. As house flippers, we would move into a new home and live there for six months to a year; depending on the state of the house. My father, a contractor like my grandpa, does all of the carpentry work and electric. My mother, a home designer, does the painting and chooses the fixtures and such for the new design of the homes. They usually hire out to plumbers wherever we are. When I was five my dad tried to install a new sink. I remember walking barefoot into the kitchen, water splashing to my ankles. So, they started hiring local plumbers.
I didn’t see my first ghost until I was four. At least, that I remember. We were in the sixth home since I had been born, and I was sitting on the kitchen island. Mom was making cookies and dad was upstairs putting in my new ceiling fan. I sipped at my cup of milk and kicked my feet back and forth, letting them thud against the bare wood of the new island.
“Amethyst, please stop kicking against the counter.”
I stopped kicking, letting my bare feet dangle in the air. But beside me, the other little girl kept kicking her feet. They didn’t make noise like my feet did. She frowned at me and pointed at my feet. I giggled and started kicking them again. Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Amethyst. What did Mommy just say?”
“But, Mommy, she isn’t stopping so why do I have to?” I pouted, pointing at the girl in the tattered dress.
My mother turned to look at me, blonde brows furrowed together. She tugged at the ends of her long hair, twisting them up into a bun and wrapping a long thin piece of fabric around the bun. She watched me, following my outstretched hand, while she pulled her hair up. Finally, she seemed to decide that, at the ripe old age of four, it was natural for me to have an imaginary friend. Of course she would think that. She had no way of knowing it was a ghost.
Nor did I for that matter.
“Amethyst’s friend, would you please stop kicking our new island?”
The pale girl beside me frowned, but nodded. I smiled, and quit kicking my feet.
For five and a half months the little girl and I played together constantly. We would run around the yard until my chest burned, and then I’d make her follow me inside to show her my toys. Each time I offered her food or a toy though, she’d shake her head. I used to insist, shoving the doll or cookie at her. Mommy taught me to share, and I was trying to be good like she told me to be. But the pale girl in the tattered dress would just shake her head, and then walk away.
The house had a new coat of paint, new wallpaper, new fixtures in the ceiling and sinks, new bathtubs, and new appliances in the kitchen. I would sit at the top of the stairs, at the landing, my panty-hose clad legs stuck through the railings, watching strangers enter my home. An ‘open house’ as Mommy called it. The girl sat beside me.
A few months back I had grown tired of calling her ‘girl’ and started asking for her name. She shook her head. She never spoke. I thought for a while, then started pulling books from my shelf, squinting at words that started with tall letters, and tried to figure out her name.
“Dallas.” Head shake. “Abigail.” Head shake. “Natalie.” Head shake. “New York.” Head shake. “Lydia.” At this name, the little girl jumped up from the ground, pointing at me happily. I smiled and clapped. “Lydia!”
My mother didn’t seem concerned at all when I suddenly started calling the invisible girl by that name. Later in life she would tell me about the time I had an imaginary friend named Lydia. She would tell me that before she and Dad bought a house, they always researched it as far back as they could. In 1945, a seven year old girl named Lydia fell off the landing and broke her neck.
She had died.
Lydia and I sat with our legs through the railing. We watched people come and go, touching the wallpaper, and testing the new stairs with cautious feet. They didn’t seem deterred by two small girls at the top of the stairs, and came up to look at the second story. I kept catching Lydia looking at me sadly.
I shrugged. “This is okay.” I told her. “This is how we live.” I gestured around me, at the throngs of people. Lydia had a sudden flash of rage on her face, like she realized that these people were here to look into buying the house. She evaporated into a cloud of angry white smoke. The smoke flew up to the chandelier that dangled over the entry. It swirled around it, until I saw Lydia’s tiny hand reach out from the smoke and grab the chain that connected the light fixture to the ceiling. She had never touched anything before. She had never been able to. Every time I tossed a toy or ball at her, it went straight through and she’d run off, angry.
But here she was, shaking the chandelier. Possible buyers started talking loudly and getting spooked. A few darted through the open door. And the chandelier shook. An air of terror and annoyance surrounded me as I saw my mother looking desperately up at the lights, as if begging them with her eyes to stop.
I stood up, little hands balled beside me as I shook. Lydia’s head poked from the cloud of smoke. She smiled at me as if she was helping me. I shook my head. “Stop.” I muttered. She frowned, and kept shaking the lights. “Stop.” I said a little louder. This seemed to make her angry, as she reached another hand through the smoke and shook harder. The light swung hard in one direction, before spinning in a large circle.
More people left, screaming. My mother watched, hopelessness and dread on her face. I took a deep breath, until my chest was puffed up and my head hurt, and then screamed. “Stop!” Abruptly, the chandelier quit swinging and stood still. Everyone that was left was now looking up at me. My tiny hands had balled up the ends of my favorite dress. The white one with the purple flowers. I glared angrily at Lydia as she, in her cloud of smoke, floated back to me and landed beside me. Shame crossed her face. I turned on the heel of my paten white shoes, and went down to stand beside my mother. I glanced up at Lydia, as she slowly disappeared.
We sold the house and moved within the week. I never saw Lydia again.
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♠ ♠ ♠
new story. don't think it'll be too terribly long but then again who knows, right?xx