Haunted
Haunted
11th November, 1820

I heard them again today. This morning, in the kitchen. I was too scared to go look. Salene says I’m just imagining things. But I KNOW they were there. Talking to each other. There are three, I think. A father, a mother, and a son. 

They’ve been here for a week and I still haven’t had the guts to see what they look like. What DO ghosts look like, I wonder? I imagine they must be pretty terrifying. Except for my mother and father. They must be ghosts too. 

But I desperately wish they were alive, like me.
Leaves in oranges, browns, and yellows rustled on the bare ground outside a large off-white mansion on a chilly Autumn afternoon. The mansion was surrounded by too much land, most of which was covered by dozens of leafless trees, their branches boring and bare against the milky grey-blue sky. Blackbirds flitted from tree to tree, unsure what to do in a space so large and isolate. The ivy vines that crept around the bottom of the mansion were still growing steadily, seeming to like the cold air. By the looks of the wind, Winter was fast approaching. 

Enid Wynn-Bailey sat on the countertop in the kitchen, watching her maid and guardian, Salene Marquez, take a blackberry pie out of the oven. 

“I’m scared.” Enid said suddenly, pulling her legs up onto the counter top and hugging her knees to her chest.

“Of what?” Salene asked, setting the pie down and slapping the air above it with her hand to help it cool.

“Of the ghosts, Salene. Didn’t you hear the boy last night, playing the piano?” 

“There are no ghosts, Miss Enid.” The lady said. She’d grown used to calling Enid ‘Miss’, as she was in actual fact working for the thirteen-year-old girl, although her parents were dead now.

Enid opened her mouth to protest (as she had been protesting for the past week or so) but Salene cut her off, saying in her vague Spanish accent, “You eat now, Miss Enid. You are too skinny.”

Hopping off the counter and opening the drawer to pick up two forks and a knife, Enid did look no older than ten. She was a tiny thing with sticks for arms and legs, a mess of long white-blonde curls, and eyes so huge and dark they looked like a doll’s. 

Salene was short too, but plump, with dark brown hair in a bun, bronzed skin, eyes as dark as Enid’s, and a tiny mole to the right of her philtrum, which Enid fondly believed was a beauty mark. 

Enid glared at the beauty mark now, and dug her fork into the crust of the pie. “Why won’t you believe me? You must hear them; they talk for centuries, sometimes the mother even sings!”

“Don’t be silly, Miss Enid, no ghosts in this house, only us.”

Enid took a bite of the pie, then set her fork down. “I’m going to my room.” She announced, then waltzed out of the kitchen. 

On her way up the stairs, she heard the faint sounds of the piano keys making music, and her eyes widened. The boy must be playing. She bit her lip and paused in the middle of the staircase, debating if she should take a peek at him in the piano room or not. 

“I’m not afraid.” She told herself. “I’m not. I musn’t be.” 

But as she continued her way up the stairs, her hand gripped the banister tightly, her footsteps shaky. When she got to the top, as if she were a mouse, she hurried, practically on her tiptoes, over to the piano room, which was on the opposite side of the hall as her bedroom.

He plays beautiful music, Enid thought to herself as she crept closer to the room. The door was only slightly ajar. It could be open with one slight push and Enid could probably catch a glimpse of his side profile. Here goes nothing.

The door swung noiselessly open with a delicate push of her fingers and who Enid saw was not who she had expected to see at all.

The boy was sitting at the piano, focused only on the black-and-white keys before him. He was twelve, maybe, or thirteen. His dark brown head was bowed in concentration as his hands flitted across the instrument. He had alabaster skin, and was wearing a thick shirt with long sleeves and plain black trousers. 

Enid was very surprised. He looks...normal. Like how a human would look. Not like a ghost at all, she mused. Too caught up in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the boy stop playing and glance towards the door. Only his sharp intake of breath made her look up and see his bright green eyes staring right at her in plain shock. 

Enid turned to run to her room but then the boy spoke to her, in a voice that was shaking so badly she could barely understand him.

“Y-you’re the girl. Th-the girl in the p-ph-photos. In the living r-room.” 

“Who are you?” To Enid’s displeasure, her voice was just as bad as his. 

“M-Maxxie.” He answered. “I don’t get it-how can I see you?”

“What do you mean, how can you see me?” Enid asked, puzzled. “I’m the one who’s not supposed to be able to see you-you’re the one that’s dead.” 

Maxxie paused for a long moment, in which his skin became even whiter than it was. “D-do your parents live here too?”

“No,” Enid said, growing more infuriated by the second. “And if you don’t mind, could you and your family please get out of my house; I don’t like haunted houses very much-”

“No, don’t you see? I’m not the one haunting it.” Maxxie jumped off his chair. “When my family first bought this house, w-we were told about a girl and her maid getting m-murdered in the kitchen-someone had broken in-and now her parents had moved away.” He looked at Enid. “My parents didn’t believe in g-ghosts.” He managed to say before finally fleeing the room, too terrified to be in it with a spirit any longer.

Enid shook her head. “I’m not dead.” She told herself. 

But suddenly her mind was filled with the horrible images she’d tried so hard to block out from that terrible night a few months ago: the knife, the screaming, the blood, Salene trying to protect her. 

With a horrified gasp, Enid fell onto her knees, clutching her shoulders tightly as tears of realization streamed down her face, even as she continued to try and convince herself; “I’m not dead, I’m not dead, I’m not dead, I’m not dead...”

But there were the two gravestones outside the mansion, covered with so much ivy and dirt that you could barely read them anymore, to prove it.

I heard them again today. This morning, in the kitchen. I was too scared to go look. Salene says I’m just imagining things. But I KNOW they were there. Talking to each other. There are three, I think. A father, a mother, and a son. 

They’ve been here for a week and I still haven’t had the guts to see what they look like. What DO ghosts look like, I wonder? I imagine they must be pretty terrifying. Except for my mother and father. They must be ghosts too. 

But I desperately wish they were alive, like me.
Leaves in oranges, browns, and yellows rustled on the bare ground outside a large off-white mansion on a chilly Autumn afternoon. The mansion was surrounded by too much land, most of which was covered by dozens of leafless trees, their branches boring and bare against the milky grey-blue sky. Blackbirds flitted from tree to tree, unsure what to do in a space so large and isolate. The ivy vines that crept around the bottom of the mansion were still growing steadily, seeming to like the cold air. By the looks of the wind, Winter was fast approaching. 

Enid Wynn-Bailey sat on the countertop in the kitchen, watching her maid and guardian, Salene Marquez, take a blackberry pie out of the oven. 

“I’m scared.” Enid said suddenly, pulling her legs up onto the counter top and hugging her knees to her chest.

“Of what?” Salene asked, setting the pie down and slapping the air above it with her hand to help it cool.

“Of the ghosts, Salene. Didn’t you hear the boy last night, playing the piano?” 

“There are no ghosts, Miss Enid.” The lady said. She’d grown used to calling Enid ‘Miss’, as she was in actual fact working for the thirteen-year-old girl, although her parents were dead now.

Enid opened her mouth to protest (as she had been protesting for the past week or so) but Salene cut her off, saying in her vague Spanish accent, “You eat now, Miss Enid. You are too skinny.”

Hopping off the counter and opening the drawer to pick up two forks and a knife, Enid did look no older than ten. She was a tiny thing with sticks for arms and legs, a mess of long white-blonde curls, and eyes so huge and dark they looked like a doll’s. 

Salene was short too, but plump, with dark brown hair in a bun, bronzed skin, eyes as dark as Enid’s, and a tiny mole to the right of her philtrum, which Enid fondly believed was a beauty mark. 

Enid glared at the beauty mark now, and dug her fork into the crust of the pie. “Why won’t you believe me? You must hear them; they talk for centuries, sometimes the mother even sings!”

“Don’t be silly, Miss Enid, no ghosts in this house, only us.”

Enid took a bite of the pie, then set her fork down. “I’m going to my room.” She announced, then waltzed out of the kitchen. 

On her way up the stairs, she heard the faint sounds of the piano keys making music, and her eyes widened. The boy must be playing. She bit her lip and paused in the middle of the staircase, debating if she should take a peek at him in the piano room or not. 

“I’m not afraid.” She told herself. “I’m not. I musn’t be.” 

But as she continued her way up the stairs, her hand gripped the banister tightly, her footsteps shaky. When she got to the top, as if she were a mouse, she hurried, practically on her tiptoes, over to the piano room, which was on the opposite side of the hall as her bedroom.

He plays beautiful music, Enid thought to herself as she crept closer to the room. The door was only slightly ajar. It could be open with one slight push and Enid could probably catch a glimpse of his side profile. Here goes nothing.

The door swung noiselessly open with a delicate push of her fingers and who Enid saw was not who she had expected to see at all.

The boy was sitting at the piano, focused only on the black-and-white keys before him. He was twelve, maybe, or thirteen. His dark brown head was bowed in concentration as his hands flitted across the instrument. He had alabaster skin, and was wearing a thick shirt with long sleeves and plain black trousers. 

Enid was very surprised. He looks...normal. Like how a human would look. Not like a ghost at all, she mused. Too caught up in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the boy stop playing and glance towards the door. Only his sharp intake of breath made her look up and see his bright green eyes staring right at her in plain shock. 

Enid turned to run to her room but then the boy spoke to her, in a voice that was shaking so badly she could barely understand him.

“Y-you’re the girl. Th-the girl in the p-ph-photos. In the living r-room.” 

“Who are you?” To Enid’s displeasure, her voice was just as bad as his. 

“M-Maxxie.” He answered. “I don’t get it-how can I see you?”

“What do you mean, how can you see me?” Enid asked, puzzled. “I’m the one who’s not supposed to be able to see you-you’re the one that’s dead.” 

Maxxie paused for a long moment, in which his skin became even whiter than it was. “D-do your parents live here too?”

“No,” Enid said, growing more infuriated by the second. “And if you don’t mind, could you and your family please get out of my house; I don’t like haunted houses very much-”

“No, don’t you see? I’m not the one haunting it.” Maxxie jumped off his chair. “When my family first bought this house, w-we were told about a girl and her maid getting m-murdered in the kitchen-someone had broken in-and now her parents had moved away.” He looked at Enid. “My parents didn’t believe in g-ghosts.” He managed to say before finally fleeing the room, too terrified to be in it with a spirit any longer.

Enid shook her head. “I’m not dead.” She told herself. 

But suddenly her mind was filled with the horrible images she’d tried so hard to block out from that terrible night a few months ago: the knife, the screaming, the blood, Salene trying to protect her. 

With a horrified gasp, Enid fell onto her knees, clutching her shoulders tightly as tears of realization streamed down her face, even as she continued to try and convince herself; “I’m not dead, I’m not dead, I’m not dead, I’m not dead...”

But there were the two gravestones outside the mansion, covered with so much ivy and dirt that you could barely read them anymore, to prove it.