chapter 3
On Saturday afternoon, I take the little girl fishing. Our wooden
rowboat creaks and sways on gentle waves. She sits across from me, her
clever fingers baiting a hook. “Good job.” She beams back at me, eyes
bright. She’s my favorite, I know, but I remind myself that I mustn’t
neglect the boy. He loves baseball and, on Sunday, we toss a
sweat-stained ball back and forth in the backyard. I throw it high,
making him run to get under it. Each throw pops into his glove, the
sound of a good catch. He hurls it back, laughing, pleased with himself.
I’m delighted with his laugh. He’s my favorite, too, I guess. Miranda
joins me.
“Thanks for spending time with them,” she says. “They really think you’re something.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, I guess they’re right,” she says.
That evening, after dinner, the four of us pile onto the couch and watch a kid-movie, something with animated creatures I’d never heard of. The girl likes it. The boy makes fun of it. A plate of Snickerdoodle cookies two feet high sits on the coffee table. We stuff ourselves with them, devouring the uneven circles and licking cinnamon sugar off our fingers. My mouth goes dry. Then, as the kids are dozing off on the floor, the screaming begins.
“Ou taah aaaah merr.”
The kids – my kids – lift their heads and look at us, teary eyed. Miranda scoops them up, one on each knee. I stand. Then I pace back and forth.
“Ou taah aaaah merr. Ou et aahh aaaa merr ow!”
“He’s close to the house.”
“No,” she says. “He never comes out of the trees.”
The window shatters. The crash of breaking glass makes us duck. Miranda clutches the kids close to her as shards hurl past her. Sharp pieces land on the couch, her shoulders, in her hair. I start moving.
“Don’t.”
It’s too late. I’m already at the door, pushing through it, charging into the woods. The air is colder than it should be this time of year. I see my breath and start to shake. The forest is still, quiet. I hear branches break and I trot toward the sound.
“Hey,” I yell. “Come out. Now. I want a word with you.”
I find him, a shadow figure, taller than me, broad shouldered, hobbling away from the house.
“Come here.” I chase after him. “I want to talk to you.”
He dodges through trees, lumbering on his good leg, leading me in a zigzag pattern. He’s trying to get me lost, get me turned around so he can conk me on the head. I burst onto the shore. The lake is in front of me, a vast shadow of black water. On the beach is a message. He’d carved it in the sand.
Ghost facts:
in the past, it has been observed during night of Blood Moon there is a huge increase in no. of supernatural & paranormal activities.
“Thanks for spending time with them,” she says. “They really think you’re something.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, I guess they’re right,” she says.
That evening, after dinner, the four of us pile onto the couch and watch a kid-movie, something with animated creatures I’d never heard of. The girl likes it. The boy makes fun of it. A plate of Snickerdoodle cookies two feet high sits on the coffee table. We stuff ourselves with them, devouring the uneven circles and licking cinnamon sugar off our fingers. My mouth goes dry. Then, as the kids are dozing off on the floor, the screaming begins.
“Ou taah aaaah merr.”
The kids – my kids – lift their heads and look at us, teary eyed. Miranda scoops them up, one on each knee. I stand. Then I pace back and forth.
“Ou taah aaaah merr. Ou et aahh aaaa merr ow!”
“He’s close to the house.”
“No,” she says. “He never comes out of the trees.”
The window shatters. The crash of breaking glass makes us duck. Miranda clutches the kids close to her as shards hurl past her. Sharp pieces land on the couch, her shoulders, in her hair. I start moving.
“Don’t.”
It’s too late. I’m already at the door, pushing through it, charging into the woods. The air is colder than it should be this time of year. I see my breath and start to shake. The forest is still, quiet. I hear branches break and I trot toward the sound.
“Hey,” I yell. “Come out. Now. I want a word with you.”
I find him, a shadow figure, taller than me, broad shouldered, hobbling away from the house.
“Come here.” I chase after him. “I want to talk to you.”
He dodges through trees, lumbering on his good leg, leading me in a zigzag pattern. He’s trying to get me lost, get me turned around so he can conk me on the head. I burst onto the shore. The lake is in front of me, a vast shadow of black water. On the beach is a message. He’d carved it in the sand.
Ghost facts:
in the past, it has been observed during night of Blood Moon there is a huge increase in no. of supernatural & paranormal activities.
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