Welcome to Gaia! ::

In this event, you'll be competing for THIS scary fellow by Rapid:




HERE'S HOW IT WORKS:

You tell me a scary story. It can be based off of RL events, a folklore you've heard, ANYTHING! Looking for creativity points though, so if you google and copy paste some random ghost story, that won't cut it! It needs to be in your own words, and try to keep it unique!

The story that captivates the judges the most will win the Scary Story Contest!


There is no length minimum or maximum. Spellcheck = your friend. biggrin


GOGOGOGOGO!

This story originated when I was in high school. We were shown a copy of 'The Scream' and told to write a short story based on that which would be due the next day. That night the power went out as I struggled to write in the dark about this odd piece of art. The following is a derivation of that writting.

A Ghost Story

A flash of sunlight gleams off the blade of a knife as it descends into the waiting flesh of an over ripe tomato. Mouth watering, Abby stacks her toast high with tomatoes, bacon and lettuce. It is the perfect day for a picnic. Still early enough in fall that the air was crisp but still pleasant and a soft breeze rustled the brilliant leaves of the nearby trees.

Listening to the honking call of passing geese, Abby finishes her sandwich. But such a day is too nice not to enjoy and a few passing geese found the park’s pond a nice rest. Taking a few slices of bread, she goes and tosses pieces into the pond, watching the geese and the few native ducks swim around for them.

As a beautiful sunset paints the sky in brilliant colors, Abby realizes how late it has gotten and quickly gathers her things. Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, she sets off for the short walk home.

Slightly less than a mile, it was only the area around Allen Creek that she worried about. The close pressing trees would block the sunlight and the ground was sometimes slick with loose rocks to create hazards.

Abby thinks of crossing the bridge instead of taking the foot path over the creek, the water wasn’t deep enough this time of year to be an issue, but the bridge was an old wooden, one lane affair that had no places for a pedestrian to flee should a car come across.

Her thoughts are distracted as she passes Peter’s house. The cutest boy in the entire school, Abby’s thoughts turn to fantasies of the school dance and Peter asking her out. Of course, Abby knew it wouldn’t happen, he didn’t know she was alive. But she could dream.

As Abby walks along, approaching Allen’s Creek Bridge, lost in thought, the dusk shadows long before her, a flash of light on the bridge startles her from her revere. Looking up to see the source of the glimmer, Abby notices two figures on the bridge speaking in hushed tones.

One man is on his knees in front of the other. Dressed in an old tweed jacket and tan slacks, his hands stretched behind his back as tears flow down his cheeks. He appears to be speaking, but Abby can not understand his words.

The other man stands, his face cold and expressionless. The last of the sunlight filtering through the trees with an eerie red glow etching his sharp features as he looks down at the man in the tweed jacket. His eyes seem to glint with contempt at the tears. Dressed in faded old jeans and a brown leather jacket his long legs are lean and his well muscled arms reach to mid-thigh. The source of the brief glint is grasped in one of his immense hands.

Abby stands in muted shock. She knows nothing of guns, except to fear them.

The man with the gun shakes his head in response to something the tweed jacket man says and slowly raises the weapon. Squeezing the trigger once in a controlled fashion, no hint of humanity upon his face, he releases one bullet into the other man. The tweed jacket blooms a brilliant red flower and the man cries out in surprise and pain before toppling over into Allen’s Creek.

Abby stands in shock for a moment, then, as the creek flows red, she wonders who is screaming. The man with the gun turns to face her and Abby realizes it is her voice, sounding strange and high, which she is hearing. She watches in horror as a look of cold determination focuses on her.

Turning and running into the only cover available, Abby takes the path into the trees and down to the creek. Hearing the crashing of the man following behind her she doesn’t take the trail back out of the creek bed but instead and turns up stream.

Thinking of her childhood exploring, Abby knows that while the creek is low here, there is a beaver’s dam just a little ways away past which the water is deeper. She hopes that if she follows the creek the man will lose her trail.

Before long her breath start to come in ragged gasps as her legs tingle with adrenalin and exertion. Stumbling in the creek, Abby rights herself, wet and cold, but unharmed. Pausing she takes a moment to breath, ragged gasps from a throat raw with screaming and cold air. Listening Abby notices the sounds of her pursuit are distant and faint, but she knows she can’t afford to slow down.

As the full dark of a moonless night settles over the forest, Abby again moves upstream.

Nearing the beaver’s den, Abby leaves the creek, her feet now numbed by the cold water, and moves to walk around the dam. The roots of the overhanging trees reach up to catch her feet in the dark and several more times Abby stumbles and falls, her hands and knees scraped raw.

Circling back into the water on the other side of the dam, Abby shivers, this slower moving water being even colder. And with it deeper, it now laps over and into her shoes, plastering her pants to her legs.

Shivering courses through her body as she walks, making it hard for her to see, and even harder for her to walk. Stumbling down the creek, Abby doesn’t see the deep hole in the creek bed. A stumbling step forward and her foot sinks into the cavity, unsteady rocks falling from the surrounding creek bed and onto her ankle, trapping her foot.

Abby feels a sharp pain stab though her leg as she tries to move forward. Fumbling at the rocks around her ankle, Abby cuts her finger even further, blood quickly becoming one with the creek’s water. It takes an eternity of moments before Abby is able to pull her foot from the hole, leaving her shoe behind.

The sounds of her pursuer closer now, Abby knows she must move on without it.

Her ankle weakened by the event, she now stumbles even more often as it fails to hold her weight, though the cold waters keep it too numb to feel as the rocks of the creek bed cut into her foot. Drenched and frozen, Abby begins to escape the cold as a warm euphoria encompasses her.

Abby forgets the reason she is running, forgets the fear and pain. Only wanting to rest, to lie down and sleep, she begins to move towards the nearer bank of the creek.

Hearing a strange sloshing sound behind her, Abby’s mind tries to process what is happening, but is unable to connect anything with reality. Collapsing at the side of the creek, she closes her eyes to dream.

A growl sounds in her dream and she feels the hot breath of a wolf for a moment before her hair is roughly grabbed, jerking her up. “Girl, don’t think you’re gonna get away that easy.” The man in the leather jacket is pulling his gun from it’s holster in one hand while the other holds Abby up by her hair.

Fear fills her eyes as the memories of the night’s horror flood back, “Please, don’t . . .”

Grunting, he aims his gun at Abby’s heart. As he pulls the trigger she gasps, then closes her eyes again, swallowing the prayer on her lips.

Bright colors explode in her eyes; Abby remembers everything in a brief flash. She remembers her second birthday party, her first day in school, the day she got an A on her history exam, the day her father died . . .

Abby remembers her life as she floats in darkness, until softly, slowly, the world refocuses around her.

It wasn’t cold anymore as Abby woke up. Getting to her feet, her ankle supporting her and pain free. Her hand, too, free of cuts and abrasions. Remembering everything so vividly, she wondered at the dream she had awakened from and why she was so deep into the woods. Abby shook her head and started towards home. Taking one glance back, she paused, for there, laying half in the creek, was a body of a young girl. A body with blood splattered from a hole in the middle of it’s chest. A body that looked a lot like Abby.

Abby shook her head, she must be imagining things. Once again she turned from the clearing. Mother will know what this dream means, Abby thinks as she starts for home.

This is a story that I was originally told by my art teacher, he enjoyed spooking out the entire class, I am not sure I will do it justice as he was very ‘animated’, but here we go…. either way I am going to pass it on, just like stories are intended.

Soquili’s name: Fable

Secrets in the Darkness

It was a cold and gloomy night, just like all those since they had arrived at their new foster home. The walls were coated in antiques and other old things that were not much fun for playing with. Yet with every creak of the wooden walls as the wild wind howled towards them there was a strange eerie feel. The oil lamps flickered, leaving a murky yellow ambiance to settle upon the interior. The two children huddled on the bed; they knew the house rules yet something about them seemed strange. Why would anyone foster children and then not allow them to touch anything at all, disallow them to run and play, no laughter had been emitted from their mouths in days, just the shallow breath of defeat.

Yet children being children a strange curiosity had flooded over them earlier in the day as they explored every inch of the house, the corridors were spindly and thin, the objects grabbing and tugging at their clothes in an desperate attempt to slow them down. The stairs creaked, and the floor rattled with each step, yet as their exploration continued they had discovered a set of old half-rotted stairs, blackened by dirt and softened by time. There was a small plague that read "do not enter" hanging beside them, but despite that they crawled up the narrow staircase, each step a challenge as the wood sunk below their touch. Finally they reached a black room, paint peeling and the only light spilling into the room was from a sliver of a stained yellow window situated in the far end of the room. It was dusty and unkempt unlike the rest of the house. It was somehow out of place, a taboo within the house itself. Fear prickled their necks as their eyes frantically scanned the surroundings. It seemed empty bar a small metal hinged door in the far corner.

Step by step they approached. Hearts beating in a whirled frenzy. Thump, thump, thump. Their steps making pattering noises upon the ground. Nearing the door they froze, pausing for a brief moment to examine it. It seemed plain, yet there was a hidden elegance about it, the soft gilded design all but worn away, and the cooper handle tarnished by time itself.

Being the braver of the two the brother stepped forward, his dainty hands reached forward, heart still racing as he touched the cold lonely metal, it stung with a sharpness he did not recognise. Turning, slowly, he waited. It did not open. Tugging at it, it still didn’t open. Again and again he tried but the door did not budge. A wave of disappointment spread over him as he turned to walk away, his sisters’ eyes still watching the door.

A soft creaking came from behind it, a scrapping noise. Frozen the brother turned. His sisters eyes wide with freight, their hearts pausing in terror as they stopped and starred. They door would not shift before yet here it was, moving, and on its own. The door spilled open, inch by inch the crack got wider, inch by inch their fear increased, inch by inch there hearts began to race. Until finally they saw it, three thin bony fingers, they curled around the edge of the door revealing long curled fingernails, wriggling and moving as if possessed by the demons of hell themselves.

They ran, thundering through the house as fast as they could in an attempt to reach their bedroom once more, their safety net. That is were our story began, curled up on the bed, eyes wide with freight as they watched the door in hellish panic. It did not move, it did not creak; it did not make a sound. The house was all but still.

Sleep washed over them as they desperately attempted to suppress the evening’s events.

Scraping fingers ripped at the door like nails on a blackboard, an eerie sound that travelled towards them as they woke with a sudden jump of fright. Yet as suddenly as it had started it stopped, almost instantly, as if it had never started to begin with yet as the sun rose filling the house with a bleak light they ventured forth. Edging out towards the hallway they noted the scrapings on the floor and marks left in the wooden door. It had not been a dream; they had awoken something from deep within the bowels of the house. Sweat began to pour as they ran down the stairs, the stern face of their foster father standing before them as his voice erupted from his mouth "no running in my house, now back to bed with you both." Hesitation filled them as they did as instructed, but slowly they returned to the small slice of sanctuary.

The walls of the room caving in around them, their very own prison cell.

The day passed quickly and night settled upon the house once more.

Scraping fingers sounded through the air waking them both once more. Thump, thump, thump, their hearts did race. Bump, bump, bump, the sounds did ache. As they jumped to their feet and slammed open the door. No figure of darkness stood before them, yet the marks had dug deeper still. Panic poured over them like an icy glove. They could not explain these deeds.

Their eyes flickering in fear as the looked around, noting the silence that drifted through the house bar for the mellow glow that emanated from the floor below. Cautiously they crept down the stairs so not to disturb the other creatures of the night. Hearts racing and blood pumping. Whispered voices reached them. Painful. Their hearts beating faster and faster. Thump, thump, thump. Tap, tap, tap.

The whispers spoke their endless words, "Tonight we shall kill them," it paused, a sound that sniffed at the air echoed throughout the otherwise silent house, children with held breath waited. "We shall eat their brains first." A shrill laugh vibrated towards them, shortly followed by the tinker of metal clashing together. The children panicked once more, was this where the creature had gone?

A figure began to move in the lit room, its breath raspy, its step somehow laboured with difficulty as it approached. The children watched, hearts racing, panic looming, breath tight. The figure moved closer, face covered in darkness. A flicker of light emerged, it sprawled violently across the side of the figures face revealing it features, his features, the features of their foster father. Yet before they could calm their minds the flicker of light revealed yet another secret, the blade held tight in his hand shone in its evil magnificence. It was he who intended to kill them.

Taking flight they ran, yet with nowhere to run they headed towards the bedroom. As they loomed closer, the shadowy figure ever behind them, they saw an eerie sight, the shadowy hand from before hung from the ceiling above and a ghostly voice drifted towards them. "Hide! He will catch you, like he caught my brother."

That was the truth of such a strange man, he was a murderer preying on the innocent. Changing direction they ran, back towards the darkened stairs with the single wooden door inside. They needed to escape, they needed to live.

To this day it is unsure what happened to these children, or if they ever managed to escape such a horrible fate.

So the only question that remains is, do you know where I can find them?

The year was 1907. The industrial revolution was booming and the race to connect the United States together by railroad was clipping along at a dizzying pace. White Lick Creek was a very calm sedate piece of land in Indiana, until the workers at the Inter-Urban Railroad company began to build across its banks.

It was unbearably hot. But August could be brutal like that, and it was to be expected. The workers began hammering wood together at a feverish pace. The first order of business was, of course, to build the forms so they could pour the concrete for the massive tresses. Little by little wood was added. Sections were stacked on top of one another and nailed in place. The shadows were slowly beginning to disappear as the crew reached noon.

Before their lunch break two workers, one who’s name was lost to history, and the kindly man known as “Dad” Jones wanted to pour the concrete in one of the tresses’ forms so they would have less to do later. “Dad” was six feet five inches, the strongest man among the crew. He and his friend climbed the wooden form and fought with the heavy bucket.

”Woah! Easy, easy…steady.” Dad boomed to his colleague as they fought to steady the bucket over the form, arms extended to hold it in place. Even with the crane’s help it was dangerous, manual labour. “Okay…coax it over.” He coached. The men began to tip the bucket and concrete fell with a sickening squishing sound as it was held in shape by the form. The boards underfoot began to creak and groan, but the men weren’t easily spooked and kept working. The boards gave way moments later and Dad’s friend was thrown behind the tress. Dad let out a hoarse cry of surprise before he stumbled forward and fell into the form. There was no one to tip the bucket so it would stop pouring cement.

Dad Jones struggled like mad, his large fists pounding a frantic crescendo against the form. The rest of the concrete was poured, sealing him forever in his unnatural tomb. According to the railroad foreman the incident, “happened far too quickly for anything to be done”. The railroad was unwilling to stop construction for a temporary worker.

Some of the men objected saying the spirit of the man would not rest until he was given a proper burial, but the officials scoffed at the notion and the work continued. The finished railway had been made successfully and the remaining workers were lauded. The memory of what had happened to Dad Jones soon faded from everyone’s memories.

Until the screaming began.

A farmer was the first to notice. As he headed home from a long night of hunting he passed the railroad tracks. A train chugged along the rail, it passed over the first of the tresses, he swore a scream rang out above the sound of the speeding locomotive. He had said that the sound seemed to be coming from inside the bridge itself. Of course, no one believed him.

The story intensified when a group of teenagers had parked near the railroad for a moonlit snogging session. The train rattled their cars and as the train passed over it seemed the bridge was oozing sweat. With the train disrupting the kids they noticed the odd phenomenon on the bridge. A few of them bolstered the courage and went to get a better look. To their horror the ooze was the colour of blood.

It is said that even today, if you go to visit the tracks over White Lick Creek, you can hear the screaming as a train passes or see the blood oozing from the very foundation at night.

The Hotel Guest


The rumor had spread all over the hotel, the guest who had been recently staying in room number ten was dead. All the clues were there, the police coming in and out of the front doors at all hours, the door to room ten closed off to everyone. Mary Yavk, staying in room fourteen was shaken, but not as much, for she didn't know the man. Nervously, she scampered back to her room and locked the regular lock and the dead bolt. Her night's sleep was filled with dark dreams and tossing and turning.

The next morning she awoke to screaming and terrified shouts of help. The guest in room eleven had been killed. Mary ran out of her room and into a tall man dressed in a dark coat. He was holding a wallet. Mary shrank away, she could tell this man meant bad business. Catching a glimpse of the name on the wallet, she said, "I'm sorry Mr. Knepshield." The man took no notice of her, and turned away. She shuddered, and asked a nearby guest who had died. The returning whisper said the name was John Knepshield. Mary's mouth opened and closed. She was scared, then just figured that the scary man must be John Knepshields brother or something. She went to bed, and had more strange dreams, this time about the man walking into room eleven holding the wallet. She woke up with sweat dripping down her body, and screamed herself when she heard someone shout, "The guest in room twelve is dead!"

She sprinted out of her room, and looked down the hallway. The strange man was standing in front of the door of room twelve, holding a wallet. Mary edged up from behind him, and saw the name on the wallet. The man turned and Mary shuddered with fear, the look on his face was that of a crazed person. He said slowly and grimly, "I am Adin Burns." Mary nodded and backed away. She whispered to another guest, "Who died?" The answer was Adin Burns. Mary gaped, and was now very scared. She ran to her room and dreamed again of the strange man stealing a wallet, reading the name, and turning to her, saying, 'I am Mary Yavk'

Mary woke up in the middle of the night and sprinted to the room next door, room thirteen. She shook the woman sleeping in the bed and screamed at her, "He's coming for you! He already stole your wallet! He thinks he's you! HE WILL KILL YOU!!!" She was dragged out by security guards and thrown in her room. She paced, and waited until the screams of morning she knew would come.

"THE GUEST IN ROOM THIRTEEN IS DEAD!!!" Mary yelled as she stood terrified, in the doorway of room thirteen, "SHE IS DEAD!" She whirled around at the sound of footsteps, and saw the man behind her. She screamed, and ran back to her room. She grabbed her own wallet and opened it, her drivers license was gone. He would come for her tonight. Mary screamed and grabbed her wallet. She needed to run, to leave, he would be coming.

Five years later, she had changed her name, her address, even her profession. Every night she was haunted by the names of the people who died. She had the wallet locked in a safe, because she knew if the man found it he would kill her, and she knew he was searching for her. It had to end.


The woman formerly known as Mary Yavk dug a hole in her yard in the dead of the night, a deep hole, so deep the bottom was black as pitch. She pulled the wallet out of her pocket, and felt a presence behind her. Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned around, and the man stood behind her. He looked at the open wallet in her hand, then at the drivers license in his.

Her lifeless body fell into the pit she had dug herself, and the drivers license followed, fluttering down to lay on the woman's still chest.

We had flicked the television off casually, immune, as always, to the terror glamorized and popularized by the media teams we had grown to trust. The day had started well, we thought, high school was on it's way out, and university life was a shining beacon we migrated towards... appearing in hindsight like a pack of moths drawn to the flame. Scholarships had lined themselves up nicely for my best friend, and I was muddling my way apathetically through it all, disheartened by recent events... but trying bravely to put on the strong face everyone else was showing. The sleepover was uneventful, as we had lost those grand kahunas we had grown while plotting to TP my neighbor's car somewhere between gathering toilet paper and actually going out into the frigid air in nothing more then our skivvies. So breakfast was a cold cereal slathered in strawberry jelly prefaced with a night spent tucked in early with a distant memory of giggles, and the pair of us wandered towards the local city park after a round of the morning cartoons.

We were a fanciful duo, my friend and I, with Liza in her brightly hued blouse and jeans, and myself wearing the usual somber blacks and blues with the phrase "Art Is Resistance" bravely emblazoned across my bosom. Opposites in many ways, her mother was a practicing spiritual counselor and hypnotherapist, who's varied talents included those things mainstream culture often tagged 'occult' and 'obscene.' Silly really, since Elli is one of the most down to earth people I know, and a second mother in so many ways. My own mother is a school teacher, and likes to practice her school teacher habits at home, leaving little room for creativity and magic when there is reading and mathematics, funny that she was the one I found hard to reach, and often out of touch with the world. Liza feared little in the world, while I saw the teeth behind every smile, and wondered how many different ways a stranger could hurt me.

But this day, we were free, and with such optimism only two teenage girls can fully get in trouble with.. we set out to find something magical.



Ouija (pronounced Weegee.. or Weeja) boards have long been a fascination of people our age group, so it was probably no surprise to Liza's mom that we were interested in speaking with the dead. She perhaps knew better then most how upset I was over the loss of my beloved grandfather, and likely assumed our imaginations would take care of us...

She could not have foreseen the consequences of such desires...

...nor prepared us for the outcome.





We chose our spot nonchalantly, Liza didn't even bother to check if anyone could see us.. and the place just felt right to me, so I held back my usual cautious objections. The great ficus tree we planted ourselves beneath was a grand old gal, with the shallow roots of her kind spread long and far beneath us and the distant roads of the park bike path. Likely a survivor of the great Hurricane Andrew, since many of her central boughs were bent towards the west, as if burdened by an unseen wind. Yet the tree was peaceful despite her younger days, and the newer branches spread out in every direction to shade us from the fierce Florida sun.

The board we had was borrowed, one of Liza's other friends had used it in a failed conversion to satanism.. ominous enough.. if she hadn't assured me long before this trip that she had purified the board plenty and had had her mom take a look at it to be sure. Though Liza had stretched truths before, I doubted she'd have found something like lying to me about the purity of the board mischievous enough to be worth her time. After all, we had all heard the stories of girls being possessed by unclean boards, and of demons rising forth to a summons... and deciding not to go back. We were not after that kind of experience... I had confessed only a yearning to speak with my grandfather, to apologize for missing his funeral, and Liza, well she never needed a reason for much of anything. She had always had a good heart, which thankfully tempered her often reckless ways.

Spreading it out before us, I recall feeling nauseated as I looked down at the myriad letters and symbols... a distinct unease rose.. not from the board, but from the very ground beneath us, spiraling in towards the board.. as if in a giant vacuum. Liza's mom had called me an Empath, one gifted more then the average bear with the ability to sense and project the emotions of others, but I had not yet learned the finer aspects of such a gift, and regarded it merely as an extended sense... kind of like people with extraordinary sight or hearing. Liza was a self confessed Wiccan, and dabbled often in all sorts of arcane arts. She was uncanny with her predictions, but as was my usual, I viewed her eccentricity with thinly veiled skepticism. 'You haven't existed long enough to surprise me,' was often my motto, and my catholic upbringing often unconsciously stood in the way.

But now, as I watched her settle into a trance and even out her breathing, the nausea was replaced by a deep seated fear, one the curdled in the pit of my belly and threatened to moved upwards to my heart. Somehow, untrained and unaware, I knew this was wrong, that mortals had no business learning the truth before their due time... and that for two greenhorn explorers... the sea was about to get mighty rough.




Anticlimactically, nothing happened directly that day...

Despite all of our best efforts, the board had remained silent and our imaginations still. Not even a breeze picked up, and gradually, I relaxed as the nausea washed away, leaving only a slight tremble in my heart. We couldn't call my Grandpa, but given the terror so recently felt, I began to think things were best left as they were...


...But then things did happen...and a rather cliche series of unsettling events unfolded as a direct result of our 'failed' meddling. The day after, when we went back to visit the tree and laugh off our fears, we found the tree razed to the stump, with an orange flag designating it as diseased.. which.. to those who make a hobby of studying trees... is highly unusual. Ficus trees are naturally resilient, with their natural diseases taking many months to even show a sign, let alone one clear enough for a park ranger to take note of and order an extermination when the rangers were already stretched thin enough trying to eradicate citrus canker from our State's citrus groves. Surprisingly, Liza was the one who made the immediate connection, and we glanced at each other uneasily.

At length the decision was made to just go home and study for the SAT's, but on the way.. a stray dog began following us.. lured not by us, but by a presence the dog sensed, followed, and when we mistakenly tried to comfort it and offer food tidbits.. walked past us to sit nearby. Intently staring at the place next to me on the park bench, as if waiting for some command or offering. Unsettled and beginning to feel the same primordial fear as the previous day... I begged Liza to get out of here.

But Liza had more then one way to communicate with spirits, as I was soon to learn, and when she only looked at me with a blank expression, followed swiftly by a look of sheer joy... I felt nothing akin to pleasure at seeing my best friend so happy. The look wasn't Liza, she was wild, free, and seldom gave such base emotions a simple face like that. She wore her emotions around her like a shroud, and fairly vibrated with them...

This Liza was otherworldly, the joy she wore was not reflected on her face.. per se.. but was rather soul deep and cold. As if the soul was not used to the emotion, and found the living warmth of it missing... yet was too joyous to really care.

Then this strange not-Liza... well ... she called me Kathleen... my grandmother's name, and started crying.






I was torn at this point between fear for my friend, sheer anger at her stupidity for getting possessed... and thrilled that this HAD to be Grandpa. Everyone said I looked a lot like my grandmother in her younger years, especially when I wore make-up like I was that day, and Grandpa had died while I was still a young teen, not quite developed and ready to take on the world. Another small part of me had always thought Grandpa walked with me in Heaven, since he had always been a guiding influence in my life. And I found it to be not that far of a stretch to think that our Ouija boarding had attracted his attention. That was CERTAINLY something he would want to swat me for!

But something wasn't right, and as soon as I saw true recognition dawn and he said my name, the look faded, quickly replaced by a snarling visage I found horrifying. This was NOT Grandpa.. human.. yes, but not anyone kind or nurturing. Certainly nothing I had thought could possibly be following myself of Liza around out of curiosity or guardianship. This creature, no... man, was angry beyond belief, and he started rambling in a language I later discovered to be Greek... a language Liza had NEVER bothered with, let alone learned. Shaking and terrified, I called out to Liza, the real Liza, and reached forward to shake her shoulders despite the snarling words thrown at me.

And as soon as I touched her.. she was back.. vacant eyed, pale, and shivering, but her aura was all Liza.


This is a work of fiction, no ghosts were harmed in the making of this story.