I was the cameraman (or rather, camerawoman) for a group of ghost hunters. It was dark and my camcorder was set to night mode. A barrage of black and green lines made up my screen. As a person who was determined to fulfil her duty, I never took my eyes off the recording. Black, green, black, green, black, black, black, green, green, black.

We were in a house. Rumour had it that the building was haunted.

By what? We didn’t know. That’s what we were trying to discover.

I stood in front of a normal white door. Although I had no recollection of it, I knew we already scavenged all the other rooms. So far, nothing was amiss. Everything was exactly as it should be. Everything was fine.

In fact, we lacked so much substance that I was beginning to doubt the ominousness of the whole ordeal. There we were, wandering around unauthorized in a house made of lies.

But as I stood before that white door, I felt an unearthly presence. I knew behind this door, behind the very last door, we would find what we were in search of. We would find something—no, someone—and that would lead to our success. We will have captured the haunt.

Who was it who opened the door, again? Because I don’t remember a single face in my group. I don’t remember any of them, but I know what I do remember. Her.

The door was flung open not by a paranormal force, but of my comrade. Anxious to finish checking the house, are we, crewmate? Or did you feel it as well, the foreboding feeling that seemed unshakable standing before that last door.

That cursed last door.

There, planted a mere few feet from me, a girl.

Cloaked, was she? White?

My crewmembers fled. I stood my ground because, as the cameraperson, I had to. I had to stick with my device and use it to its full potential. I had to collect this precious footage, this evidence. This was what we were searching for! This!

But my heart was uneasy. Glared at by the empty eye sockets of a foreign being was unnerving. Alone in a house absent of light was unnerving. Yes, my nerves were so undone that I could not bring myself to move. Paralyzed in fear, I wondered if someone would come save me. Hoping my camera would break to give me an excuse to leave, I wondered if someone would save me. Engulfed by evil, I wondered with someone would save me.

No one came.

Instead, what got to me was a piercing shriek, a cry of sheer agony.

The girl before me, no more than a few years younger, tilted her head back and screamed.

Did she tilt her head back? I suppose not because her bare eyes tore into me still, like... like... like dull poles shoved into mine own eyes. What should not have cut burrowed deep into my sanity.

Startled, so startled, I woke up to with a start. Not yet sweating.

Back in my bed, but lacking the comfort of home, I tackled sleep once more.



The same void filled my view except this time, I was with no camera. This time, I relied upon my own eyes.

I don’t know if I ever mentioned this in my journals, but when I dream, I am not visually impaired. The horror I saw was fake, yes, but painfully clear.

What I was gazing upon were two other eyes, no. Two sockets; the same two sockets of the same ghostly girl.

But I felt my bed sheets clenched tightly in my fists. I was still on my bed. I was still in a place that existed in reality. I couldn’t tell if I was sleeping because I was right where I should be. She, however, was not supposed to join this reality.

My head ached from my brain forcing my soul back into my body. I was facing the ceiling, position like a log. It’s the same position I put myself in before sleeping. I do so in attempt to improve posture and growth, but seldom do I stay in that position during the hours of the night. I must’ve been scared stiff, with fear escaping from my mare into my tangible world.

A third time, I let my mind slip and was revisited by the same girl. Even now, I am clueless of her identity. A character from my past, perhaps? If not, then perhaps from the future? If not, is she even from here, our world? Who is she? I’ll never know.

Exhausted, I propped myself against my pile of pillows. I don’t use pillows. I find they crane my neck and cramp my muscles. I have pillows to cry on because I hear they’re good for that. Just this morning, though, they served as a good back support.

As I turned my head to the side, I instantly took note of a tall figure before my door. Unlike my typical hallucinations, I saw this one clearly before it made me pass out or disappeared itself. A shadow of a head and a white cloak was what made the figure. Tall, it was, too tall to fit through my door standing straight. Like in the girl in my dream, the figure stood mere feet outside my room.

Two differences:
1) I was the girl inside.
2) The watcher was not a young girl.

Not a young girl, yes, but not quite an aged man. I’m hesitant to admit it was a human.

A few good seconds passed before I peeled my attention away.


I was regaining some sense, but surely not enough. I didn’t want to sleep for I feared what waited for me on the other side. When I sleep, I don’t “dream.” My consciousness is transported out of my physical body and into who knows what.

Lying awake, not daring to focus on anything yet not daring to close my eyes in fear of the Sandman, I pondered.

A distraction.

I needed a distraction. Brain, be nice and give me a suitable distraction.

My eyelids, heavy with strain, cut off my vision and I was, surprisingly transported to number nine’s room. I haven’t seen number nine in a dream for ages.

(If you don’t know who number nine is, feel free to check around previous entries. He appears more than once as he played a huge part in my mental development.)

“What are you doing here?” he asked me with a voice so familiar it hurt.

“I had nightmares.”

Number nine knows I’m prone to hallucinations. He knows I’ve had my fair share of fright and confusion. He knows something with me isn’t quite right. At least, he should know all that. I have told him such in previous months.

Walking up to him, I felt an unwelcome stare. I glanced behind me and, sure enough, she was there.

“She’s here,” I told number nine and he let me rest my head against his chest, ensuring I couldn’t see anything.

I don’t remember where the dream took off from there, but when I woke up at 5:06AM, I felt lost.

I thought my special fondness for him faded. I mean, of course, it did, but strangers don’t do that to each other. Number nine and I are, practically, strangers again after all.

A daily dose of number nine is not strong enough to renew a dead feeling. He shares one, only one, class with me and despite our close seating, I am limited to witnessing him pass me by at the end of class.

I don’t know, dear readers. I am almost certain I’m “over” him, but why is it that he was the one who helped me this morning? Why him?

Anyway, you’re probably super confused. I’m not a very logical entity, so feel free to have my apologies. Meanwhile, comment below the artist and title of this song:

Lying close to you feeling your heart beating
And I'm wondering what you're dreaming
Wondering if it's me you're seeing

Guess correctly and a reward shall be granted~! Or you could just comment whatever. I don’t know if I even mentioned this before, but the comment section of my journal entries are not reserved for end-of-an-entry-lyric-guessing stuff. I’ve had people message me about my thoughts and such, but I do receive notifications for comments. Either or works, but I don’t want my fellow gaians to feel imposed upon for anything at all.

With all that said, I bid you a farewell. I have a lot of work to attend to, but I wanted to get this out there before I forget. Thanks for reading and have a nightmare-free life! yum_puddi