I laid on my back on my bed, one arm flung above my head, the other resting across my abdomen. It was hot, but the rain was beating down on the roof of the flat, lighening forking across the sky from where I watched it out of the window. The only light in the room that was on was the desk lamp, shedding a small halo of muted yellow. I didn't really need it, but I was used to it. Some might say, 'maybe you're afraid of the dark. Night light?' But they'd be wrong. I wasn't afraid of the dark. I wasn't afraid of being alone.
Part of that was because I was never really alone. And it wasn't me that was afraid, anyway.
She was quiet for now, crouched somewhere in the corner near the light. She liked to be near it, and we'd had a lot of discussions (read: arguments) about her always wanting the light to be near me, so that she was comfortable, sandwiched between a soft glow and me. But I told her I couldn't have it glaring in my eyes all the time. I have to have some standards, right?
I was watching the storm, so I couldn't see her, but I could feel her. I knew she was there. She'd been there since I was seven.
Margaret Elizabeth Willowby. She was about seven or eight, though she couldn't remember exactly. A small girl, both in stature and general size, with dark eyes, brown hair that couldn't quite decide if it wanted to be curly or just wavy, and little bow lips that reminded me of a cupid. Her clothes were old fashioned and drab- dark navy blue and white, with a bonnet that sometimes wasn't there, like she forget whether she had worn it or not. Not very stylish, but what could you do when you're dead?
She'd died in 1692 in Salem, Massachusetts. She'd been sentenced to be burned at the stake for being a witch, along with her mother. Her mother had been a free spirit and that was never good in Puritan society. They'd burned Margaret first to make her mother watch, and then? Then the orders were stayed and her mother got lucky.
They say when you die and you don't leave it's because you have unfinished business. I didn't know what the business would have been, and I'm not sure Margaret knew, either. I tried to help but she didn't really talk about it that much. I think she is afraid to move on. But I'm not one to force her to do it; it isn't my place.
I'd been seeing ghosts for a long time, but she'd been here the longest, attached to me for years and years. I'd picked her up when I was visiting my grandparents in Tennessee. I'm not sure how she ended up in the state, but maybe she was called to me. That's what Sam told me, anyway. That some people draw ghosts, and I guess that's what I do.
Of course, to most people I just seem crazy. And maybe I am, a little. I'm not even really sure anymore. Margaret is absolutely terrified of people hurting her, and she made me swear that I'd never tell anyone about her unless she said it was ok. There has been exactly two people she's said it's ok to- my best friend, Lily, and Daigh. Lily I think because she's around a lot and she has her own problems, and Daigh because... well, it's Daigh.
I can't really explain to anyone, so I'll just have to keep on looking crazy. But that's a small price to pay to give Margaret some peace of mind, really. And I'm used to people discounting what I say, so I'm not losing out on much!
Part of that was because I was never really alone. And it wasn't me that was afraid, anyway.
She was quiet for now, crouched somewhere in the corner near the light. She liked to be near it, and we'd had a lot of discussions (read: arguments) about her always wanting the light to be near me, so that she was comfortable, sandwiched between a soft glow and me. But I told her I couldn't have it glaring in my eyes all the time. I have to have some standards, right?
I was watching the storm, so I couldn't see her, but I could feel her. I knew she was there. She'd been there since I was seven.
Margaret Elizabeth Willowby. She was about seven or eight, though she couldn't remember exactly. A small girl, both in stature and general size, with dark eyes, brown hair that couldn't quite decide if it wanted to be curly or just wavy, and little bow lips that reminded me of a cupid. Her clothes were old fashioned and drab- dark navy blue and white, with a bonnet that sometimes wasn't there, like she forget whether she had worn it or not. Not very stylish, but what could you do when you're dead?
She'd died in 1692 in Salem, Massachusetts. She'd been sentenced to be burned at the stake for being a witch, along with her mother. Her mother had been a free spirit and that was never good in Puritan society. They'd burned Margaret first to make her mother watch, and then? Then the orders were stayed and her mother got lucky.
They say when you die and you don't leave it's because you have unfinished business. I didn't know what the business would have been, and I'm not sure Margaret knew, either. I tried to help but she didn't really talk about it that much. I think she is afraid to move on. But I'm not one to force her to do it; it isn't my place.
I'd been seeing ghosts for a long time, but she'd been here the longest, attached to me for years and years. I'd picked her up when I was visiting my grandparents in Tennessee. I'm not sure how she ended up in the state, but maybe she was called to me. That's what Sam told me, anyway. That some people draw ghosts, and I guess that's what I do.
Of course, to most people I just seem crazy. And maybe I am, a little. I'm not even really sure anymore. Margaret is absolutely terrified of people hurting her, and she made me swear that I'd never tell anyone about her unless she said it was ok. There has been exactly two people she's said it's ok to- my best friend, Lily, and Daigh. Lily I think because she's around a lot and she has her own problems, and Daigh because... well, it's Daigh.
I can't really explain to anyone, so I'll just have to keep on looking crazy. But that's a small price to pay to give Margaret some peace of mind, really. And I'm used to people discounting what I say, so I'm not losing out on much!