It was like a piece of my life was ripped from my memory. The last thing I remembered was that I closed my eyes with the hope that when I opened them I’d be safely back inside of my room. Instead, when I opened my eyes, I found myself somewhere else entirely.
Did I time travel? I was pretty sure time travel isn’t real. Then again, until today I was convinced ghosts weren’t real either.
This place appears to be from another time.. It looked like the set of that 70’s show, a complete mismatch of greens, yellows, and browns as far as the eye could see.
Why did it feel like I needed to continue further into the house? I need to find something important. However, I’m not sure what it is.
I moved slowly from the mudroom to the living room. It felt like there was something I needed to see in this room.
I found myself drawn toward a large antique fireplace. I noticed a collection of guns mounted on the wall next to it. I counted three guns and four mounts. The numbers didn’t add up. That felt concerning, but why?
There was a collection of old photos on the mantle. Perhaps these were what I was looking for?
One photo caught my attention. It was a photo of a young girl, her long brown hair caught the light just right, she wore a smile as bright as the sun. She held up a small fish in triumphant fashion. Beside her stood an older man, probably in his forties, pride written all over his face.
There was another photo—a holiday party, by the looks of it. It featured the same man, this time with an elderly woman around his age, her neck adorned with a gold locket. Was that the same locket the ghost girl wore? I leaned in closer, squinting to make out the initials, but they were too faded to be sure.
I scanned the other photos, searching for a clearer view. While I looked, the ghost girl appeared beside me. This was new—her expression was now tinged with sadness. I’d seen her with a neutral look or with a smile, but never like this. Now, there was a weight to her presence, a heaviness that made me feel like I was intruding on something deeply personal. In a way, I probably was.
“Was this you in the photo?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she floated toward the kitchen, her movement slow, deliberate, almost like she was leading me somewhere. I followed, because what else was I going to do? I had no idea where else I would go. To be honest with myself, I’m still not even sure where I was or what I was looking for. Going with her felt like the right move, for now.
The kitchen was another relic of the past, with its vintage blue fridge and an oven that looked straight out of the 60s. Unlike the garish living room, this space had a certain charm, an almost nostalgic appeal.
I looked at the ghost girl. She clearly wasn't interested in the decor. Whatever connection we had felt stronger here. It was like I felt her sadness. I did my best to hold back tears..
She wanted me there. It was her that wanted me to see these things. It felt so obvious.
My gaze followed hers to the dining room table. It was set for three people. Was someone else here? Or had there been? I don’t remember ever seeing another person. I took note of the whiskey bottle and glass on the table that appeared mostly finished off. That was strange.
I felt myself seize back control of my body, with it, the calmness that washed over me seemed to vanish in an instant. I was suddenly all too aware of my situation.
Wait, the old man. This was his house, what the hell was I doing here? Breaking and entering, that’s what. How had I been so calm about it? I wasn’t a criminal. This wasn’t like me at all.
Yet here I was, my hand wrapped around a used bottle of whiskey. I stood in the old man’s kitchen, rifling through his life. Oh man, there was a missing gun from his collection. That must have been a gun in his hand when I saw him earlier.
I felt my fight or flight instinct kick in. I was definitely not a fighter. I was ready to bolt when a knock on the kitchen window stopped me cold.
A voice yelled out from the other end of the window, it was faint but clear.
“He’s coming back!” It was Murphs voice. I saw him point at something—a door. Murph, you genius. I threw him a thumbs up and opened the door. It led to a basement. Of course it did.
I’ve always had an irrational fear of basements. As a kid, my mom used to send me down to turn off the light, and I’d bolt up the stairs like the devil himself was after me. Now, with actual ghosts in my life, the fear was worse. What if they weren’t the friendly kind?
My attention was redirected to a sound in the other room. The front door creaked open. It wouldn't take long now, he’d be here soon.
Well, crap. I didn’t have a choice now. I stepped onto the basement stairs, easing the door shut behind me, praying it wouldn’t draw attention. I did my best to keep the stairs from creaking as I slowly descended them, but in a house this old my best didn’t account for much.
It was dark down here, the only light coming from a small window on the other side of the room.
A knock on that same window caught my attention. I’d bet anything it was Murph.
Honestly, I couldn’t believe he was still here with me. Would I have stayed if the roles were reversed and it was him who broke into someone's house? Possibly. But I definitely would have given him a lot of shit about it afterwards. One of the best traits about the guy was his ability to do anything without question.
As I made my way toward the window, I slammed my knee into something hard and wooden. Pain shot through me, but I bit back a scream, doing my best to stay silent.
Still, the noise had been loud enough for the old man to potentially hear me. I stood still, ears straining for any sounds from upstairs.
Man I hated it here, is this my life now? I don’t want to be constantly trying to hide in the basement of murderers. I mean he’s not for sure a murderer, but come on. Who keeps a basement this messy if they were a nice normal person.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Once I was sure the coast was clear, I continued to the window. When I reached it, I realized just how flawed my plan was—the window was at least seven feet off the ground. I was barely six feet on a good day and not the most athletic.
I jumped, trying to grab the latch, but jumping in the dark wasn’t exactly easy. On my second attempt, my fingers caught hold, and I managed to pry the window open a few inches, enough to see Murph’s face peering in.
“Hey, I brought this with me. Maybe you can use it to find something to climb on,” Murph said, tossing down a flashlight.
“You always seem so prepared.”
“One of us has to be prepared when one best friend goes off the rails. Then tells the other to go home to safety, before they risk their life to sneak into someone's house. As dumb as you are, I wasn't going to just leave you here alone.”
I don’t remember telling him to go home. That's concerning. At this point it was another confusing thing to add to the list of unanswered questions about what was happening to me. A list that seemed to be growing at an unnervingly quick rate.
“Thanks. I think I bumped into a table earlier. I’ll see if I can use it.”
The flashlight was exactly what I needed. I turned it on, casting a beam over the room. This place was a disaster—junk piled everywhere. Honestly, it was a miracle I’d only hit that one table.
A large knocking sound caught my attention in the corner of the room. I aimed the flashlight toward the sound, but it dimmed, almost going fully out. That wasn’t a good sign.
The noise had come from an old armoire at the other end of the room. The flashlight dimmed again. I didn’t have much time, but something told me I had to know what was in there. I walked over to it.
I opened the first drawer. Inside was the locket from the picture. It sat neatly in a box with a transparent top. The initials NM were etched into the metal.
On the back of the box were the words, property of Nicole Monroe. This was definitely the same locket. That had to be her name. I don’t understand why he had this down here.
I opened the top section of the armoire. They creaked, the sound loud enough to make me wince. It was like no one had touched this thing in years.
What I saw inside made my stomach turn. Hanging on the rack was a collection of teenage girls’ clothes. Among them, a pink polo with a dark, ominous stain on the back.
Blood. It was blood! Oh god why?
The old man must have kept her clothes as trophies. This wasn’t just an old house—it was a monument to his crimes. No wonder he never sold the place.
The basement door creaked open, and I scrambled behind a pile of junk, killing the flashlight. I raised my hands to pray. I wasn’t sure who I was praying to, just to whoever it was that wanted to listen. Please, let him not see me.
The stairs creaked as he descended, each step echoing in my head like the countdown to my doom. Was this it? Was I going to die in some psycho’s basement, all because I couldn’t leave well enough alone?
“Who’s down there?” His voice was rough, filled with anger. “I’ve got a gun, and I’m not afraid to use it!”
I caught a faint hint of whiskey as he stumbled toward me. He had been drinking. I could hear each uneven step as he tried to maintain his balance. He knocked into items as he tried to navigate.
I heard a pile of junk fall over next to me. He had apparently been using it to try and maintain his balance.
I imagined him throwing me in his little dungeon where he kept his victims. Slowly torturing me until my body gave out from exhaustion. At least I had thought ahead and told people where I was.
By now, hopefully Murph was running to the police for help. Maybe they would make it to me in time for them to save my ass. That’s assuming he didn’t just shoot me here and now.
I felt him stand above me. This time, my fight or flight senses never triggered. Well, that was unfortunate.
I stood as still as I possibly could, but it was only a matter of time before he found me. This was it. A day after learning ghosts existed, I was about to become one. Hopefully, I skip this step and cross right over to the afterlife.
You know, they say your life flashes before your eyes in moments like this, but mine didn’t. Instead, I saw her—the ghost girl, a teenager who’d been snuffed out before her time, her dreams and hopes lost to a twisted mind.
I saw Alex, who’d stared death in the face every day, knowing his time was limited.
And I saw Murph, kicking the basement window in with all his strength, sending it flying off its hinges.
Wait, that wasn’t a memory. He really just did that. That crazy SOB!
The old man turned, cursing as he ran toward the broken window. That was my cue. I bolted from behind the pile, racing up the stairs two at a time.
“Hey stop! I’ll shoot!” I heard him yell after me, but I didn’t look back.
I ran like my life depended on it—because it did.
###
Murph and I parted ways with a plan to sync up on AIM once we were both safely home. Luckily, I managed to slip back into my house unnoticed. At least something went right tonight.
I caught sight of him looking me over as if to make sure I was mentally alright before he let me go. Honestly, I wasn’t so sure. Something was wrong with me. There was so much about this new ability I had yet to understand.
The girl was still with me, sitting once again on the bed, her expression returned to the melancholic gaze I'd seen before.
Maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me, but there was a feeling of disappointment surrounding her that hadn’t been there earlier. I guess uncovering the truth about her wasn’t enough to bring her peace.
I sat at my desk, the house phone heavy in my hand. It was late, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had to tell someone what I found. I dug into my pockets, fingers fumbling until I finally found the crumpled piece of paper with Naomi Johnson’s number on it.
With a deep breath, I dialed the numbers. The phone rang, but quickly went to voicemail.
“Hello, you’ve reached Detective Johnson with the Ravenwood Police Department. I’m unable to get to your phone call right now. Please leave a message after the beep with your name and number, and I’ll try to get back to you as soon as I can. If this is an emergency, please hang up and call 911.”
Beep.
For a moment, I just sat there, the phone pressed to my ear, words stuck in my throat. What the hell do I even say? Hey, I’m the new ghost guy in town, and I just broke into an old farmhouse and found a dead girl’s clothes? Yeah, that’ll go over well.
But I couldn’t just hang up, either. I had to say something.
“Uh, hi, this is Joe. I’m a friend of Alex. He told me to call you if I ever needed someone who believed. I, uh, I think something terrible happened at the old farmhouse on 143rd and East Raven Way. I believe a young girl was murdered there. A long time ago, maybe. I’m actually confident. She pretty much told me so.”
I hung up before I could second-guess myself, the exhaustion of the day finally crashing over me. The girl was still there, perched on my bed, her sad eyes following me as I set the phone down. I was too tired to deal with trying to force her out of my bed tonight. The floor would have to do. Sleep would have to wait. I needed to talk to Murph about what happened.
I pulled up a chat window on my laptop. “Hey, we need to look up information on a girl named Nicole Monroe. I believe she’s the ghost I see. Something happened to her.”
I stared at the screen, waiting for a reply, but my eyelids were growing heavier by the second. Maybe if I just rested my head on the desk for a minute…
The darkness crept in, pulling me into its warm embrace. The room faded away, and just as I was about to slip into unconsciousness, a voice whispered in my ear, soft and haunting, like the sound of the sea through a conch shell.
“Please. He needs your help.”
I jolted awake, my heart hammered in my chest. The sun appeared to be on the rise, a natural alarm. I had apparently slept through the night.
What did she mean? Who needs my help? I glanced at my laptop. I had ten missed messages from Murph. Well Crap. I tried to read over them, my vision still a bit hazy.
It was information he found about the girl. Had he stayed up all night to research this? He linked to a news article about a girl who died in a car wreck with the same name.
A car wreck? That couldn't have been her. She was murdered. None of this was adding up.
My head started to spin.
I scrolled down to the last message just said, “Joe, we need to talk. I think we screwed up.”
Oh man, that's not good.