"I can't just pretend like I don't see them. I don't have that luxury. I tried to when I was younger, just ignoring them, but eventually you get tired of being afraid and the fear becomes white noise."

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Hearing the cries of the dead has a funny way of turning someone into a loner. I mean, it's not like I actively avoid making friends, but how could anyone ever understand? They don't know what it's like to see an extra shadow in a crowd, or hear extra voices at night, or feel an extra pair of eyes staring at them when they're alone. I'd rather just avoid the judgmental stares of the local flesh monsters, AKA my classmates.

Living in a world surrounded by ghosts kind of changes your perspective on things. I became desensitized to floating dead bodies by the time I was twelve, so I don't care who gets voted prom queen, or if my shoes are out of style. My sneakers are looking pretty rough though.

I glance at my worn checkered shoes as my eyes trace the long cracks in the sidewalk. My daily commute borders a narrow two-lane road, stretching from the southern edge of town to the high school. I make the same trek, end to end, every weekday. I distract myself from the world around me by stepping over every crack, casually avoiding any eye contact with both the living and the dead. It's harder than it sounds actually. Greenfield is like a million years old after all, and there are many cracks... and many dead.

Greenfield is a tiny forgotten town, visited only by those coming to see their grandparents once a year. Its many amenities include houses so old they’re practically museums, a library of books approved by the local church, and a creepy forest where two kids went missing last month. What more could a girl want?

My black hoodie hides my face, and the morning chill tickles the tip of my nose. Winter is finally here. The sweet smell of morning dew lasts a little longer, and the nearby woods are little quieter. The overcast sky drains the color from everything, not that Greenfield is teeming with color (it isn't), it just fills me with a little bit of calmness.

Fuck. The calmness is gone.

The air in my lungs evaporates as I pass a lone abandoned house, and a cold tingling fear creeps up my spine. I freeze, my feet firmly planted perpendicular to the brick steps leading to the front door. I refuse to turn my head and look at the house, knowing that something-someone is staring right back.

The Davidson's house went up in flames last year. Both the parents and their son died in the fire. Now the house just sits here, covered in caution tape, boarded up, and very haunted.

I've been avoiding this particular spirit for a while. It's just too sad, and frankly, it creeps me out. I close my eyes, breathe in slowly, and exhale in preparation for what is about to happen. "You can do this Autumn," I lie to myself. Then, I look up at the house.

I open my eyes and everything is black. Everything, except the house, which burns with white hot flames. I can feel the boiling heat against my face. The fire roars and cracks as wood snaps, sending embers flying into the sky like a swarm of wasps. But one sound penetrates all of it and bangs around inside my skull—a little boy screaming. His wails are filled with pure unfiltered terror, broken up with bouts of crying and coughing.

I use my hand to shield my eyes from the blinding light and search for the source. Then I find him, just a dark silhouette in the top left window. He stares down at me with two hollowed out sockets where his eyes should be, and his jaw stuck open unnaturally wide. His body is completely still, devoid of any life. His screams ring in my ears, as if he's standing right behind me, shifting from one ear to the other. "HELP. ME."

"No. No. NO. NO!" I close my eyes and press my hands against my temples. "Get out of my head!"

Then, it's gone. The heat is quickly replaced with the winter breeze once more, and silence returns. I open my eyes again. The house has returned to its old, charred, boarded up self. I look back to the top left window, hoping, praying he's gone. A shiver runs down my neck. One could mistake it for a simple reflection, but I see it—his silhouette still staring down at me.

"Fine." My breath shudders, and I make my decision. "Today, I'm coming back for you, chiquito. I promise." I continue my walk to school.

[https://i.imgur.com/hf7N1Kt.png]

I must have lost a bit of time in that vision earlier. Vision, dream, connection... I haven't really nailed down the names of all of my powers yet. In any case, it nearly made me late to school. I'm not timely or anything. Far from it. It's just—

"Hey Sixth Sense," Brennen shouts as I enter the school rotunda. The blood drains from my face, and every head within earshot turns to face me. The center of the rotunda suddenly feels like a massive stage, and I can feel the warmth on my skin from every person staring at me. Freshman year, I made the mistake of telling a boy about my abilities, that I can see the dead... that I'm a psycho. The whole school knows now, and I've become a walking red flag.

I fire a vile glare back at Brennen that'd make my mother proud. He defies the bully stereotype. He isn't some popular kid or football meat head. Nope. He's the soon to be valedictorian, but I guess even the dweebs need someone to pick on. I pull the strings of my hoodie, squeezing the fabric tight around my face, and groan. God, why couldn't my power be invisibility?

The halls begin to clear by the time I reach my locker. I quickly spin my combination into the lock and swing the door open. Drawings of pentagrams and demon heads, crammed in through the slits of my locker, suddenly flutter out and fall to the floor. How original. I'm shocked they figured out how many points are in a pentagram. My eyes roll. I throw my backpack inside and grab my notebook and History book.

"Hood off, Miss Everly," Mr. Martin instructs without even glancing up from his desk. Mr. Martin is a sweet man. He's young for a teacher. He keeps his face trimmed and his hair combed back, but he dresses casual in an effort to appeal to us. I pull my hood down, and shake my hair out a bit. I keep it short, just above my shoulders, to save me from hours of drying it. It may mean I look like the cucuy from my mom's stories sometimes, but I'm not really a "beauty is pain" kind of girl.

I find my seat and open my spiral notebook. It's filled with my scribbles and notes about spirits. History comes easy to me, and my mind tends to wander in class, so my History notebook is more of a ghostly bestiary. The last blank page has one note in the corner:

Davidson house: Residual/Intelligent/Poltergeist

I take my pencil and emphatically circle Intelligent. I've had a gut feeling all year, but that connection earlier made it absolutely clear. Only Intelligent spirits can reach out like that.

But that means there should still be a portal somewhere. It must be pretty faded, meaning that little boy doesn't have much time. That would explain the vision. But why the fire? Why not a cry for help? Why show me something so terrifying? I'm missing something.

"Open your books to page 394," Mr. Martin's voice silences the bustle of the class. "And we will continue our discussion of 1600's America, during the Salem Witch Trials."

"Mr. Martin," my eyes roll into the back of my head as I recognize the voice of Jaqueline Summers. If I have a polar opposite, it's Jaqueline. She does anything she can to stand out, wearing bright pinks and purples, fruity perfume that assaults my nostrils, and she is annoyingly pretty. "Surely those women must have been guilty of something to make everyone so suspicious. What if one of them really was a witch?" Pretty and dull.

I can feel the eyes of the room shift toward me, including Mr. Martin's. Good to know the gossip isn't exclusive to students. "Okay class," he says as he sets down his notes. Jaqueline's question clearly derailed whatever lesson he wanted to begin. "We're going to play a game. I need all of you to put your heads down."

I close my notebook and rest my head on my arms. My arms wrap around my face, blocking much of the light. "Good. Now close your eyes," he continues. His voice moves between the rows of students. "I am going to walk around the class. If I tap your shoulder, you are a witch. If I don't, you are safe."

Shit. Surely he isn't that cruel. Surely he won't pick me just to make some sort of point. It would be a death sentence. I'll never hear the end of it. His footsteps approach closer and closer. He'd never, right? I can feel his body heat hover over me. My whole body tenses as I prepare for his hand to tap my shoulder. But he doesn't. He walks past me. A swell of relief overtakes me and my chest relaxes into my desk.

"Okay everyone, you may lift your heads." I lift my head and open my eyes. Everyone glances around the room, silently looking for suspicious behavior. "Now, when I say go, all of you will separate into groups. If your group has a witch in it, you lose. Simple." I already hate this game. "Go."

The desks all squeak as everyone erupts from their desks to join their closest friends. Chatter fills the room as everyone begins to discuss their suspicions. I search the room for any group that doesn't look like a pack of wolves. The band geeks. They'll work. I walk toward their little group in the corner of the room.

"No way," one girl mutters, her eyes narrow with suspicion. "I literally heard his hand tap her when he passed." What a load of shit, she doesn't even sit near me. Not that it matters. They all turn their backs to me, making their rejection clear and biting. There's a larger group in the center of the room. Maybe I can sneak in without being noticed. "Sorry," the boy at the other end catches me squeezing into his group, "our group is big enough. We shouldn't take our chances."

I pick at my flaking black nail polish and turn around. I'll take any group at this point. Just don't let me be alone. My eyes accidentally meet Jaqueline's gaze, who sits at the front of the room with two other girls and some jock. She looks at me with arrogant disgust. Okay, almost any group.

"Time!" Mr. Martin's voice sends a shudder down my spine as I stand in the middle of the room—alone. I look down and I've almost picked the nail on my middle finger clean. I find my seat and shrink as small as I can. "I see many of you have found your groups," he continues. "Are you confident in your selections?" The class mumbles in agreement. "Then I will reveal the witches." My curiosity wins, and I look around the room. "If I tapped on your shoulder, please stand."

I scan the room, looking for any movement. It takes way too long for anyone to stand. I begin to wonder if maybe he did tap my shoulder and I just didn't feel it. What feels like a full minute passes and no one stands. My eyebrows tense. I'm confused.

"That's right." Mr. Martin's voice breaks the awkward silence. "There are no witches. Just like there were no witches in Salem." The students groan and roll their eyes. "But all of you were certain of your decisions. You came up with every reason you could to justify your suspicions, all based on fear. The power of suggestion is very real. Even you fell for it. The people of Salem weren't stupid. They were no different than any of you. Fear, unchecked, will destroy you and others around you." He paused. "Now back to your seats."

Mr. Martin's words linger in my head the rest of the day. His timing is weirdly perfect. My other classes don't really matter, because I know what I'm doing after school. Fear is the only reason I've avoided the Davidson house this long. It is a perfectly rational fear. I could get caught. I could get hurt. I could fucking die. Plus, I have no idea what other spirits are haunting that house. What if there's a poltergeist?

If I do nothing, that boy will suffer and he will never pass on. I can't bear that weight. Sometimes, I wish I was as heartless as Jaqueline. I wish I didn't have any powers to begin with, but I do. If I have to see that little boy suffer anymore, I'll never forgive myself.

I have senior-out 4th period. So, leaving the school is fairly quiet and easy. It feels like I'm sneaking out early. I mean, technically I am. I have the option to use senior-out as a study hall, but according to my mom it isn't optional. So, I need to stay out of sight from any nosey neighbors. This is a small town and word travels fast when your mom's on the town council. Thus, the black hoodie comes in handy once again.

So here I stand, in front of the Davidson house, and my heart stops. The boy in the top left window is gone. He's always there. Shit. Am I too late? My legs are cemented to the ground. What am I about to walk into? Fear, unchecked, will destroy you. Fuck it.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.