"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."


    <hr>


    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.


    Davidson house: Residual/Intelligent/Poltergeist


    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.


    Pretty and dull.


    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?


    Fear, unchecked, will destroy you. Fuck it.


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