Classwork

Ghost

Oh God, there's so much blood.

That was Ethel Indigo's first thought as a spectral being, looking down at her own body. Not, "where am I," like most, but instead, "there's so much blood." As if she wasn't surprised. What she was surprised by, however, was the sound of her weathered, wooden front door complaining as it was slowly pushed open.

Ethel let out a squeak and spun around to face the newcomer. The hallway was dark, but she recognized the hunched figure of her mother returning home after a laborious day of work. Her mother's bright eyes looked right through her daughter's apparition and to the body, the blood, the fecal matter coating the living room. Her right hand flew up to cover her mouth, which was hanging open in a silent scream.

"Ethel... Oh, my Ethel!" Her mother cried, rushing forward to gather the dripping remains of her daughter. A loud sob wracked her body as she fell to the floor, cradling Ethel's head in her lap. A silent, silver tear fell from Ethel's eye, disappearing just before it hit the ground.

Her mother set down the body painfully slowly, and brushed her sticky, now-red hands against her skirt. She took one step backwards, and then another, and in just a few seconds, she was back against the door. Her left hand curled into an evil-warding symbol and she muttered something in French before quickly opening the portal and throwing herself outside of the house. She dialed the police, and before long, two men were at the site, one to take pictures and another to take the grueling task of cleaning up the mess. The ghostly form of Ethel stood silently, unmoving until the two men had left, the room less gory than it had been, but by no means clean.

And then the realization set in.

"I have to warn Michelle," she breathed, one hand clenching into a fist, "he'll get her too, if I don't."

She walked out—no, through—the door and into the frozen beyond. She found it strange that she didn't feel the cold, matter of fact, she didn't feel anything other than a boiling rage deep in her gut, which she put aside. She had to find Michelle first, to warn her. Her feet didn't make imprints on the snow, but she could still feel it against her feet as if she was real.

I am real, right?

Down the lane she went, making better time than when she was still alive. She didn't feel any strain on her muscles when she ran, so her feet pounded against the pavement, though making no noise.

It wasn't long before she stood in front of her best friend's house. The light was on in her friend's room, and she saw Michelle's form at her desk in front of the window.

She's safe. Thank God.

And then she noticed the figure behind Michelle. A man. Her eyes went wide, and she took two running steps forward before she found herself in the room.

"MICHELLE!" she screamed, praying her friend could hear. The man was behind her, a wicked grin catching the light. A long, serrated blade was clutched in his hand tightly, his knuckles almost white. Michelle didn't seem to notice either of them.

Ethel reached for the nearest object, a lamp, and grabbed it with one hand. Her grip around it was firm.

Oh, thank God.

She picked up the lamp, or at least tried to. When she tensed her muscles to pick it up, she couldn't. It was fixed, in another dimension for all she was concerned.

The man swung the knife in a hard sideways arc, making contact with Michelle's neck. Her head flew off her shoulders, and, well, I'll spare the details of what came next. Just know that Ethel stared on in horror the entire time.

It wasn't until after the man had left the house, leaving Michelle's mutilated body behind in the same fashion as Ethel's that Ethel moved at all, actually, her fist clenching.

"USELESS! I AM USELESS!" she screamed, knowing that no one could hear her. Tears poured from her eyes, her best friend's dead form registering somewhere behind her eyes. She walked to the closest wall and kicked as hard as she could, but she felt no pain, no relief.

"John Mitchell," the words poured out of her mouth like frozen flames, her eyes smoldering with rage, "you are a dead man."

She let out a high-pitched wail, pummeling a wall for what seemed to her like hours, her muscles never growing tired. Eventually, her arms slowed, and she took a step away from the wall.

"It's fine. Everything is fine. Everything will be fine. It's fine."

She took a deep breath, though she didn't need to, and let her arms fall to her sides. She looked around the room, gears turning in her head.

"So," she reasoned aloud, "he isn't coming back here. He might have other targets... No, he doesn't. I know him too well." She looked around the room with the sigh, and then trained her gaze up, towards the ceiling. "You know, it would be nice if I could write things down."

She sighed, an ironic chuckle escaping her lips as she turned to face the door. A steely expression on her face, she padded from the room, and then the house, on the frozen streets once again. Not sure where she was headed, she let her feet take her, eventually stopping at an abandoned factory, the walls, where not covered in graffiti, were a rusty brown, and not a single window had not been broken. She took a deep breath out of habit, an unsettling feeling settling over her.

"I'm sure he's not here. I mean, he isn't here, right? What would I do if he was here?" The thoughts poured out of her mouth, each word assuring her of her restlessness.

Without allowing herself another word, Ethel stepped up to the great, barn door-like portal and pushed the squeaky wooden structure open, her feet making tapping noises on the cement floor.