hawk and the badger were etched into Owen’s sight. The hawk spread its wings in the darkness. The badger reared up, hissing. Owen raised his arms in defense. The office door creaked open as the other two specimens slipped quietly inside. None of them were quiet for long.
Mr. Stanton told me that a person can be haunted by a memory of something bad. I guess that’s why I started writing in this notebook. My memories.
But most people hear “hauntings,” and they think “ghosts.”
Some say a person can become a ghost if they have unfinished business leftover from their life. They might never have gotten the chance to tell someone that they love them, so their spirit lingers, eternally hopeless. Or a person might have been murdered, and in death, they long to tell the living who it was that wronged them. Either that, or the ghost might try to take their own vengeance.
At the cemetery near my apartment building, there is lots of strange energy, at least according to Janet and Benji. They say they’ve heard all sorts of stories about ghosts haunting the grounds. I’ve always wondered, What kind? The kind that loves? The kind that kills? Or the kind that are only memories?
Once, the three of us went walking there after school. We wandered the twisted paths, up and down hills, snaking past gravestones and monuments. Janet had brought her phone, which has a pretty good camera in it. We came to one spot where a large mausoleum was built into the steep hillside, so that the roof of the weird building actually met the lawn.
Above the door, a name had been carved into the stone. WHITNEY. The entrance had been boarded up. A crooked gate was locked across the boards with rusted chains. Benji was the one who’d noticed that there was space at the bottom of the doorway to see inside. Staring into the darkness, we saw a set of stairs leading down into shadow.
At the bottom of the stairs was a room, and at the back of the room was a wall made up of small compartments. Janet explained that this was where the Whitney family was entombed, that each compartment contained a dead body. I stumbled back, but she leaned forward, pulled her phone from her pocket, and reached through the bars to take a picture.
A weird thing happened when we got back to Janet and Benji’s place. She uploaded the pic to her computer, where we could examine it on a bigger screen. What we saw gave us goose bumps on top of our goose bumps. In the middle of the tomb, there was a bluish mist. And in the middle of the mist, Janet pointed out, a pair of black eyes was staring up at us. We could just make out the shape of a head, thrown back. Its mouth was twisted open. Janet deleted the picture immediately, then yanked the computer’s plug out of the wall, even though I told her that might mess everything up.
Later, when I was trying to sleep, I thought about ghosts. Then I thought about the cemetery and Janet’s picture. I wonder, when I am dead, will my ghost hang around on earth for unfinished business? What business did the figure in the mist have down in the darkness of the tomb? The thing didn’t look human. And then I wondered if what Janet had captured on her camera might be something other than a ghost. But what? A ghoul? A demon? Or something worse? Something I can’t even imagine?
I never got all the way to sleep that night. And I haven’t been back to the cemetery since.
C ASSIDY WAS WOKEN the next morning by distant sirens. Normally, in the city, this wouldn’t have bothered her — she might even not have heard them — but in Whitechapel, the noise was jarring.
She opened her eyes to the dim light of Tony’s curtained bedroom. She slid her hand under her pillow and caught her finger on the hard edge of her notebook. She pulled out the book and glanced down at the page to which she’d opened it the previous night. Hauntings .
The rain and the wind had pummeled the valley. Usually, on nights like that, Cassidy would open the book to
Mr. Stanton told me that a person can be haunted by a memory of something bad. I guess that’s why I started writing in this notebook. My memories.
But most people hear “hauntings,” and they think “ghosts.”
Some say a person can become a ghost if they have unfinished business leftover from their life. They might never have gotten the chance to tell someone that they love them, so their spirit lingers, eternally hopeless. Or a person might have been murdered, and in death, they long to tell the living who it was that wronged them. Either that, or the ghost might try to take their own vengeance.
At the cemetery near my apartment building, there is lots of strange energy, at least according to Janet and Benji. They say they’ve heard all sorts of stories about ghosts haunting the grounds. I’ve always wondered, What kind? The kind that loves? The kind that kills? Or the kind that are only memories?
Once, the three of us went walking there after school. We wandered the twisted paths, up and down hills, snaking past gravestones and monuments. Janet had brought her phone, which has a pretty good camera in it. We came to one spot where a large mausoleum was built into the steep hillside, so that the roof of the weird building actually met the lawn.
Above the door, a name had been carved into the stone. WHITNEY. The entrance had been boarded up. A crooked gate was locked across the boards with rusted chains. Benji was the one who’d noticed that there was space at the bottom of the doorway to see inside. Staring into the darkness, we saw a set of stairs leading down into shadow.
At the bottom of the stairs was a room, and at the back of the room was a wall made up of small compartments. Janet explained that this was where the Whitney family was entombed, that each compartment contained a dead body. I stumbled back, but she leaned forward, pulled her phone from her pocket, and reached through the bars to take a picture.
A weird thing happened when we got back to Janet and Benji’s place. She uploaded the pic to her computer, where we could examine it on a bigger screen. What we saw gave us goose bumps on top of our goose bumps. In the middle of the tomb, there was a bluish mist. And in the middle of the mist, Janet pointed out, a pair of black eyes was staring up at us. We could just make out the shape of a head, thrown back. Its mouth was twisted open. Janet deleted the picture immediately, then yanked the computer’s plug out of the wall, even though I told her that might mess everything up.
Later, when I was trying to sleep, I thought about ghosts. Then I thought about the cemetery and Janet’s picture. I wonder, when I am dead, will my ghost hang around on earth for unfinished business? What business did the figure in the mist have down in the darkness of the tomb? The thing didn’t look human. And then I wondered if what Janet had captured on her camera might be something other than a ghost. But what? A ghoul? A demon? Or something worse? Something I can’t even imagine?
I never got all the way to sleep that night. And I haven’t been back to the cemetery since.
C ASSIDY WAS WOKEN the next morning by distant sirens. Normally, in the city, this wouldn’t have bothered her — she might even not have heard them — but in Whitechapel, the noise was jarring.
She opened her eyes to the dim light of Tony’s curtained bedroom. She slid her hand under her pillow and caught her finger on the hard edge of her notebook. She pulled out the book and glanced down at the page to which she’d opened it the previous night. Hauntings .
The rain and the wind had pummeled the valley. Usually, on nights like that, Cassidy would open the book to
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