Haunted- Draft test run

This is a rough opening chapters to a ghost/romance I have started to write. I have read and re read it so many times I no longer have an objective view on it so I cant tell if it is any good.

Chapter 1:

 

I almost certain it was Benjamin Franklin who once wrote, “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” Benjamin Franklin was a smart man but I would have to disagree with him on this point. While taxes may promise permanency…I’ve learned death sometimes does not.

             We can be no more certain about death than we are about life. Most of us assume that when we die were a greeted by a white light, pearly gates and all of our dead loved ones. But, the reality is no one really knows what happens after we die. We only know that it will happen. We do not know how. We do not know when. All we know is that someday everything that we have worked our entire lives to create will be mercilessly ripped away with no second chance. One day you are and the next day you're not. Whatever comes after that is anyone’s guess...except mine.
            I suppose you would call me a ghost. A spirit. A specter. A phantom. But in my mind I'm still just Cecilia Stone. Eighteen years old and just about to graduate high school.

            I suppose I died in 1958 but I have no idea how. All these years I have pondered over the reason for my existence. Racking my brain trying to remember if I was sick or in an accident, something that would explain how I got this way. Why am I here? I know I’m dead but I don’t know why I didn’t go where all the other people who die go. Why am I trapped in this formless existence (If it is even an existence at all) while others move along to whatever is on the other side of that light?
             At Sunday school I learned that purgatory was a place where souls waited to be purified and sent to Heaven. Perhaps that is what is happening to me. Perhaps I am stuck in this limbo state just waiting for my turn to cross over into Heaven...wherever that is.
            I am certainly not in Heaven now. I’m not sure where I am exactly. I mean, I recognize my surroundings as my family’s home, the home I spent my childhood in, but it’s different. It’s empty and lonely; A mere shadow of its old self, like me. All of my mother’s beautiful antique furniture has been covered by white sheets like Halloween ghosts. It’s dark and dusty. It was as if the house died along with me. Now we both just kind of exist here on our lonely hill overlooking town. On a plane of the universe that is both completely separate from that of the living while still being a part of it.Trapped in a state that is neither fully alive nor fully dead.

            How do I begin to describe what it’s like to be a ghost? How do you describe the sky to someone who has never seen the colour blue? How do I put into words the ineffable emptiness one feels when they have forever lost everything there is to possibly lose?

            I can tell you it is a lot to get use to. If I were being honest I would tell you that even after all this time it has never gotten any easier. It’s still hard for me. Not being able to touch anything, grab anything. No human contact. No one to talk to. No hugs, no kisses not even a handshake. Not being able to feel my feet on the ground or the breeze in my hair. Not being able to eat, to taste food. What I wouldn’t give for one last bite of my mother’s Sunday roast or a juicy bite of watermelon on a hot summer day. To feel the sun on my skin or the cold bite of a winter morning on my cheeks as I step outside on my way to school. Those everyday pleasures I took for granted when I was alive all seem like part of a distant heaven I once belonged to. Not anymore.

           I think the strangest part about being a spirit would be being invisible. You start to feel like you are just a floating brain; a bubble of all these thoughts and emotions floating around with no vessel to hold them. I have no sense of touch or smell or taste. I can only see and hear the world around me with no way of interacting with it.

            I remember a book I read when I was alive. It talked about a man named Descartes who theorized that the very act of doubting one’s own existence is in fact proof of its reality. He summed up his philosophy in one simple statement, “I think, therefore I am.” He basically meant that if you have thoughts floating around in your brain, whether you’re pondering the universe or thinking about dinner, it means you exist.
            I like to think I still exist. 
            That’s one thing being dead does give you; a lot of time to think�"about the world, about life and death; about what it means to be alive. Upon this subject I have come to a single conclusion. I realize that I did not live my life the way I ought to have. That is not to say I ever did anything really bad, I just never lived it to the fullest. I would hide myself away in my bedroom with my books and records and let the world pass me by. I don’t know why. I suppose it was my fear of failure that made me too afraid to take any chances. Afraid I would disappoint my family or get hurt. I became a prisoner of my own fear and my room was my cell.

            The process of accepting the fact that I am dead has brought along a sense of clarity. I am no longer afraid of those things I was too afraid to do in life. The ironic and devastating fact is, I will never get that second chance. I regret everyday that I wasted.

            I read a poem once. It was about a little bird in a cage. All the little bird wanted to do was to fly free and swing on the branches with the other birds. The bird beat his wings so hard against the bars that they become bloodied and bruised and when he could no longer beat his wings the bird began to sing. “It is not a carol of joy or glee,/ but a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,/ but a plea, that upward to heaven he flings--/ I know why the caged bird sings!”

            I remember feeling sorry for the bird. Trapped all alone in a little cage with no way of escaping no matter how hard he tried. I felt his frustration as he beat his wings in vain against the cruel bars. My heart broke when he finally gave up and could do no more than sing his mournful prayer. I remember wanting to step inside the poem, unlatch the tiny door and release the bird. I wanted us to be free together to sing happier tunes.

            I've learned since then that not all cages have doors. The walls of my cage, though invisible, are really quite real and separate my world from that of the living. My torture has been to watch for countless years as life and time and joy elude me�"passing me by with no way to stop it as it flows through my ethereal fingers like so much water.
           I want you to imagine now, that your life is a series of stepping stones. Imagine these stones as tiny islands in the middle of a vast ocean. Now imagine you're out in the middle of that ocean hopping from stone to stone. You stop and suddenly you realize that every stone around you has disappeared except for the one that you are standing on. You're completely stranded. 

All alone on a solitary stone in the middle of a vast ocean with nothing but the endless horizon of empty space.

Stranded.

 Alone.

And that is all you will ever be again. Standing on a rock, in the middle of the ocean with nowhere to go and nothing but your own mind to keep you company.

That’s what it’s like, becoming a ghost.

.          

Chapter 2:

           

            The morning I woke up as a ghost I did not immediately realize I was dead.  I simply got up feeling as though my whole body was numb and tingling. I looked down and realized I was still wearing the same dress I put on the previous morning for school. I thought it was odd I didn’t change into my nightgown as usual before bed and even stranger that I didn’t even remember going to bed. I remembered going to school and coming home but nothing about seeing my parents or dinnertime. I rubbed my eyes because the red flowered pattern on my white dress seemed somewhat foggy in my morning vision. I didn’t even realize I was looking right through myself.
            As I made my way downstairs and through the second floor corridor I could hear voices in the parlor a floor below. Though it was unusually early for guests I was used to people being in our home. My mother was quite the socialite and hosted afternoon teas and dinner parties all the time. This, however, did not sound like any party she had ever had before.
            It sounded like there was a large group of people talking but the noise they made was barely above a whisper. There was no laughing or tinkling of china and I could have sworn I heard someone crying.

            Curious, I quietly made my way down the main staircase and peeked into the parlor. There were about twenty or so people standing around in various positions making hushed conversation. I recognized many of them as family members, old teachers, classmates and people I knew from around town. The women sat in chairs dabbing their eyes with white handkerchiefs, while some of the men stood around the marble fireplace smoking their cigarettes. The thing they all had in common however was that they were all dressed in black and they all wore the same subdued look on their face.

            When I was a child my grandfather died and I remembered a very similar gathering to the one I was witnessing now. A sense of foreboding began to simmer in the back of my mind.

            I located the source of the crying I heard from upstairs. It was my best friend and neighbor Ruby. She was sitting in a far corner of the room in one of the dining chairs that had been pulled into the parlor to accommodate the large group. Her head was in her hands and she sobbed openly. Her body was shaking violently and she was struggling for breath. I wanted to go to her so badly but I had to find my mother and father first and find out what was going on.

            I noticed my mother was sitting on her favorite sofa. The look on her face frightened me. Her eyes were wide and red and glazed over. It looked like she had been crying for days. She wasn't blinking or moving at all. She just stared straight ahead like a statue, looking at nothing. Her hands held a handkerchief so tightly I thought it might tear.

            Her sisters, my aunts, were sitting on either side of her rubbing her back and shoulders consolingly, not saying a word or looking at her.         

            “Mother?” I went to her immediately “Mother what’s wrong?” She didn’t look at me or even seem to hear me. She looked so delicate I was afraid to touch her for fear she might crumble to pieces before my eyes. My hands hovered over her helplessly.

            I directed my question at my aunt Susan, “Whats wrong with her aunty? What happened? Did someone die?” I let out a gasp as my heart fluttered in panic. My thoughts immediately went to my father whose health hadn’t always been the greatest. I quickly scanned the room for his face. With relief I found him standing by the front bay window looking out at the magnolia trees in full bloom that filled our yard.

            When I went to him I noticed he held a similar expression to my mothers. “Papa, whats going on? Whose funeral is this?” his gaze didn't shift a millimeter. That was when Reverend Jacobs came up to my father and put a hand on his shoulder. He looked out in the same direction as my father and spoke  in a soft tone “She’s with the Lord now, Charles. There is no better place for her than that.”

            My father seemed to snap out of his trance for a moment and gave the reverend a weak and appreciative smile before returning to his far off gaze.
            “Who?” I demanded. No one seemed to hear me. “Who died?!” I hollered and noticed for the first time I that my voice sounded different. It seemed to echo in my ears. The sound of it reminded me of swimming as a child and trying to scream as loud as I could underneath the water. Just like under the water I could tell no matter how loudly I screamed my voice was not going any further than my own head. Panic began to boil up from the recesses of my brain.

            It was at that moment that everything started to become clear. I started to catch little bits what the hushed voices around me were saying. Like pieces in a hideous puzzle they began to fit together to form a picture. “Too young...” I heard. “Such a beautiful girl.” said another. “What a tragedy.” “Poor Cecilia.”
            Poor Cecilia? I thought with stabbing realization. Was this my funeral?

           

            It was then that I noticed a piece of furniture in the room that did not belong there. I had not noticed it before because it was pushed up against the far wall. It was a casket, but I couldn't see the body inside. I approached it slowly and reluctantly.

            I immediately recognized the serene sleeping face as my own. At first glance it looked as though I was merely sleeping. The makeup caked on my cheeks and lips gave the indication that blood still flowed beneath the skin and my blonde hair was perfectly curled and sprawled out on the satin white pillow. I wore a different dress. It was blue and I had always hated it because the crinoline underneath the skirt was so itchy. My mother used to make me wear it to church and it made me think of the monks who wore the shirts made of human hair that would often itch until the wearer bled. As I looked closer the absence of life in my face became very apparent. My eerie facade looked thin and the skin was glossy and too perfect, like a china dolls. My eyelids had begun to sink and my whole body seemed creepily still.

            Cold panic flooded through my being. I was completely paralyzed with fear as my mind went blank. Protecting itself from fully comprehending what was happening. All I could think about was the twisting pain somewhere in my chest which told me something unimaginably terrible had happened.

            I kept telling myself it was some kind of mistake. Numerous explanations for what was happening ran through my head each one more ridiculous than the last. I was in a dream, It was all an elaborate joke. I had a secret twin I never knew about.

            It was the one explanation that I refused to think about that turned out to be the correct one. I was dead.
            Heat flooded my neck and ears and they started ringing. I suddenly felt uncontrollably angry. I couldn't be dead! I was only 18 years old. I was going to college. I was going to get married. I still had so many experiences left undone. Things you need to be alive for. I couldn't be dead! I didn't even remember dying. How could I die and not remember it? And if I were dead how come I was still at home? Attending my own funeral? How come I could still see everyone?       

            I felt like I was moving in a dream. Floating from face to face, my echoed scream ringing in my ears as I tried desperately to get someone to hear me.

I went to Ruby and lowered my face to her sobbing one “Ruby.” I didn’t scream it. I said her name as if I was trying to get her attention in class, like I had done dozens of times before. “Ruby. Please listen to me. Please Ruby don’t cry, I’m right here.” I went to wipe a tear from her face only to find that I could no longer see my hand or arm. My entire body was gone. I felt like crying but I somehow already knew I could not.

            Anxiety ripped through my invisible chest and stomach again. I suddenly felt completely alone in a room full of people. I floated back up to the safety and comfort of my room.

I decided I would go back to bed still hoping it was all a dream and when I woke everything would go back to normal. But it wouldn't. I curled up on top of the covers clutching at the pain in my chest which I could feel but not see.
             For what seemed like hours I laid there unable to sleep and unable to comprehend fully what was happening to me. I just laid there steeping myself in fear, denial, anger and profound depression. Eventually another emotion began to manifest itself, something I could not pin point right away because I had never felt it so strongly before; Grief.

            I allowed the feeling to consume me completely. I gieved for my own death. I grieved for all the things I would never do. For the second chance I would never get. I grieved for my parents who lost their only child and for Ruby who lost her best friend. I grieved for the courage I never found in life. And as for the courage I now had, I grieved for the fact that it would never realize its full potential. My potential.

            Time does not work for the dead in the same way it does for the living. When I finally decided to get up I could see through the stained glass window of my bedroom that the sea of pink and white magnolia blossoms, had all dropped off and blown away. All that was left was their twisted black skeletons.

            Winter was coming. I had died in the spring.

            What had felt like mere hours to me shut up in my bedroom was actually about 8 months.

            The only way I can describe what happened is that my mind went into a kind of shut down mode. The reality of what was happening to me was too much for it to handle all at once so it went into super slow motion in order to process it all.

            As I was “walking” (I say walking but it is more like floating, using my thoughts as a propulsion device to get me where I want to go) through the second floor corridor I heard the phone ring in the library. I heard my father’s deep voice answer it, say a few short words and hang up.

            I continued down the corridor and into the library at the end. I half expected my father to look up when I entered but he didn’t.
            As I approached he looked much different to me, thinner and pale. His hair had a lot more gray than I remembered. It looked as though years had been taken off his life. His eyes drooped and his cheeks hung.  It was as if all of the muscles in his face typically used for smiling had grown weak begun to sag from disuse. He had looked like a sad old bulldog.

            He sat in the chair at his roll top desk holding a framed photograph. I walked around beside him and saw it was a picture of me.

My graduation photo for a ceremony I never made it to.

As he held it he touched my black and white cheek behind the glass.            

            “Oh, Cece.” He sighed. For a moment I thought he was speaking directly to me but then he let out a violent sob. He shoulders shook and I wanted to put my hands on them but I didn’t know where they were. All of a sudden he stood up and hurled the photograph towards the fireplace smashing it on the mantel. He then cleared all of the contents of his desk onto the floor with one swipe of his arms. His green bankers lamp smashed on the floor shrouding the room in darkness. He collapsed back into his chair with his head on the desk sobbing. He sobbed uncontrollably asking repeatedly “Why? Why her? Why my girl? Oh, Cece, Princess, what happened? Why? Why not me?!”

            I felt helpless to console him. I sat on the floor beside his chair and tried to feel my head resting in his lap like I used to do when I was a child.

            “Papa,” I barely whispered it knowing he wouldn't hear it anyway, “I'm so sorry.”

            Then a feeling I hadn’t felt before began to stir in my mind. It was guilt.

 

            Everything changed for my parents after my death. My father stopped going to work at the courthouse. Instead he spent his time wasting away the hours in his stuffy, dark library. He took to sleeping uncomfortably on the leather sofa every night. He would read old books with dreary looking covers or listen to dismal music on his record player very softly. Most of the time however, he just cried.

            I could almost feel how he felt. My father and I had a very close and special bond that only a father and daughter can share. He always used to tell me how much he loved me and how proud he was of me even when I felt I did not deserve his praise. Since my death my father had felt a light go out in his life. He no longer found joy in anything the world offered because I was not in it to enjoy it as well. His life became all about waiting for his turn to die. I cringed as he took up drinking to help perpetuate this waiting game. I suppose it was still taking far too long.      

            My mother took a very different approach to grieving my death. She continued to attend church every Sunday despite the conspicuous absence of her husband. She fulfilled all of her commitments to the various charities she volunteered for and even kept up with her book club. My mother was determined to keep up appearances and not to let anyone in town see just how overwhelmingly devastating my death was to her. Not that anyone would blame her.

            Ironically, it was the stark change in her appearance and behavior after my death which gave away her true mental state. Though her clothes, hair and makeup had always been flawlessly employed in my mothers everyday life like a theater costume, the effects of sleepless nights and endless days of crying had begun to creep into her complexion. The once healthy and robust woman with perfect sun kissed skin had become pallid and delicate looking. Her clothes began to hang off her skeleton body like a coat hanger. Her eyes were never without a thin film of tears and my mothers once warm smile had now become too wide, too forced. Her hearty laugh became shaky and unconvincing and when she spoke at her Garden Society meeting her voice took on the manic shrill of a woman barely hanging onto sanity.

            At home was where she felt the most alone. She never saw my father anymore except for every evening at 6:00 when she would bring his dinner into the library and set it on the circular desk just a few steps in from the entry.

            He never spoke to her but sometimes she would attempt to strike up pleasant conversation about trivial things that happened during the day.
            On Christmas eve that year, my father was finally fed up with waiting to die.

            My mother brought his dinner to the library like every night and attempted to make idle chit chat. “I saw Mrs. Hammond today,” trying to inject the slightest bit of excitement in her voice, “She had twins, a little boy and little girl. She had them in one of those double wide strollers.” she gave a weak chortle, “They are the cutest little things. She invited us over for Christmas dinner tomorrow night but I told her we were going to visit my parents in Jersey. Were not of course but what else was I supposed to say?…are you listening to me Charles?”
            No response.
            She could see his faint silhouette in the shadows created by the twilight creeping in through the drapery. Slumped and staring into space from his wing back red leather chair which he rarely seemed to move from. What she couldn't see though the darkness was the revolver he held in his lap.
            “Okay, well I’ll just leave your dinner here then. I’m tired so I’ll probably just go straight to bed. Good night.” A pause “Merry Christmas, Charles.”
            No response.
            Slowly my mother closed the heavy double doors to the library and began to climb the stairs to her bedroom. As she placed her slippered foot on the top stair a loud shot ran throughout the house like magnified pop of a campaign cork.

            My father was dead. I knew he was going to do it and I couldn’t stop him.

Author's Note

I have never shared my writing with anyone I know. I guess I just want to know if I am any good. Please critique.

Reviews

[Madeleine R. Spalding]

The premise of your story is intriguing. I'm guessing this is YA, given that the protagonist is a teenager.

I like how you start out with the Benjamin Franklin quote. That was a good hook. I also enjoy how you sprinkled in references to literature/poetry in the first chapter, given that the protagonist likes to read (or at least did). I did have some questions, and I'm not sure if these will be addressed later as you add more chapters: Is your story contemporary, or does it still take place in the late 1950s/1960s? How much time has passed since the protagonist died and became a ghost? Does the protagonist at least have contact with others who are in a limbo state? She inhabits a place that looks somewhat like the home she used to live in, but can she at least travel to other places? If not, I'm curious as to how your story can progress in the fashion of leading to some rising action if she's trapped and can't really do anything. That being said, I did enjoy reading your story and think it has potential. I look forward to reading more.

Happy writing!
-Maddie

[S.Lee]

Hi Maddie thanks for reading. All of your questions will be answered in the next few chapters which I am going to post in its rough draft probably tonight. Hope you keep reading. I welcome any and all constructive criticism. Thanks again.