Innocence Lost

     Amidst the ominous silhouette of an elementary school, a place once resonant with the laughter of youth, I found myself enveloped in an eerie foreboding. This institution, a supposed haven for childhood whimsy, had now seemingly devoured a young soul within its grim facade. The little girl was a ghost, her absence a haunting melody that strummed fear through the heartstrings of every adult present, each one a restless moth spiraling in the harsh glare of concern.

     I ambled through a corridor that resonated with the eerie echoes of lost innocence. From the depths of her classroom emerged a teacher, her complexion a stark pallor. As she spoke, her words, tinged with an odd worry, fluttered about the presence of any fingerprints the lawmen might have unearthed within her realm.

     Clinging to my father, I voiced my thoughts in a soft murmur by his ear. A strange worry, I noted, a peculiar fret amidst the storm of a child gone missing. We, a disparate crew of truth-seekers, crossed the threshold into her realm, a space tinged with the ghostly aroma of chalk dust and fear.

     Standing guard at the entrance were rows of lockers, their cold metal forms serving as silent sentinels. A sound echoed from within one, a noise that seemed like a secret yearning to breathe the air of revelation. As I pried it open, the sight before me was a gut-wrenching reality. The missing blossom lay there, but life had mercilessly fled from her form.

     The bitter truth wound its way through my veins. The teacher, the one fretting over fingerprints, was the dark mastermind behind this horror. The realization hung in the air like a chilling phantom, a grotesque truth that bore the metallic taste of fear and dread. It was a haunting enigma, encased within a mystery, nestled within a tale of terror. Life, it appeared, was laden with such grim spectacles, echoed through the endless corridors and mirrored in the eerie hush of a forsaken locker.

I wake up

Past Echoes, Present Whispers

   

    I find myself back at Liberty Christian High, the halls echoing with ghostly remnants of adolescent chatter. I venture into the basement, bracing myself for the expected damp darkness, but it surprises me. It's not the musty cavern I'd imagined. A group of people even huddle at the far end of a corridor.

    Still, an unsettling shiver runs down my spine. The school has shifted its skin since my time. It's familiar, yet foreign - a puzzling paradox. "They've spruced the place up," I tell a friend, my voice bubbling with a tinge of nostalgia and admiration.

    My words tumble out, cloaking my deeper feelings - a mix of appreciation for the new and longing for the old, for times that will never come back, and for changes that came too fast, like a ride on a rickety rollercoaster. A bizarre blend of homecoming and alienation weaves through me. This place is both my past and an uncertain present, standing as a symbol of inevitable progress and relentless time.

I wake up

Beneath The Surface

    In the last light of day, I'm at my father's house. It's old and dark. I have a simple job: carry a bag of garbage to the kitchen. The shadows grow long and I feel scared, like a kid alone in the night. I see a ghost - a lady wearing an old-fashioned bonnet, drifting by the kitchen.

    I rush outside, spilling my fears to my dad. He steps inside and climbs the creaky staircase. I follow, my eyes adjusting to the dim interior, and there she is again, the ghostly lady, halfway up the stairs. My dad is at the top. I'm stuck at the bottom.

    Then, something strange. The ghost comes down the stairs and plants a deep, hard kiss on my lips. It leaves me shaken.

    Later, we swim in the nearby lake. The house ghosts, supposedly wiped out by my dad, are nowhere to be seen. But as we swim, something pulls him under. The ghosts are back, angry and looking for revenge. He's struggling, crying out for help.

    "I didn't mean for you to kill him!" I shout at the ghosts, but they don't listen. His last scream echoes as he's dragged under for the last time. The lake, still and silent, becomes his grave. Revenge, it seems, is served cold and deep.

I wake up.