Anne

Seven.

Whump. The books dropped heavily from Mary’s arms as she sighed exasperatedly. I glanced up from my own book to find my very dishevelled, down-trodden friend.

“That’s final. This is the last section to check,” Mary bit her lip. I groaned exhaustedly and set my current book aside.

“Let’s get started then.” I flipped open “Mysterious of the Paranormal World” by Lara Perm. True to her name, the author did indeed have a horrible hairstyle, as she was pictured on the plastic book sleeve. 

“Crap,” I heard Mary mutter cynically, setting aside “Spirits and You: A Guide to Paranormal Realisation” by Scar Dalot. “Utter crap. He’s telling me to stop drinking Earl Grey tea as it angers ghosts.” Mary rolled her eyes.

“C’mon, at least try to read it. It might be stupid, but it could have some good information…”

Mary sighed, picking up the book again and reading, “‘No being, living or nay, can travel through time. Keep this in mind if you desire to see deceased loved ones, as they can only stay in the present.’ You really think he’s going to help?” Mary inquired skeptically.

My eyes widened. “I think I just –” I gasped, “Follow me!” I grabbed Mary’s wrist and off we flew.

***

We ran back to my house, books nestled under our arms.  We walked into the mansion, the floor boards creaking under our footsteps. I walked past the familiar pictures of Bridget, her eyes staring creepily at us from behind a wall of glass.

“Nana?” I called into the dark house.

“Charlotte? Is that you?” My grandmother’s frail little voice responded uncertainly.  I walked into the living room where she was sitting.

I clenched my teeth as I saw a glass of water resting on the coffee table without a coaster underneath it. I began to feel the signs of a panic attack, but stifled them as best I could so as to get what needed to be done out of the way.

“Nana… who is that girl in the pictures?” She looked confused, so I elaborated, “On the wall?”

My grandmother’s face went stony. “She was my darling little sister,” she began. My eyes widened dramatically. “Her name was—”

“Bridget. Her name was Bridget, wasn’t it?”

My Grandmother looked dumbfounded. “Now how in the world did you know that, Charlotte?”

“I’ll tell you later. Can you please tell us a bit more about Bridget?”

My grandmother went on to explain how the child had OCD like me, how she loved horror movies and books. The similarities between Bridget and me kept multiplying: her favourite book was Dracula, the defiance against her mother was knight-worthy and she had always been immersed in the ideals of space and time.

“When she was about your age… our family was in church, but because of a recent row with our mother, she fled from the building. I ran after her, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. She didn’t return home that night, but the next morning…” my grandmother’s eyes began to shine with tears, “We went out looking for her… and I found her body. She had no wounds, but she was dead as a doornail.”

I looked down, tears burning in my own eyes. “Who killed her, Nana?”

“Nobody knows. There were no fingertips or traces of poison or weapons. It was as though she dropped dead of her own accord."

My body seized up suddenly, freezing as a thought occurred to me.

“Thank you very much Nana, we were just curious. Mary? Let’s go.”