Strawberries || short stories!

Ghost Tour (title pending)

A/N: if you have any suggestions for the title, PLEASE lmk lol. I wrote this a few summers ago, but I figured I'd post it on here since I haven't been writing recently (I've been busy with school and stuff). This was mildly inspired by the style of the novel Dear Evan Hansen. Hope you enjoy! TW: talk of murder/torture. I promise a sweet story is coming soon!

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Elise checked her watch.

"Just one more tour today." she reminded herself. She sighed and looked around the park. Where were the kids? It was the middle of the summer and the heat was stifling. Heat waves rolled across covered the vibrant green grass. Beads of sweat created a crown around her forehead as she waited for the last tour group of the day. Not that it would be any cooler inside the house, though - the air was stagnant there. On the other hand, the things that happened in that house were chilling enough that the heat wouldn't matter. She saw a line of children marching on the sidewalk single file. Finally.

Jesus. This is, like, the seventh group today? Why are so many people interested in our story? My story. The fake story. Not that I'm complaining - I've always wanted to be famous. My fault for not being specific enough in my prayers.

"Good afternoon everyone!" Elise said as cheerfully as she could muster. "My name is Elise, and I'll be your guide on the 'Epsen murder house' tour!" There was a chorus of pubescent voices, all stirred at the word "murder". Some pre-teens were absolutely brimming with excitement and glee, some were trying to shrink within themselves out of preemptive fear. "This house existed in the 1800s, so obviously this house is a window to an entirely different way of life."

There it is again. 'Epsen Murder House'. The name isn't wrong, but the story that goes behind it is misleading. All these young minds are being taught the wrong story. I follow them inside the house. I can't smell anymore, but if I could, I know I would smell the dust of hundreds of years. Dust that I've seen fall and collect. Dust that I can't do anything about. I guess it was always my destiny to wander aimlessly around the house I grew up in, watching people memorialize it and then disregard the maintenance of it.

"This hallway leads down into the bedrooms. And over here to your left you can see the kitchen/dining room." The floorboards creaked as Elise went through the motions. "In 1809, a family of three moved in: a man named John Epsen, his wife Sarah Wilde-Epsen and their daughter, Mary Epsen. Mary was always an ... unusual child. Mary later went on to murder her mother and father and then herself in this very house in 1824, when she was 15. That's why this tour is called 'Epsen Murder House'." She led them around the kitchen, showing them the dining room table and the collection of old pots.

This is always my least favorite part of the tour. The first part is true, I was always an odd child. My mother always remarked on it - she complained about how I never wanted to play with the other kids, how all I wanted to do was stay inside and read. Write. I used to beg for more books, like I couldn't ever get enough.

"According to Mary's family and few close friends, her passions were writing and reading. She wanted to be a nurse when she grew into adulthood - modern historians guess that her ambitions were just a front to distract from her murderous personality." Elise had been standing with all her weight on one foot, and she shifted to the other. The group had been walking around the nearly empty kitchen that doubled as a dining room. You could almost smell something cooking and feel the warmth of the fireplace against the stone walls.

For the record, I did want to be a nurse. I was going to go to a University that would accept me (there had to be one), and I was going to help people. That was all I ever wanted to do.