Play Time

This book is old. And, I mean really really old, so please don't judge my writing skils from this. It was the very first thing I uploaded when I joined wattpad and I did it so I could reflect on my old writing as I improved. - AJ

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   Imagine being bored. Now multiply that by a million. That’s how I felt. There I was lying on my bed in my new, old house staring at my gray, depressing wall. My parents dragged me out of my warm and sunny Californian home to this dumb, damp, dump of a house in Washington. You might be wondering why I would be bored in Washington. Well, I wasn’t in D.C. I was in Ravensdale; a tiny town with like, two-hundred  people in it. Nothing special.

  “Roxi!” I heard my mother yell from downstairs, “Yes?” I replied while slowly getting up. “ Come down here. I need to talk to you about something.” I came down to see my mom typing on her laptop. Her hair was in a messy brown bun, and her half moon spectacles were about to fall off of her face. She looked up and smiled. “What’s wrong sweetie?” she asked with concern, making her striking yet soft, emerald green eyes look even sweeter, if that’s possible. “Nothing.” I looked away from her hypnotic gaze. She raised an eyebrow and gave me an I-know-you‘re-lying look. “Why don’t you do something?” she asked. “There’s nothing to do.”  I whined, which was pretty baby-ish since I was eleven. “Explore the house! There has to be something interesting in it. It’s over one-hundred years old, you know.” she drawled the last sentence to make it sound exciting. Please. I hated history. We stared at each other for a while. “Alright, alright,” I said finally, “but, I’m only doing it because there’s nothing better to do.” And with that, I turned on my heels, walked out of the room, and began my quest.

  Mom was right. The house is pretty interesting. So far, I’ve ventured through ten rooms in this gigantic house. I’ve found dolls, fancy silverware, old makeup, suits, gowns, jewelry, etcetera. A few minutes later I’m done exploring the basement, first, and second floor. My final destination, the attic. I find the door and even if there are no stairs, I climb up into the hole. It was very dark, and the air felt damp. The smell of rotten milk, eggs, and decay made me want to gag. Instead, I held it in and marched on with my flashlight grasped tightly in my hand. The attic was very roomy, and it would’ve made an awesome room for me instead of the one downstairs. Well, if you took out the putrid smell it wouldn’t have been so bad.

  After a while, I got bored, and got ready to turn around. Just then something caught my eye. A picture. I kneeled down to get a better look. It was the picture of two girls. They looked related. The girl on the right had dark, straight, waist-length hair, and she looked around my age. The way she smiled in the picture made me smile. The younger other girl, about five or six in appearance, on the left didn’t smile at all. She had shoulder-length, light, bouncy curls. Her face looked almost menacing, but her angelic features lightened her glare. I was getting up to leave when I felt an eerie draft.  I looked around to find out where it came from or what caused it. I turned to see it wasn’t what caused it, but who caused it. It was the younger girl in the picture.

  She flickered like a candle. Her big, pale, gray eyes burned into mine. Her pale blonde hair flew around her face like it was being whipped around by a violently strong wind. And, just as she appeared, she vanished.

  That night, I had a dream. It was like a vision. Different images flashed in and out. I heard the sounds of things from children laughing and singing nursery rhymes to people crying and screaming; mostly children. The main thing I saw was the little ghost girl. She slowly walked towards me with her hand extended out to me, her grey eyes pleading. She was whispering, “Play with me. Please… play with me.”. In the dream I got a closer look at her. The ghost girl’s skin was a pale peach color, I was pretty sure that she was five, and in one of her little hands were tiny old stitch dolls. “Who are you?” I asked. She didn’t answer. Instead, she held out her free dimpled hand, “Come with me.” she said  more audibly. Her voice was like a ringing soprano bell. I was about to graze her fingertips when I woke up.