The Seamstress

How to Kill a Ghost

The woman clenches her fist tightly, drawing droplets of blood from her palm as she stares out the window of her cabin. The girl behind her is sleeping, her face peaceful, free of nightmares.

Nightmares. So many nightmares.

The woman's very life is a nightmare.

She reaches down into her dress, bringing out the black needle. She slowly runs her finger up and down the metal. "She will pay for this," she hisses angrily. "She will pay and this time, I will be the one to do it."

*

I don't understand.

I don't understand anything.

"Why?" I say to myself, setting the phone down on my lap. "Why do I have to do it?" I look up at the ceiling and throw my hands in the air. "He's finally being NICE!" I cry. "I finally have a--a FRIEND!"

I begin to sob.

Four hours. I've been looking through the internet for four hours, scrolling and scrolling through random articles, trying to find a way--any way--to get rid of ghosts.

Tears burn the scratches on my face as I type in how to kill a ghost for what seems like the hundredth time. All the answers are the same; weird song titles, advertisements for ghost cleaning services, and spells being sold for over $200 dollars on strange websites.

I haven't eaten. I haven't rested. Nor has Aunt Queenie come out of her room; I doubt she's even awake.

I try to distract my mind as I go through uncountable articles, trying hard not to think about Zinnia. An uncomfortable shiver always crawls up my spine whenever I think about it, whenever I think about what Absinthe might be doing to her. Was she tied up in the rocking chair? What was she being forced to eat? Was Absinthe hurting her?

I have so many questions. But there isn't anyone who can give me answers.

I sigh in frustration and go to the 8th answer page, skimming over titles until my eyes finally fall on something that might prove useful:

How to get rid of ghosts in a flash: foolproof ways for ridding your home of the supernatural!

I take in a deep breath, clicking on the article. Please, let this be the one, I beg silently. I don't know where else to turn.

I quickly read through the post, skimming through the first five paragraphs where all they do is blab on and on about the history of ghosts. Eventually they tell me to sprinkle a ring of salt around the infected area.

Salt.

"How can salt possibly be the answer?" I hiss at the phone, my eyes watering from both frustration and staring at the screen for so long.

What other choice do I have? I think to myself. Maybe the article will be right. Maybe salt really will get rid of Quentin.

I have to try it.

I turn off the phone, watching as the screen fades to black.

Then it drops from my hand, onto the floor, and I collapse into the pillows and begin to cry like I've never cried before.

I've had enough.

*

Fifteen minutes later, I'm ready.

I've pulled my coat and boots on, stuffed a bottle of salt in my pocket, and the butcher knife in the other--just in case. I could have picked a smaller, better knife, but this one killed Sylvester. I won't use another one.