No, Eleanor

01

Just like every morning, I sat at the table located within our kitchen. It is round and has certainly seen better days; we thrifted it after we moved in due to our insufficient funds to buy something new. I ran my painted fingers across the cotton cloth placed upon it, attempting to smooth out any harsh crinkles and creases, waiting patiently for my toast to pleasantly pop out of the toasting machine. As I inhaled, my nostrils repulsed the rather smokey and pungent aroma - the source of which being the toaster, yet my breakfast was not complete.
"We really need to scrape up the cash to buy a new one, mom." I spoke roughly, my throat as coarse as gravel.

Though I was dressed for work, my body hadn't quite adjusted to the light of day. As per usual, I had trouble sleeping because Jenna is most comfortable in the darkness. She refuses to show herself to me during the daylight because her eyes and head are incredibly sensitive to it, which I understand. Even in death, she suffers from the accident. I believe it is her headaches that cause such pain and aggravation after the collision occurred. She likes to confide in me regarding it because she trusts me - after all, she is still my best friend, dead or alive. When she visits, it reminds me of our sleepovers when we were in our troublesome teens, as she lays on her side the way she did once before, her black locks engulfing my pillow. I believe she replicates this position in order to hide her gash from me, or rather the crater in her head, raw and pink like uncooked meat, bloody and freshly sliced. She still wears her nightgown, the one she wore when she was killed, except it is stained with her own blood, so crimson that it looks like a ripe cherry. Though white and lifeless, she is still here. Not in my head, but in real time - this, my mother will never understand.

In she came, her slippers tapping along the hard floor, with a newspaper in her hands.
Her face was grave and her brow furrowed, "Well, that wasn't a happy morning read."
Suddenly, she threw the paper onto the countertop and shook her head disapprovingly, which intrigued me.
"What wasn't?" I enquired, my elbows propped upon the table with my neck turned.
My mother sighed, as though I had asked the most ridiculous question possible, "Another death, Ellie. Are you surprised? It won't be long until this place is a ghost town."

She was right, though she believed there was no truth to her words. Nothing but a simple metaphor. Jenna had warned me of a ghost who enjoyed causing chaos in means of revenge. The spirit was infamous for cursing objects, something as simple as a watch.

Pop!

"Your toast, Ells." my mother pointed towards the blackened bread peeping out from the toasting machine, as though it was embarrassed to show itself to me.
"Smells just wonderful..." I spoke, wafting the smoke as I reached into a cupboard for a plate.
I couldn't help but wonder what she had read and my curiosity grew like a tumour, malignant and swift. Whenever I seem to ask for details of all of these 'freak accidents' in the news, my mother is hesitant in sharing. So hesitant that she has blocked my access from our computer as she thinks I get too tangled up in death, as though I have a morbid obsession with it, which - by the way - isn't true.
"Mom?" I questioned softly, the tumour defeating me, "What happened to that person?"
All I got was a blank look, the type of look that almost analyses your whole soul.
"Never mind." I let it go with a sigh, hope exiting my body.
"Ellie, for goodness sake," she finally released from her lips, "just read the damn paper."

So I did exactly that.

The front page shrieked of terror, the bold headline piercing my eyes - "LOCAL MAN AMPUTATED BY DRAIN". My body shivered and my jaw clenched as I read the article. According to the journalist, a wealthy stockbroker had stopped in the street the night before when he noticed that his keys had fallen out of his pocket. As he knelt down to retrieve them, they had been guided into the drain, supposedly by some gust of wind. Since the man still had his keys in sight, he lay on the sidewalk and managed to slip his right arm between the teeth of the drain, which was his first and final mistake. As he clenched his keys into the palm of his hand, his arm is said to have 'blown off' and the man died as a result of severe panic and blood loss. Another 'freak accident' - clearly the work of the mischievous spirit that Jenna had discussed with me.

"Wow." I let out, completely stunned from what I had just read.
My mother placed her hands on her hips, "Now don't you try and tell me some wizard is responsible."
"Mom, that's ridiculous, of course a wizard wouldn't do that," I replied to her, only to follow my words up with, "it's obviously a vengeful spirit."
She let her face grow cold and stern, "No, Eleanor. The man clearly just got stuck. I mean, it doesn't take a genius to know that arms are not designed to fit in such small spaces."
"You're right!" I assured her, building up my case, "However, Jenna told me all about it. She hasn't been wrong yet and she wouldn't lie to me."
This is when the conversation became deep water to tread through.
My mother sighed, "Eleanor. Jenna is dead. Has been! All of this time! What will it take for you to snap out of this? I mean, for Christ's sake, do I need to dig up her corpse? No, Eleanor."
"You just don't get it!" I let out, frustrated, "You don't believe and it's going to get you killed one of these days!"
"Enough!" she raised her voice.

And that was that. I was 'crazy'. I 'belonged' in a mental asylum. If anything was driving me crazy? It was the fact that I felt futile in attempting to save my mother. The longer she didn't believe, the more danger she would be putting herself in. It drove me mad like a hatter. Made me want to scratch my own brains out.

I ate my charcoaled toast in silence.

Work was challenging that day for I was overwhelmed with whispers. Unintelligible. Loud. This usually occurs when messages are trying to be sent to me, which assist my research. Believe it or not, most ghosts are the sweetest of souls, most are just majorly misunderstood. They consist of mothers, fathers, figures of any kind, looking down upon their family that still roam the Earth. They feel, they express, but they can't reach their loved ones for the difference of pulses - living is steady, dead is stationary. Two worlds cannot properly collide and, unfortunately, many spirits suffer in agony because of this. Funnily enough, they grieve as though their loved ones have passed, not themselves. Once I finished my shift at the cafe, I knew I had to take a trip to the library and research until my eyes twitched and my muscles ached.

The library is my only source of research due to my mother's restrictions within the home that are intended to 'protect me'. After all, she thinks I'm batshit crazy. I suppose I can't blame her for thinking I have some sort of psychological issue since I acknowledge just how out of pocket and strange some of the things I say can be. But I don't lie. I can't explain it and I don't know why but I am connected to the spiritual world; I suppose it all started after Jenna died. It awoke something within me, gifted me contact with the dead. For some unexplained reason, I was chosen by the good spirits, perhaps even God, to protect my people from evil. I've succeeded a few times before, sending evil sources back to their own realm to cause havoc elsewhere, but they will keep escaping as long as humanity doesn't believe. It makes them stronger. One woman's belief isn't good enough to keep them out and I am so desperately trying to figure out a way to convince and persuade people to listen to me; it's hard. Damn near impossible. But I won't give up. Jenna assures me that God has plans for me, that he is going to make my job a little easier someday, but first I need to prove that I can fight. And so I do, and will continue to do so.

I've taken it upon myself to become a hunter, the first and only in Cleveland, and hopefully not the last. If God wants a fighter, a fighter I will be.

Bring it on, evil sons of bitches.