As I walk home from school, kids flanked my sides as if I was the dog and they were the ticks, they were silently chatting about my big blow up today.
Some kids were quiet, some were annoying, some where big, some where small. Plastics, potheads, sport nerds, wimps, players, wallflowers and geeks decorated our small crowd.
Some were alive, and some were dead.
If you had powers like me, the phantoms are easily plucked out from the crowd, as they have a depressed demeanor, eerie white hues, and their eyes are the color of pitch. Their "clothes" were ragged and stained, and had a faded pigment to them. If you glanced at them, you'd think you were looking at an old photograph from your grandmothers album. The ghosts poked and prodded at me, mocking my walk and copying my voice in a high pitch. That was normal behavior for them, for teenage phantoms at least.
Just then, a legless floating apparition sandwiched himself between me and the living girl in front of me. The girl wore tight skinny jeans, a white knitted sweater, and had her platinum blonde hair done in small sausage curls, falling down her shoulders. The apparition between us noticed that she was female, and brought his hand down slowly towards her bottom. He then suddenly pinched her butt and disappeared in thin air.
The girl flinched and whipped around to face me, her curls flailing. Her bright eyes blazed with a fierce fire, and she raised her palm and slapped me so hard across the face that saliva flew from my mouth, onto the sidewalk. I toppled from the impact on to the concrete, my backpack contents spilling everywhere. When I came to, the girl made a "Hmph," sound, flipped her hair, and stomped away.
I hoisted myself up and gathered my belongings, and felt the sting of the hatred on my cheek. Ouch, I could feel the lines from her manicured nails. As I trudged the rest of the way home, all I could hear is the snickering from that damned legless apparition.
As I got closer to my destination, the living departed the small group in favor of their own homes. Finally, for about a half hour walk from Central East High School, I had reached my final resting point, my apparently "haunted house".
I glared with warmth at the large Victorian that stood solidly on a leaf strewn hill, with black shutters and white trim accompanying the red brick. The property had fog so thick that you could cut it with a pair of dull shears. Welcoming me into the home were large creaking oak trees that resembled hands of a monster, pulling me in. My pad was infested with the non living. Hell, it was so full, if you had powers, it's like we constantly have bright Christmas lights in our yard. From middle aged adults, to infants, to the elderly, it even includes animals. From the thick fog, you could only make out their black orbs as eyes.
Nearing the solid oak door that crowed my kingdom, you could faintly hear scratchy whispers of the dead.
"Hey, Carlyle, I heard about your outburst today,"
"Hey, look, its coo coo Carlyle!"
I simply let the crude jokes slip off me, but on the inside, hatred burned like a wildfire. I also received complimentary slaps on the back and hair tugs, mostly from children, and I easily return the favor by raising my middle finger half heartedly.
When I finally got to the porch, I climbed my ancient, red wood stairs and moped to the door. I wrapped my hands around the cool door handle, expecting it to be open. When I didn't hear a click in the handle, I sighed heavily, Brandt.
Just as I finished sighing, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two bright black orbs dancing between the burgundy window curtains and windowpane. When I glanced over at the glass, the eyes went wide and disappeared behind the fabric.
"Brandt! Open the door! I'm not in the mood for stupid games!" I moaned loudly.
I heard the click of the small mail slot open near my stomach. A tiny trace of a glowing mouth stuck out.
"What's the password?" It asked in a serious, scratchy tone.
I made up a lie.
"Open the door, I have to throw up!" There was a pause.
"Nope! What's the password?" I sighed again, much louder this time.
"Cucumber," I snapped in an irritated tone.
The shiny slot fell shut, and many small clicks could be heard beyond the door. The entrance creaked open, revealing a dark foyer beyond.
"Welcome home, Carlyle," said a pale, black eyed figure.
YOU ARE READING
Whispers Of The Damned
МистикаCarlyle Redson is the all around average-American teen. Average height, average weight, average IQ. High school was a breeze for him, with baseball, a social life, and girls, you'd think his life was a little too average. But, with some average stuf...
