The Unhaunted

1. Donald

(Seven Years Ago)

I was nine when I saw Donald for the first time. He was hunched over a funny-looking machine, punching buttons that went pop, pop, pop with each careful jab of his finger. We were in the library and I'd been flipping through my favorite book-Poor Delia-about a girl who ate so many blue jellybeans that she turned blue from head to toe.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Shhhh," he said, but didn't look up from the strange machine. There was a piece of paper stuck inside of it. Every time he punched one of the buttons, a little arm shot up and smacked into the paper with a satisfying click. I dropped my book on the table, stood up and peered over his shoulder. Each time the arm hit the paper, it left behind a perfectly formed letter.

"Hmmm," I said, forgetting to keep my voice down. "That's the strangest computer keyboard I've ever seen!"

"Hush already," the boy said crossly. He looked up, finally, and glared at me. His eyes were bright green and his hair was cut so short that it was nearly impossible to tell if it was blonde or red. I decided it was somewhere in between. He had so many freckles on his face that his skin looked orange.

"You don't hafta be rude," I said, folding my arms over my chest and sticking out my lower lip. "Anyway, if it's not a computer keyboard than what is it? It sure looks like a computer keyboard with all those letters."

"it's a typewriter!" he said. "I don't expect a little kid like you to know what that is."

"I'm not that little!" I protested. "I just turned nine; I'm the oldest in my class. Anyway, how old are you?"

"I'm one hundred and thirty-seven," the boy said.

I took a step back so I could get a better look at him. His clothes were pretty strange. He was wearing a dark brown suit that was baggy on his small frame. The pants were too short. I could see his pale skin above his dark socks. The rounded collar of a white shirt poked out of the suit jacket and was held closed by a small bowtie. His shoes were black with laces that looked so worn they might snap any second. A wide-brimmed hat-the kind I saw on the covers of detective novels and old-fashioned movies-sat next to the typewriter

"But I died when I was fifteen, so I guess technically that's how old I am," He said, looking thoughtful. "It's kind of neat that you can talk to me. I'm Donald." He stuck out his hand the way I'd seen grownups do when they first met, with his fingers all in a row standing rigidly at attention.

I laughed, but didn't make a move to shake his hand.

"What's so funny?" He asked, withdrawing his hand with a scowl.

"I can't touch you, silly!" I said. "I can only see you and hear you. My name's Louisa, but you can call me Isa."

"Nice to meet you, Isa. I'm typing up a story. I guess I'm always typing up a story. I worked for a newspaper before I died."

"How long have you been sitting here typing that story?" I asked.

"Hmmm. Dunno, maybe fifty or sixty years. I wandered around for a while-from place to place, you know-until I found this library and started typing."

"Ah," I said, knowingly, "You're stuck, aren't you?"

"Well, I suppose I might be. What's it to you?" Donald asked, his expression darkening into one of distrust. The air around me suddenly got colder and some papers on a nearby table fell to the floor with a loud whoosh. Uh oh. He was getting upset.

I held up my hands and smiled what I hoped was a comforting smile. "Relax!" I said, "I don't mean anything by it. It's just-" I hesitated. Should I tell him?

"What?" he asked? The room got a smidge warmer.

"Well, it's easier to show you. Can you stand up?"

Donald nodded and stood up, backing reluctantly away from the typewriter. I saw the bright strand of light that bound him to the typewriter and the similar strand that tied the typewriter to the library. Both kept him prisoner. I stepped forward and grabbed the strands of light, yanking mightily. I felt their strange energy flow through my hands for a moment, and then it faded. The strands were gone.

"What did you do?" Donald asked, his mouth dropped open in shock. He looked around the library as if seeing it for the first time. "Why am I still here?" He wondered. He walked over to the typewriter, picked it up and smashed it onto the ground as hard as he could. It didn't make a sound, but I felt an icy cold blast of air surround me. Donald and I watched the typewriter glow bright white, then sink into the floor. It was gone.

"I-you...I'm free," Donald said incredulously.

"Yep," I said.

"Thank you!"

"Yep," I said again.

And that's how I met my best friend. That was six years ago. It hadn't mattered to me one bit that  Donald was a boy or that he was dead. All that mattered was that he was really interesting and he liked to play checkers. Of course I had to move the pieces around for both of us.