The Phantom of Scranton Hill

11

One tulip. Two tulip.

One daisy. Two daisy.

One chrysagamemnate-bleh-bleh. Two chrysaora-bloo-blah.

"I hate that name," Justine muttered to herself as she picked the blooming flowers in her grandmother's garden. "Chrysa-tootsie-pop." She growled as she plopped onto the dry grass. "Now I want a tootsie pop."

She crossed her arms as she huffed, a breeze flowing between her pigtails and stinging the back of her neck. "Ew, that's cold," Justine murmured. "I hate cold things, too--ooh! A butterfly!"

Completely forgetting about the annoyingly white flower, Justine got up and began chasing the orange-winged insect. She ran through the vegetation in the backyard, six years old and untainted; ignorant and naive.

The butterfly flew higher and higher, above the brick wall separating the yard of her paternal grandmother from her neighbors. Still, Justine ran and tried her best to catch it. She jumped up but came up short and fell back down, skinning her knee on the cement porch.

"Ouchie," Justine whined, hugging her knee to her chest. As it began to burn, she began to cry.

"Little one? Are you alright?" A ghostly, faded gray figure approached her and bent down. She was a middle-aged woman with a young boy beside her, but the air around them froze. They wore pre-revolution articles of clothing, and flower pots and grass could be seen through their bodies. One word could describe them: ghosts. But Justine was young. She thought that everyone could see them. She didn't know she possessed such a gift.

"Justine, you're hurt," he spoke in an English accent, much like his mother. "How did you manage to do this to yourself?" Justine shivered at the boy's touch.

Justine shrugged, hugging her knee closer. "Marcy, it burns," Justine cried, sniffling and sobbing as she buried her head in her crossed arms.

The woman looked toward her son. "James, dear. Would you retrieve the alcohol?" James began to float upwards and through the upstairs exterior walls when his mother stopped him. "Oh, and what are those cute little fuzzies called?"

"Cotton balls, mum." The young boy in bloomers stated proudly. "I believe they are called cotton balls." He floated into the second story of the old house, but a loud, painful shriek followed his entrance. Marcy looked toward the little girl she had looked after for the last few years, a friend for her son, and dragged her inside. "Justine, sweetheart, let's go." The little girl refused to get up. "Now!"

Justine was the first to enter the house. She raced into the living room, but what she saw made her cry even more. It broke her heart. "Grandma?"

Her grandmother was sprawled across the once light gray carpet, now stained with blood. Fear rapidly spread throughout her small body and she looked toward her friends.

"Marcy? James? What do I do?" The little girl couldn't move. She was too frightened and shocked.

"I'm sorry, sweetie, but we are of no assistance. There is nothing I can do, I'm afraid," Marcy told her and disappeared into the air with her son. Justine sobbed harder and harder.

A single butcher's knife stuck out of her gut and her previously lavender blouse was now pitch black. Her grandmother bled black, which confused her. Justine screamed for her grandmother, bending down beside her and covering her ears to deafen the voices.

"This is just a dream. I know it is," Justine told herself before shaking the old woman below her. "Why won't you wake up!"

With her last breath, Justine's grandmother whispered, "I couldn't stand them anymore. The voices, the torture. I just couldn't."