Short stories

March 13

March 13
Today is my birthday.
It's gotten worse.
I've always thought that I was crazy.
My mother says that ghosts are the souls of the people who didn't make it heaven, but weren't bad enough to go to hell.
Me?
I think that ghosts are our own personal demons, come from hell to haunt us for our sins.
I remember, when I was 15, I was sitting in my room, writing in my journal, much like I'm doing today.
As I wrote, I felt somebody watching me. I turned to see a little boy, maybe 11, sitting on the the edge of my bed.
His eyes. Oh dear Holy Virgin save me, his eyes. They were empty. Not empty of eyes, he had eyes. But what they held was so absent of anything that I felt myself falling as I looked into them.
He asked me.
"Is this heaven?"
I had no idea what to say. Oh god, those eyes.
"No." I said.
He seemed agitated at this.
"I need to go to heaven. My mom, my brother. They're there."
I felt sorry for him. I honestly did.
"I'm sorry. I'd help you if I could. I can keep you company though. What's your name?"
He twisted his head at an impossible angle.
"Oliver." he stood, his feet hovering a few inches from the ground. "And, I think you can help me."
With those empty, cold eyes, he stared into my own grey ones.
"Yeah, you'll work for me." With a thin, pallid hand, he reached out towards my face and grabbed my lower jaw, turning to mist as he stared at me.
My vision started to blacken.
A scream pierced the black and I jerked back.
The boy's pale hand was an angry red. He glared at the cross on my necklace.
"Spurca creatio cultorque sum. Et confundantur in Deo!"
Latin?
In a burst of blood red light, he was gone, a scorch mark where he once sat.