A Walk in the Park

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to my house for the victory party?”

I nod.

“There’ll be al-co-hawwwl!” Gabriella hints, emphasizing every syllable in the word “alcohol.”

Gabriella is the team captain of the junior girls’ volleyball team.

We just won a game against another high school team, and every time we win, we go to Gabriella’s house and party.

“Not tonight,” I insist. “Sorry.”

“Suit yourself.” Gabriella shrugs. “Bye,” she adds before she turns and walks away.

The rest of the volleyball team says goodbye to me before running after Gabriella. I can hear them laughing in the distance.

The cold fall breeze makes me shiver as I walk through Pinewood Park.

Pinewood Park is supposedly haunted, but I know that it’s nothing but a rumour.

I walk on the cobblestone path, my runners occasionally crunching against the leaves that have fallen from the trees.

About halfway through the park, I hear the faint noise of someone crying.

As I keep walking, I notice a small girl sitting on a moldy, wooden bench. She has her head buried in her arms. She is the source of the crying.

“Are you okay?” I ask as I approach the girl.

The girl looks up at me. Everything about her is pale. Her white-blonde hair. Her ivory skin. Her tattered white dress.

“Yes,” she quivers. “I just need to see my mommy.”

“Where is your mommy?” I ask.

“She’s at home.”

“I’ll bring you home to your mommy,” I promise.

“Thank you,” the little girl says.

I wonder why this little girl is all by herself in a sketchy park at night.

I take her hand and we walk silently through the misty park. I’m surprised that the little girl isn’t scared of the dark, chilling park.

Finally, we walk to the end of the park.

The little girl tells me that her house is across the street.

We cross the street, her hand still in mine.

I look down at her. Her lower lip quivers.

She is really pale—almost as if she’s transparent.

We approach her house. The white paint is peeling. The windows are cracking.

I feel the sudden urge to sneeze, but resist. I’m afraid that if I sneeze, the delicate house will instantly fall down.

We walk up the stairs. I knock on the door.

No answer.

I knock again.

No answer.

“Are you sure this is where your mommy is?” I ask.

“Yes,” the little girl insists.

I knock again.

The door slowly opens.

“Hello,” a middle aged woman says. Her blonde hair is tied up in a messy ponytail. She is wearing a torn, grey robe. A hot cup of coffee is in her left hand.

“Hi,” I reply. “I found your daughter in Pinewood Park. She was on a bench, crying.”

“My daughter?” the woman asks, confused.

“Yes, she’s right here,” I say, pointing down at the little girl.

The woman looks down, taking a sip of coffee. Tears brim her eyes.

“I—I don’t see her,” the woman says. I can tell that she’s trying to keep her voice firm and steady, but it’s not working.

“Your daughter is right here!” I say, pointing to the little girl.

“I don’t know if you think this is funny or something,” the woman started. “I don’t know if you’re playing a joke on me, but…”

I watch the tears run down the woman’s cheeks.

“But,” the woman continues. “My daughter was killed five years ago.”

I look down at the little girl. “What is she talking about?” I ask.

The little girl looks up at her mother, and then at me.

The girl’s voice is clear and haunting as she says, “She can’t see me anymore.”