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Interlude: Ghost Stories

Interlude: Ghost Stories

When Angelica and I were young, possibly only six and seven at the time, I would sneak into A's room after Mom and Dad tucked us in at 8:30. Nowadays, I realize they probably knew about our midnight excursions. We would quietly play games, tell secrets, draw pictures, and things of that nature that six- and seven-year-old girls would find amusing.

But today, I can easily recall the night when I so stealthily ran into her bedroom at 9:30pm and listened to her read ghost stories.

For a seven-year-old, Angelica was a marvelous reader. I was clinging onto every word that rolled off her tongue. She could read suspense better than I could imagine it, and during the scary parts, you could hearth fear in her own voice, too. It only made the experience more exciting.

She read them out of a book she had gotten from the library earlier that very day. It was on the top shelf, and when Mom go it down for her, she made Angelica promise to not read me the stories because I would probably get nightmares or something.

Even at that age we were pretty rebellious. But I digress...

After two or three stories, we probably got too scared or too tired- most likely both- and I decided to go back to my room. I sat up, was going to go to the door, but Angelica stopped me.

"Do you think it's really that scary? 'Cause I don't," she said.

"Well maybe they don't scare you, but they scare me!" I had replied shakily.

"Not the stories, Maddie. You know," she looked around dramatically and lowered her voice to barely a whisper, "dying."

I remember staring at her until she spoke again. Her words, despite how long ago she said them, have never left my mind.

"I don't think dying is scary. I don't think I ever will." She paused for a few seconds, "Good night, Maddie."

Then, I left.