interrupted in every window by a poster. “MISSING,” each poster cried in big bold black letters and underneath were two photographs and descriptions of the Miller cousins. She paused for a second and looked into each of the eyes in the photograph. She felt nothing and carried on her way.
On the outskirts of the shopping precinct was the library. A red brick building that stood out from the grey of the estate. It was surrounded by thicket bushes and there was graffiti on two of its many front windows, lines that made no particular sense. She hurried into the library. It was quiet as expected. The smell of books hung in the air. There were computers in the corner and DVDs and magazine and leaflets with helpful numbers. Standing on the deep brown carpet were wooden shelves holding plastic-bound books. There were old people sitting at tables reading newspapers. In a corner of the library was a colourful snakes and ladders carpet surrounded by children’s books. A poster showed a sad child staring at Carrie Anne. There was a phone number to call for help. She ignored it. Each of the shelves had a category sign above it. The nearest she found to what she needed was “religion”. She could have tried to use a computer to find what she needed but was unsure how to use the Internet properly as her father discouraged it, and asking for assistance would only draw attention to herself. Instead she picked a few books that may contain what she needed. Books on ghosts and spirits and theories on what the afterlife may contain. She sat with them at a desk in a quiet corner.
She was absorbed by the world that was hidden within the dark places of our own. Or so the books claimed. She read case studies of ghosts and unexplained happenings. Of phantom nannies and nuns who haunted orphanages and churches alike. Of mediums, people who could talk to the dead only using their minds. There were chapters on spirits that were not even human who wished to possess the living and walk amongst them wearing their flesh like a suit. There were pictures, some black and white, some in faded colours. There was a school photo with all the children of a class smiling for the camera. They were flanked by two old lady teachers, except the teacher on the left-hand side of the class was see-through. The classroom could clearly be seen through her clothes and faded skin. The caption read: Mrs Gaskel pictured in her school where she was a teacher for twenty years. This picture was taken three years after her death.
There were other pictures, of faces appearing from walls on family photographs, hands clawing from shadows, a picture of a child dancing with fairies in the garden. After reading for most of the morning and into the afternoon, with only breaks for the toilet and to look up as the lady librarian walked by smiling, she finally found what she had been searching for: How to communicate with the dead. There was a story of a ten-year-old girl, Francesca. She had been given a Ouija board by her dying grandfather. Carrie Anne read that a Ouija board is a wooden board with the letters of the alphabet engraved into it. There are also numbers and the words: YES NO. By using an upturned glass, Francesca asked questions of the dead and the glass moved to the letters, spelling the answers. The spirit was a young boy who died in World War Two…
The first time the boy heard the voice was one dark evening of course. Less than a whisper, he would barely notice it at all and although it didn’t wake him, the little boys’ sleep became disturbed and he gave a troubled murmur. His eye lids flickered. The second time the boy heard the voice it came him to him like a breeze through an open window. At this moment it was as if it was in the dark room with him. So much so that the boy could tell the voice belonged to a girl. Not a girl like the ones at his school, or even like his mother. It was a girl’s voice somewhere in the middle of the two. He opened eyes that
On the outskirts of the shopping precinct was the library. A red brick building that stood out from the grey of the estate. It was surrounded by thicket bushes and there was graffiti on two of its many front windows, lines that made no particular sense. She hurried into the library. It was quiet as expected. The smell of books hung in the air. There were computers in the corner and DVDs and magazine and leaflets with helpful numbers. Standing on the deep brown carpet were wooden shelves holding plastic-bound books. There were old people sitting at tables reading newspapers. In a corner of the library was a colourful snakes and ladders carpet surrounded by children’s books. A poster showed a sad child staring at Carrie Anne. There was a phone number to call for help. She ignored it. Each of the shelves had a category sign above it. The nearest she found to what she needed was “religion”. She could have tried to use a computer to find what she needed but was unsure how to use the Internet properly as her father discouraged it, and asking for assistance would only draw attention to herself. Instead she picked a few books that may contain what she needed. Books on ghosts and spirits and theories on what the afterlife may contain. She sat with them at a desk in a quiet corner.
She was absorbed by the world that was hidden within the dark places of our own. Or so the books claimed. She read case studies of ghosts and unexplained happenings. Of phantom nannies and nuns who haunted orphanages and churches alike. Of mediums, people who could talk to the dead only using their minds. There were chapters on spirits that were not even human who wished to possess the living and walk amongst them wearing their flesh like a suit. There were pictures, some black and white, some in faded colours. There was a school photo with all the children of a class smiling for the camera. They were flanked by two old lady teachers, except the teacher on the left-hand side of the class was see-through. The classroom could clearly be seen through her clothes and faded skin. The caption read: Mrs Gaskel pictured in her school where she was a teacher for twenty years. This picture was taken three years after her death.
There were other pictures, of faces appearing from walls on family photographs, hands clawing from shadows, a picture of a child dancing with fairies in the garden. After reading for most of the morning and into the afternoon, with only breaks for the toilet and to look up as the lady librarian walked by smiling, she finally found what she had been searching for: How to communicate with the dead. There was a story of a ten-year-old girl, Francesca. She had been given a Ouija board by her dying grandfather. Carrie Anne read that a Ouija board is a wooden board with the letters of the alphabet engraved into it. There are also numbers and the words: YES NO. By using an upturned glass, Francesca asked questions of the dead and the glass moved to the letters, spelling the answers. The spirit was a young boy who died in World War Two…
The first time the boy heard the voice was one dark evening of course. Less than a whisper, he would barely notice it at all and although it didn’t wake him, the little boys’ sleep became disturbed and he gave a troubled murmur. His eye lids flickered. The second time the boy heard the voice it came him to him like a breeze through an open window. At this moment it was as if it was in the dark room with him. So much so that the boy could tell the voice belonged to a girl. Not a girl like the ones at his school, or even like his mother. It was a girl’s voice somewhere in the middle of the two. He opened eyes that
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