She's Just an Ordinary Girl
[Author's Note: For this story, we were split up into teams. We had to come up with a concept: A man or a woman is burning down a house for some reason other than to collect insurance money. Tell that story. My team decided that she'd burn down the house because it was haunted, but not by a ghost, exactly. What follows is my part of the assignment.]
There were a million things on her mind as she drifted into sleep. Her manager scheduled a meeting with her in the morning and she was trying to think of what to say before she let herself fully enrobe herself in slumber.
“Why did you want to work for us?” she imagined being asked. Her mind flew to Hugh. She wondered what would have, could have happened from that relationship. She felt a tinge of regret, like the aftertaste of a lemon, lingering in the back of her mind as she remembered all the happy times they had spent together, before the move. Yet much like a leaf drifting in the wind, she was rustled from her peace by a sharp draft blowing through the open window. Pulling on her chenille robe to protect from the draft, she walked over to the window, curtains fluttering gently in the wind. She moved them aside and reached for the window to close it.
Her hand grasped the frame of the window as she applied downward pressure to close it. To her surprise, it would not budge. Shaking her head, as if to liberate any remnants of drowsiness still clinging to her mind, she performed a double-take, realizing the window had been tightly closed all along.
The sound of the floor creaking came from the hallway. She quickly turned in time to see a shadow disappear from the edge of her vision. Her heart thumped loudly. She slowly crept towards the bedroom door.
“H-hello? Is anyone there?” she asked the empty house, her voice echoing through the vacant halls and corridors. The locks in the house were pristine; however, she was unsure if there were any other ways in. She stood motionless for a moment as she tried to collect herself. “J-just the house settling,” she said, trying to laugh.
She reached out to pull the bedroom door closed. Thrusting her hand through the darkness to grasp the doorknob, hand trembled noticeably with a palsy of fear, fumbling with the brass knob. The door creaked loudly as it closed, clicking when it reached the doorframe. She walked back towards her bed.
The floor squeaked under her feet as she stepped across the room to her big, inviting bed. Squeak, the floor would go. She would take another step. Squeak, another step. The next step sounded like the quick cry of a baby in need of its mother—the sharp wail of an infant hungry or in need of a changing.
She froze. Persipration dotted her forehead. “It … was … just .. the … floor,” she whispered as she stepped as lightly and as quickly as she could. Leaping into the bed, she wrapped herself in her big blanket and stared across the room at the window.
The curtain was flowing again.
She curled into her bed even tighter, trying to make herself as small as possible. “Sonja,” she whispered to herself so lightly that she wasn’t even sure she had even spoke, “you’re losing it. Just close your eyes and get to sleep.” Her voice rose a semitone, rasping on the word “sleep.”
She followed her own orders, wedging her eyes shut, gripping her blanket with furvor.
The cold draft darted past her once again. Her eye shot open.
In the pale moonlight filtering through the waving curtains, perched at the foot of her bed, she saw a child. The child stared at her from across the bed. Its eyes were vacant, yet piercing; it’s flesh a pale color that reflected moonlight without actually adding any light to the room. The hair was dark and mussed, like the feathers on a raven lying dead by the side of the road.
“Mommy?” said the child in a child’s voice. This sent a spasm of terror through Sonja’s body. The child inched forward, it’s voice trembling as it crept. “Mommy, I’m scared.”
She wanted to say “Go away! Go Away! GO AWAY!” She wanted to scream at it, to tell it to leave her alone. All she could manage was a combination of a choke and a hard G: “Guh!”
“Mommy,” the child said in its all-too-childish voice, drifting from the foot of the bed towards her, “can I sleep with you tonight? I’m scared.”
She might have lost her voice, but she could still move, somewhat. She shook her head at the child, making the tiniest of arcs with her movement.
“Mommy?” the child stopped drifting and planted its hand on the bed. She felt the cold, dead weight of the hands brush he blanketed feet. “Can I please sleep here tonight?”
No response.
“Mommy,” the child said in a louder voice as it crawled up her body. A cold sensation passed through the blankets and into the depths of her soul. “Mommy, I love you!”
The eyes stared directly into her. The child reached out its arms as if it wanted to hug and kiss her, or cuddle. The ends of its fingers were jagged and dripped a thick, black ichor. A drop of the ooze hit her shoulder. It’s chill froze worse than any cold.
Sonja found her voice just then. She screamed as loudly as she could, screaming until her lungs had expended all their air, until all she could do was emit a choking sob.
She didn’t feel the coldness anymore. She looked at the window. The curtain stopped billowing, hanging limply over the window. The child was nowhere to be seen. Sonja was too scared to sleep. She trembled as she heard a childlike crying. She stopped when she realized that the crying was coming from herself. She stopped shaking. She juststared at the window, tears running down her face.
Her talk with the manager did not go that well.
“You seem distant, distracted,” he manager said to her afterwards.
“I had difficulty sleeping.”
“Did you just find out that your house is haunted or something?”
She was slightly taken aback by this inquiry. She stared at her manager for a moment, a look of shock and confusion marring her face. “W-why? Is there something I should know?” She began to tremble.
Her manager stared back at her, a look of gravity and concern on his face.
Beat.
He began to laugh. “There’s nothing to worry about, Sonja. Your house is not haunted. It’s just a rickety old house in which nothing of interest ever happened.”
She closed her eyes, lowering her head.
“Hey, Sonja,” said the manager, “why don’t you take the day off? We can do this evaluation later, okay?”
She looked up, raising her head in a slow manner. “that would be okay,” she said, her voice sounding as if it came from some deep recess within her sould.
On her way home, she noticed the library. She stepped inside and approached the clerk.
“Do you have any books about the historical houses in this area?” she said to the clerk.
He did not look up to meet her eyes as he typed a few words onto his computer screen. “Sure, which place?”
She gave the address to the clerk. He typed it into his computer and pressed RETURN. He paused for a moment before looking up to meet her eyes. His eyes were like that of an owl, bedecked in spectacles.
“You want the old Chevalier place?”
She nodded.
He walked her to the historical and biographical area of the library, finding the ones on houses. “We don’t have much on that place,” he said to her, “just the diary of Monsieur Chevalier.” He scanned the shelf and pulled forth a thin tome bound in faded green leather. “Here it is,” he said as he handed her the book.
“I can take this home with me?” she said to the clerk.
He looked around to make sure that no one was watching them. “Yes, but make sure that you do not lose that book, and that you bring it back as soon as possible.” He whispered these words to her. “No one will ask for the book, most likely, so it shouldn’t be missed. But, we do take inventory on occasion, and we’ll need it back before then.”
“Why are you letting me do this?” she said to him.
“Because I think you’re cute.” He winked at her.
She carried the book home with her, cradling it against her chest as she trudged up the porch and into her house. She opened the front door slowly. She poked her head into the house, looking for anything out of the ordinary. She stepped into the house, creeping with care. The floor squeaked beneath her feet. She closed the door once she made it inside. It responded to the closing with a loud and long creak.
Finding the comfortable sofa in the study, she plopped down and flipped through the book. The handwriting was very neat, longhand. Some of the words were spelled strangely, but she managed to parse the words correctly. She looked down and saw the first entry.
She skipped ahead a bit.
She flipped the pages some more. There had to be something.
Sonja was taken aback by this. Had the slaves eaten the child? Disgusted, she pressed onward. He hands trembled as she noticed that the cursive too looked agitated.
She put the diary down. At leas the child she saw was not some tormented soul, cannibalized by slaves, seeking revenge. It was in some ways a relief. She raised her head to look out the window into the former cotton field, which was not a subdivision with the name “Cotton Acres.”
She heard the floor creak. She turned her head over her shoulder.
Behind her stood the pale child. She dropped the diary to the floor.
There were a million things on her mind as she drifted into sleep. Her manager scheduled a meeting with her in the morning and she was trying to think of what to say before she let herself fully enrobe herself in slumber.
“Why did you want to work for us?” she imagined being asked. Her mind flew to Hugh. She wondered what would have, could have happened from that relationship. She felt a tinge of regret, like the aftertaste of a lemon, lingering in the back of her mind as she remembered all the happy times they had spent together, before the move. Yet much like a leaf drifting in the wind, she was rustled from her peace by a sharp draft blowing through the open window. Pulling on her chenille robe to protect from the draft, she walked over to the window, curtains fluttering gently in the wind. She moved them aside and reached for the window to close it.
Her hand grasped the frame of the window as she applied downward pressure to close it. To her surprise, it would not budge. Shaking her head, as if to liberate any remnants of drowsiness still clinging to her mind, she performed a double-take, realizing the window had been tightly closed all along.
The sound of the floor creaking came from the hallway. She quickly turned in time to see a shadow disappear from the edge of her vision. Her heart thumped loudly. She slowly crept towards the bedroom door.
“H-hello? Is anyone there?” she asked the empty house, her voice echoing through the vacant halls and corridors. The locks in the house were pristine; however, she was unsure if there were any other ways in. She stood motionless for a moment as she tried to collect herself. “J-just the house settling,” she said, trying to laugh.
She reached out to pull the bedroom door closed. Thrusting her hand through the darkness to grasp the doorknob, hand trembled noticeably with a palsy of fear, fumbling with the brass knob. The door creaked loudly as it closed, clicking when it reached the doorframe. She walked back towards her bed.
The floor squeaked under her feet as she stepped across the room to her big, inviting bed. Squeak, the floor would go. She would take another step. Squeak, another step. The next step sounded like the quick cry of a baby in need of its mother—the sharp wail of an infant hungry or in need of a changing.
She froze. Persipration dotted her forehead. “It … was … just .. the … floor,” she whispered as she stepped as lightly and as quickly as she could. Leaping into the bed, she wrapped herself in her big blanket and stared across the room at the window.
The curtain was flowing again.
She curled into her bed even tighter, trying to make herself as small as possible. “Sonja,” she whispered to herself so lightly that she wasn’t even sure she had even spoke, “you’re losing it. Just close your eyes and get to sleep.” Her voice rose a semitone, rasping on the word “sleep.”
She followed her own orders, wedging her eyes shut, gripping her blanket with furvor.
The cold draft darted past her once again. Her eye shot open.
In the pale moonlight filtering through the waving curtains, perched at the foot of her bed, she saw a child. The child stared at her from across the bed. Its eyes were vacant, yet piercing; it’s flesh a pale color that reflected moonlight without actually adding any light to the room. The hair was dark and mussed, like the feathers on a raven lying dead by the side of the road.
“Mommy?” said the child in a child’s voice. This sent a spasm of terror through Sonja’s body. The child inched forward, it’s voice trembling as it crept. “Mommy, I’m scared.”
She wanted to say “Go away! Go Away! GO AWAY!” She wanted to scream at it, to tell it to leave her alone. All she could manage was a combination of a choke and a hard G: “Guh!”
“Mommy,” the child said in its all-too-childish voice, drifting from the foot of the bed towards her, “can I sleep with you tonight? I’m scared.”
She might have lost her voice, but she could still move, somewhat. She shook her head at the child, making the tiniest of arcs with her movement.
“Mommy?” the child stopped drifting and planted its hand on the bed. She felt the cold, dead weight of the hands brush he blanketed feet. “Can I please sleep here tonight?”
No response.
“Mommy,” the child said in a louder voice as it crawled up her body. A cold sensation passed through the blankets and into the depths of her soul. “Mommy, I love you!”
The eyes stared directly into her. The child reached out its arms as if it wanted to hug and kiss her, or cuddle. The ends of its fingers were jagged and dripped a thick, black ichor. A drop of the ooze hit her shoulder. It’s chill froze worse than any cold.
Sonja found her voice just then. She screamed as loudly as she could, screaming until her lungs had expended all their air, until all she could do was emit a choking sob.
She didn’t feel the coldness anymore. She looked at the window. The curtain stopped billowing, hanging limply over the window. The child was nowhere to be seen. Sonja was too scared to sleep. She trembled as she heard a childlike crying. She stopped when she realized that the crying was coming from herself. She stopped shaking. She juststared at the window, tears running down her face.
Her talk with the manager did not go that well.
“You seem distant, distracted,” he manager said to her afterwards.
“I had difficulty sleeping.”
“Did you just find out that your house is haunted or something?”
She was slightly taken aback by this inquiry. She stared at her manager for a moment, a look of shock and confusion marring her face. “W-why? Is there something I should know?” She began to tremble.
Her manager stared back at her, a look of gravity and concern on his face.
Beat.
He began to laugh. “There’s nothing to worry about, Sonja. Your house is not haunted. It’s just a rickety old house in which nothing of interest ever happened.”
She closed her eyes, lowering her head.
“Hey, Sonja,” said the manager, “why don’t you take the day off? We can do this evaluation later, okay?”
She looked up, raising her head in a slow manner. “that would be okay,” she said, her voice sounding as if it came from some deep recess within her sould.
On her way home, she noticed the library. She stepped inside and approached the clerk.
“Do you have any books about the historical houses in this area?” she said to the clerk.
He did not look up to meet her eyes as he typed a few words onto his computer screen. “Sure, which place?”
She gave the address to the clerk. He typed it into his computer and pressed RETURN. He paused for a moment before looking up to meet her eyes. His eyes were like that of an owl, bedecked in spectacles.
“You want the old Chevalier place?”
She nodded.
He walked her to the historical and biographical area of the library, finding the ones on houses. “We don’t have much on that place,” he said to her, “just the diary of Monsieur Chevalier.” He scanned the shelf and pulled forth a thin tome bound in faded green leather. “Here it is,” he said as he handed her the book.
“I can take this home with me?” she said to the clerk.
He looked around to make sure that no one was watching them. “Yes, but make sure that you do not lose that book, and that you bring it back as soon as possible.” He whispered these words to her. “No one will ask for the book, most likely, so it shouldn’t be missed. But, we do take inventory on occasion, and we’ll need it back before then.”
“Why are you letting me do this?” she said to him.
“Because I think you’re cute.” He winked at her.
She carried the book home with her, cradling it against her chest as she trudged up the porch and into her house. She opened the front door slowly. She poked her head into the house, looking for anything out of the ordinary. She stepped into the house, creeping with care. The floor squeaked beneath her feet. She closed the door once she made it inside. It responded to the closing with a loud and long creak.
Finding the comfortable sofa in the study, she plopped down and flipped through the book. The handwriting was very neat, longhand. Some of the words were spelled strangely, but she managed to parse the words correctly. She looked down and saw the first entry.
October 28, 1844
The workers have finally finished building the house. In regards to naming it, I have considered the following names: The Rookery, Cotton Acres, Pleasant, & Veronica. The workers finished the slave’s quarters quite some time ago, and the slaves are currently living there. I am anticipating a marvelous crop this year. Mme C prepares for our child, who is yet unborn. I am informed by Mme C that the advent is soon approaching. The neighbors visited today, wishing to see the new abode. I gave them a full tour, showing off the latest technological marvel: the telegraph. I demonstrated it for them…
She skipped ahead a bit.
July 14, 1845
It is the day of the Bastille back in France. However, I am no longer a French citizen. We celebrated our nation’s independence ten days previous. We sat on the front porch and watched the slaves work in the fields until dusk. Afterwards, we entertained the Ls by playing rousing songs on the pianoforte. My child sat curled in Mme C’s arms during the festivities, not wishing to take part for obvious reasons. The crop has come in nicely, yet I fear…
She flipped the pages some more. There had to be something.
May 4, 1850
Today Mme C came to me crying feverishly. She said that the child was missing. I asked what she meant, and she, between sobs, mentioned that the child had been sleeping, and when she came to awaken it, the child was nowhere to be seen. We went through the house, seeking if the child was hiding in some puerile ruse to entertain. Not finding the child, we went out into the fields. The slaves were not to be found in the field. We found them huddled in the slave quarters. Between them there stood a cooking pot boiling some meaty stew. The child’s shoe lay next to the pot. Mme C came to the conclusion that the slaves had killed and prepared the child for cooking.
Sonja was taken aback by this. Had the slaves eaten the child? Disgusted, she pressed onward. He hands trembled as she noticed that the cursive too looked agitated.
Furiously crying, Mme C demanded to know what had happened to the child. She kicked the pot over, spilling its contents to the dirt floor. She screamed and raved as if she were a lunatic. Finally, she fainted. I caught her in my arms as I looked at the slaves. I backed away slowly, Mme C in my arms. The notion of whether or not the slaves would eat us as well passed through my mind.
It was then that I heard children playing in the fields. Among them was our child, barefoot as the slaves. The child saw us and ran to us, inquiring as to why Mme C was fainted in my arms. Upon hearing the child’s voice Mme C awoke from her swoon and embraced the child. The child explained all to use afterwards, saying that the meat was stolen from the cook in order to give the slaves a nice meal. We reprimanded the child for the blatant waste of food, and said to never leave without asking Mme C’s permission. Later that day, we…
She put the diary down. At leas the child she saw was not some tormented soul, cannibalized by slaves, seeking revenge. It was in some ways a relief. She raised her head to look out the window into the former cotton field, which was not a subdivision with the name “Cotton Acres.”
She heard the floor creak. She turned her head over her shoulder.
Behind her stood the pale child. She dropped the diary to the floor.
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