Ariana Chapter 1

1: There Are No Ghosts

Peals of laughter shot through the night air and up through the second story window of Emily Placida's room.  These were occasionally preceded by shrieks of terror.  Looking out, she could see ghouls of all sorts, movie stars, and one very depressed looking rabbit surrounded by superheroes, passing by her darkened driveway.  Droves of them traveled down the sidewalks, making their way towards houses more promising.

Emily was stuck inside this Halloween, having agreed to babysit for Punk again.  Not that she minded in the least.   More and more, her Friday nights were taken up by the girl.  Truth be told, Punk was a treat to sit for.  She never complained, she hardly ever talked to anyone but Emily, and by now they were practically like sisters.  Even though Punk's parents paid good money, Emily began insisting that payment was unnecessary.  It wasn't like she had anything better to do anyway.

Punk, so nicknamed due to her inexplicable love of Clint Eastwood movies, spoke very little.  So little in fact, that by her current age of six, she had become a master of expression and body language.  Most people believed there was something mentally awry with her, the family physician going so far as to suggest low spectrum autism. 

Upon first meeting her a year ago, Emily had been inclined to side with professional opinions of the girl.  After asking Punk why she maintained her silence, Emily had never been able to look at her the same way again.

"I conserve my words," she replied in a quiet soprano, "because language is powerful.  People are so imprecise with what they say; they turn words into inaccurate weapons and broken toys. 

Meaning shapes and defines our world, misuse creates falsehoods, lies, and all that is left is to watch as everything falls apart because of what we've done."  Punk fell back into her silence as Emily stood in awe, her mouth agape.  The most insightful sentiment she thought she might ever hear came from the mouth of a five year old that day.

The spell was only broken when Punk sheepishly admitted she had memorized the quote but loved the way it felt in her brain.

For hopefully the last time that night, Emily checked to ensure the front door was locked.  Seeing that it was, she bounded upstairs to put Punk to bed.

"Punk!" she yelled on her way up, "Time for bed!"  She walked in to see Punk surrounded by colorful sheets of paper and boxes of random crayons and markers all being put to diligent use. 

One piece of paper had been carefully laid aside from the others.  On it was what could only be described as art.  In a forest clearing stood a woman.  Golden light poured down through openings in the canopy, lending highlights to the woman and casting unnatural shadows far in the background.  Long auburn hair shimmered, covering half of her face.  The other half showed crimson lips and mischievous marble green eyes flecked with gold.  Her features were sharp but not unpleasant.  A skirt, of the same shade as her lips, had a purposefully tattered look to it.  It had depth.

It was very nearly a photograph.  "Gosh, Punk," whispered Emily as she held the picture up to examine it.  "This is amazing."

"Not mine," she replied, not looking up.

Small hairs on the back of the older girl's neck stood on end.  Not only had Punk spoke, a feat in itself, she also never lied.  "You didn't draw this?"

The answer came back as a shake of the head.

"Then where did it come from?" asked Emily nervously.

Punk pushed herself off the bed and began gathering the art supplies.  She shrugged her shoulders once, then continued to clean up.

"But-"

"For Mike."

"Who-" started Emily, very aware that she was far away from her comfort zone, and quickly losing control of her confusion.

"Read me a story, please?"

This request was so non sequitur Emily found herself caught completely off guard, forcing the issue of the offending drawing out of her mind.  The building tension in the room bled away.  "You're jabberish tonight.  What's the occasion?"

Punk shrugged again.  Her small hand gestured to the copy of Little Red Riding Hood sitting at the foot of the bed.

"Are you serious?  Aren't you a bit old for bed time stories from me now?"

A flashed look of disdain met the question.

Emily sighed dramatically, "Oh alright, but pick something else.  I haven't made one up for Little Red Riding Hood yet," she lied.

Sometime after the revelation of Punk's muted behavior, Emily learned that however intelligent the girl was, she was very twisted.  Punk was more inclined to enjoy the original versions of the fairy tales where someone was eaten and stayed eaten.  No heed was paid to generic children's stories that lacked any macabre humor, or darkness, or, to Emily’s amazement, any story not in prose. 

Though, on occasion, prose was negotiable.

To keep the girl happy, Emily had to stretch the limits of her creativity every Friday night in order to babysit.

Sometimes the stories that came from her endeavors were fun, others more disturbing.  Each had been shown appreciation by a captive yet eclectic audience.

So, while Emily had in actuality come up with an alternative version of Little Red Riding Hood, she refused to recite it until Punk was more advanced in years.  Thanks to the colorful world of public education, certain elements of vocabulary had made themselves known to her, and she did not particularly fancy being up to the task of explaining to her younger charge what the phrase 'turning tricks' meant.

"How about the Three Little Piggies?  I've got a good one for that."

Silence came on the heels of the inquiry, indicating begrudged concession.

"Good," began Emily. 

Here is the story of the Three Little Piggies:

Our first little piggy had a house made of straw,
So weak that the wolf needn’t knock at all.
He huffed and he puffed and he blew the house in,
Leaving no time for games or chinny chin chins.

“Did the first little piggy get away?”

There was a house up the road made of thatch and of twig,
And in lived our friend, the second little pig.
Up to the door came the first, out of breath,
When the wolf finally pounced and mauled him to death.
The second piggy watched, his horror compounded,
He locked up the house, terrified, confounded.

‘What do you want?’ ‘A room with a view!’
The wolf sucked in the air, and down the cabin he blew.
Piggy ran away, as fast as he could,
Far down the road, through stream and through wood.

“Oh no! Did this little piggy get away?”

The chase was over at the door of the third,
A legless piggy bleeding, absurd.
‘Just to make sure you can’t run away,’
‘I’ve eaten your legs, what have you to say?’

‘You’re evil!’ said the piggy. ‘Rotten! A menace!’
‘Only your death will be penance.’
‘Ha!’ laughed the wolf, as he knocked on the door.
He spit on the piggy, saying only ‘I’m sure.’

‘Come out,’ said the wolf, ‘and I’ll make you a deal.’
‘His life for yours, and you’ll be my last meal.’
‘Come out,’ said the wolf, ‘or let his death be your sin!’

“And do you know what that third little piggy said?”

‘Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin.’
‘Open this door or I’ll murder your kin!’
‘Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin!’
‘Then I’ll tear him apart and I’ll still get in,’
‘And the first thing I’ll eat is your chinny chin chin.’

As the door opened slowly, it made a slight creak,
From behind it stood piggy, he started to speak.
‘My house is of mortar, of brick and of stone,’
‘I’ve told you for the last time, to leave me alone!’
‘Now you come to my doorway with murderous eyes.’
Then out jumped the piggy, yelling ‘Surprise!’

He was wielding a shotgun, cocked and ready to go,
He was shaking with rage, about to explode.
‘No more pork for you,’ the third piggy said.
He leveled his weapon, ‘Tonight you eat lead.’

"The End.  What'd ya think?"

Punk’s face was alight with genuine delight. 

"You are an odd little girl, you know that?" Emily told her as she put the book away.  At about the same time, the doorbell rang.  "I'll be back to tuck you in."

"No candy!  Go away!" she shouted as she ran down to the door. 

It rang again. 

She swung the door open just as the last note faded out.  No one was on the other side.  "Stupid pranks," she said aloud to the empty porch.  "Go away jerks," Emily added just in case the perpetrators were still within earshot.  Murmuring, "Stupid Halloween," as she closed the door for what she really hoped was the last time tonight, seriously this time.

Her feet clomped up each step in frustration.  "There wasn't anyone th-" she trailed off.  Punk was kneeling on the bed, looking out the window, her elbows resting on the ledge.  "Hey you, you're supposed to be ready to sleep."

"There are ghosts outside," said Punk without turning around.

"Duh, it's Halloween."  Punk gave no reaction.  Emily leaned in behind her, "You.  Bed.  Now.  By order of your parents," and bodily picked the girl up out of her reverie.  Covers were shifted and shuffled, pillows fluffed, and after the magical combination of teddy bears were added or removed, the tuck-in was complete.

"Goodnight Isabelle Amanda Fitzpatrick," but she had slipped back into her own little world once more.

The doorbell rang.

"Ugh, really?!" 

Once again, emptiness greeted her.  Instead of getting angry, Emily found herself scared.  Punk's predilection towards ghosts tonight, as well as her unusual behavior put Emily on edge. 

A brief sprint back to the room revealed an empty bed and an open window.

"ISABELLE?" 

~

Wind rattled the dying, brightly colored leaves hanging in their boughs. Twilight had passed quite a while ago and the temperature, which had already been low, plummeted. Though it may not happen tonight, tomorrow definitely promised snow. "I should have put on more sweaters," said one boy, walking along in a sheet that probably started out its life white.  Not that it mattered, of course; it was too dark to tell the difference between one color and another. A pair of eyeholes had been lazily cut out near the middle without reference to the wearer’s eyes, giving him the impression of a rather surprised ghost.
            "You can wear my beard if you want," said the second boy in an honest gesture of generosity. "It might keep your face warm," he added, scratching at a band behind his ears that kept the beard up.  The other boy thought about this for a moment as they walked on.  Each had a pillowcase nearly filled with candy, and both were shivering slightly in the early night's cold.
            "No thanks, Brian. You'd look like a pretty dumb pirate without a beard," he chuckled finally, but in a tone that suggested he understood the offer was equivalent to giving the shirt off his back. "And what kinda ghost has a beard?" A group of smaller children accompanied by parents walked past them without a glance.
            "Mike," asked Brian as they rounded an unknown corner of the street, "where are we?" A large dilapidated colonial mansion loomed in front of where they stopped.  It towered menacingly over them in the darkness.  Shuttered windows seemed to stare down upon them. Streetlamps closest to the house flickered and finally died, casting the house framed by withered trees, into a pale moonlit gloom.

Mike whispered, "I dunno. Wanna go home now?"  Brian nodded, but neither boy moved.  They stared owlishly at the sight before them.  He stirred, suddenly aware of the complete silence around them, and spoke again, "This place is givin me the creeps."  Before his companion could reply however, the silence was broken by a shout from behind.
            "Isabelle! Isabelle!  Where are you!?"  A girl wearing grubby jeans and an overlarge jacket approached them.  "Have either of you seen-" she paused for a moment, looking them both up and down, "Brian?"
            Between the darkness and the shock of the vile looking mansion, it took him a moment to recognize her as a girl several years older, but who had lived in the same neighborhood for ages.  "Oh, h-hey Emily," said the little pirate.

Mike waved from under the sheet, but the gesture was lost so he voiced his greeting instead, "Hi Em."
            "Mike? You guys are pretty far out for trick-or-treating without a parent," she scorned.
            "So? I don't see you with anyone," replied Mike hotly.  "What are you doing out here anyway? Where's your costume?"
            She seemed to recover her original train of though, "Oh! I'm looking for the girl I'm baby-sitting.  I took her out trick-or-treating tonight, and" she winced uncomfortably at the lie, then continued, "she started acting um, weird…er than normal, and ran off this way, I think." Emily waited for one of them to add something useful, but when nothing came she went on, "Well? Have you seen her?"
            "Nah-uh," Mike shook his head.  "We were just headin home, and found this place," he pointed at the house, deforming his sheeted ghost-shape.  As one, all three turned their heads back to the mansion, which seemed to have grown in minutes during the exchange between Emily and the boys.  "Creepy, huh?"
            A movement near the back corner of the house caught their eyes.  "Isabelle?" mouthed Emily, and a minute noise came back to them that sounded like a giggle.  "Guys! That's her, come on," she exclaimed.  But as she began move away, neither of the boys followed.  In desperate tones she added, "Please? She's just a little girl."
            Meekly, reluctantly, they followed her gentle trot towards that back of the house.  If the front of the house had been bad, the side was much worse.  Large cracks in the masonry gave the appearance of many twisted angry faces on the walls.  Overgrown vines and deep grass gave an unpleasant and tangible feeling of neglect.  Yet, Emily, who was too concerned with finding her charge, noticed none of this.  When they finally reached the back, the trio froze in complete terror. 
            Ahead of them was Punk, surrounded by an ever-rising mist.  She stood there in what looked like a small field with her eyes closed and a determined expression on her little face.  After several moments of concentration she opened her eyes, walked forward, and laid her hand on a slab of grey rock protruding from the ground.  "Punk," Emily squeaked, realizing finally that the girl was resting her hand on a tombstone. 

The air surrounding Punk was thick with mist and darkness.   Small movements became noticeable.   Shadows woven in the fog pooled together, slithered up from the ground and out from behind hidden corners.   Slowly they wound around themselves, writhing and congealing into an impenetrable black mass.   It struggled, forming shape from nothingness, growing all the time, until finally, where Punk had been staring, a woman appeared.

It was not a woman though, more like a faded memory of one.   As Punk tilted her head, she saw a young girl, at a different angle a handsome woman, and still another a withered crone.   Every age in between was visible.  Yet, looking directly at her it became impossible to discern what she truly looked like.   

Emily watched in horror as some sort of spoken exchange went on between the specter and the girl.   Slowly, it dawned on her that the temperature was dropping.   She grabbed Mike by the bed sheet and walked forward with him.   “Something is wrong.”

Mike dug his heels in, “You don’t say.”

“Come on, I…I’m scared,” she trailed off.

“Yeah, yeah alright.”  Brian however, refused to move.

Without any ceremony or flash of magic, the world changed.   No longer were they in the darkness of a late October night.   The sky above them became gray with heavy clouds.   Beneath their feet snow, unspoiled by human contact but far from fresh, crunched as they walked.   The familiar brisk smell of autumn was replaced by the old air of far away winters.   No leaves blew from the trees; they stood bare against the dull sky.   It was as if wherever they were now, the other seasons had long forgotten this place, so had everyone and everything else.  Here was something primal.

Punk’s conversation seemed to be nearing an end.   She talked low, so that the words missed Emily’s ears even as she pressed on.   The shadow woman finally took notice of Emily and Mike, and Emily noticed that this caused Punk a great deal of distress.   Punk yelled out, “You do not belong here!”

Pausing, the ghost whispered, “Neither do you.”  Inside each of their minds, they heard it.   Words so quiet, answering unheard questions only one of them asked, but replying to all four. 

It leapt at Punk.

Emily dove between the woman and the girl.   A part of the thing grazed her back, Emily screamed as the shadow burned and froze its way onto her skin.   The pain crippled her mind.   Mike dashed towards her, throwing off his sheet.

The ghost continued its rush to Punk, who stood her ground.   There was a silent impact as shadow struck flesh and bone.   Punk fell to the ground as the darkness flowed around and through her.   It flew away some distance before turning back for another strike.

Brian walked unsteadily to the fray.   In all directions around the boy, there was normality.   Mike could see leaves floating, grass on the ground, a dark sky.   The unnatural winter recoiled from Brian’s presence.  For some reason he was in two worlds at once, the one that belonged to the ghost, and the one that belonged to him.   

Mike rose from Emily’s wincing form screaming, “Don’t forget about me!” and ran to Brian.   The specter turned from its original target, Punk, who had regained consciousness, and oozed towards Mike.   

Like Punk, it engulfed him.   Mike stumbled forward as it pierced his body.  He knew pain and abject terror as it brushed against his soul.   

Then it was gone.   Mike looked up to see Brian standing over him.   They had made it to each other before it had time to leave his body.   Emily and Punk stood, not on snow but grass.   

To Emily, it was impossible to describe what she felt.   Some mixture of incredible emotion and serenity was going on, and she could the same thing happening to the other three.   “I think,” she said between heavy breaths, “I never want to do that again.”

“Punk,” Mike looked down at her, “what did we just do?”

Saying nothing, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, then stuffed it into Mike’s hand.

“What-“ he started, but she was walking away even as he opened it.