Revenge of the Dead (Original Story)

The moment she approached me, I knew.

I could tell by the silver shade that trembled around her frail figure, the misty, nearly murky swirl in her otherwise kind eyes. Her hair clung tightly to her face, despite the fierce wind that blew out in the streets, and her cheeks were without life--lacking any warmth.

"What do you want?" I asked, taking a quick step back. Not all spirits are friendly: some can be downright malicious. I'd had a few encounters with what you could call the haunting kind, and they were very troubling. After that, I found myself shrinking away from any ghosts.

"What's your name?" she asked in return, clearly trying to be gentle, though I suspected she was impatient. She blinked and the corners of her lifeless lips curled up--in a friendly, non-stalkerish way, I decided. Yet, somehow, I forgot that she couldn't truly harm me at the same time, and I lashed out., my voice full of venom "What business is it of yours?!"

Her friendly eyes saddened, yet I remained guarded until she swallowed, opened her mouth and said in a small voice which I would always remember:

"He destroyed my life, too."

After staring at her for a long, uncomfortable moment, at a total loss for words, I slowly extended my hand and ignored the chilly feeling at the back of my neck, then speaking the only words I could think of speaking: my name. "Emma Greensleigh," I choked.

She took my hand and shook it quickly, a wide smile appearing on her face in relief. "Kensy May Jackson, but friends call me--called me . . . called me. . . ." Kensy trailed off.

I had to squeeze her hand to remind here I was still there. Ghosts were capable touch each other, but from experience I knew that it felt hollow, unreal. Which it is, when you think about it. Undead beings shaking hands. . . .

"Call me Ken," she finally said, her lips quivering sadly. With one frail hand, she brushes her hair aside and gave me a quick nod, as if confirming that it was all true: that I was dead, that she was dead, that we shared the same murderer, that her name was Ken . . . One big confirmation.

"Like the barbie," I muttered under my breath, unable to stop a childish grin from splitting my face in two. It felt good to have a reason to grin again, even about something as trivial as this.

"Exactly," she sighed, a sudden impatient look coming over her face again. "But there's a reason why I'm here. We need to stop him. We need to stop our murderer, we need to hurt him!" Her voice rised angrily at the end and she looked like a vengeful spirit--which she was, I reminded myself, suddenly frightened.

I took an involuntary step back and glanced around, as if looking for something to defend myself with. "He's human. We can only watch, not harm. Nature will take him, in time. . . ." Immedietly after uttering those words, I knew they weren't good enough.

"We don't have time!" hissed Ken, her eyes glowing dangerously. "He'll kill another soon! I know him . . . I've watched him. The look in his eyes, it's changing again."

"What do you mean?" I asked, even more wary. How would I know she wasn't going to turn out to be a lunatic? It was very well possible. Even in death, you couldn't trust strangers. Especially not the kind that was obsessed with hurting her human killer.

"He's been following around another girl. Pretty, dark-haired, shy. His usual type."

I knew what she meant and casted my eyes at the ground, my unnecessary breath coming a little more quickly. "I--I don't think I can . . . it's not possible."

"It is! There are people, Emma! People who can see us!" The note of urgency in her voice was getting stronger, with a hint of desperation and mourning. It wasn't herself she was avenging: it was her family, the life she lost.

"Then why haven't you gone to them before?" I asked, unconscious reproach creeping into my voice.

"Because I needed to find you first, Emma Greensleigh."