The first time I felt invisible eyes on me I was fifteen and had recently moved into the house I would eventually die in. I had just stepped out of the shower when I shiver crawled its way up my spine. I clutched my towel around my waist, wrapping my arms around my body as I stared into the small, rectangular mirror over the cracked, white sink. Even with the painfully bright yellow lights boring into my soul from above my head, there was a drowned out blue tint to the face in the mirror that didn't belong to me.
I didn't sleep at all that night.
That Friday night, after my mother drank herself into oblivion on the cot on her unfinished bedroom floor, I heard someone walking up the creaky, old stairs, even though I was the only person awake on the quietly slumbering street. At least I should have been the only one awake.
When I went to investigate the force disturbing my night, I felt someone push my chest so hard that I almost fell down the stairs.
When I told my only friend at school, she started to cackle at my idiocy. It wasn't until I invited her into my ripped and crumpled-paper home that her face turned white and she forcefully begged, pleaded for me to move out. When I asked her why, she said, "Remember that ghosts are real."
I told her that she was crazy before leading her up into my grotesquely coloured hot-pink room.
After that, I kept on coming up with different reasons why I was losing my mind instead of believing my friendly neighborhood psychic. I couldn't believe that my house was haunted. I couldn't believe that the remaining dead stayed behind inside my home of all places.
Maybe I was just hallucinating. Maybe my only friend was a nut job. Either way, I owe my existence to her,
When the spirit in my bedroom took control of my hands and tried hanging me off the bannister outside of what should have been my safe haven, a mantra kept on going on inside my head. "Remember that ghosts are real."
After the words escaped from behind my trembling lips, the necklace I found on the first floor men's room of my school began to glow over my chest.
My only friend burst through my necklace, her hands covering mine as she ripped the ghost off of me. If only she could have held my body up long enough to keep me from collapsing towards the first floor of my house, snapping my neck.
It wasn't until I woke up to find myself with my only friend, hovering over my drunkenly sobbing mother as she found my apparent suicide. I turned to look at the girl beside me as she laughed and said, 'I told you that ghosts are real."
Hesitantly, I grinned back at her. "Yeah. I guess you did."