The Ghost Children
We always loved going to that old house on the hill. Everyone said it was haunted, but we never listened. Michael, Emma, and me, Summer. Why did we always go there? I guess we were...
Stories
Original fiction by young writers ages 8-13
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We always loved going to that old house on the hill. Everyone said it was haunted, but we never listened. Michael, Emma, and me, Summer.
Why did we always go there? I guess we were interested. We didn’t believe in ghosts. Not then. Now we know better. But even more than that, we were attracted to the house. That old wreck of a building, with shutters hanging loose and boards half ripped off.
My name is Jake. I have brown hair and green eyes, and I’m eleven years old, but most importantly, I’ve always wanted to go to summer camp. Every year I beg my parents to let me go, but they always insist that it’s too expensive. It was the end of the year and I was about to confront my parents about summer camp, when they walked into my room with huge smiles glued to their faces.
“So I’m doing my science project on contraptions or robots,” Jess said smoothly. She was talking to Bailey, who was on the other end of the phone.
“Yeah. Can I do it with you?”
Jess stopped. Uh-oh, she thought, better tell her now.
“Bailey, I’m really sorry, but… I totally forgot to ask you, and I’ve already chosen my teammates, Cassidy and Stewart. Can I make it up to you?
INTRODUCTION
The important people in my story are my grandparents. They have greatly impacted my life. My grandfather and I were very close and he taught me many things. He loved writing, music, and trains, the same as I do. He died November 8, 2011, on my brother’s birthday. One of the last times I spent with him was when we went to a train station. That place is very important to me.
It was an icy cold morning. I struggled to wake from the blissful sleep I had enjoyed all night. I stretched luxuriously and half smiled, but then, glancing at my clock, I abruptly jumped up into the frigid air our clumsy black woodstove was desperately trying to warm.
“Oh...” I moaned, suddenly remembering it was Saturday. Oh, well, I was already up.
It was late October on the verge of November and the sky had lost all of its brightness, taking on the stark, ink-black tone of night. On and on it stretched, broken only by occasional clusters of stars. It was cold, too. A cold that seeped all the way to the bone, turned exposed skin to marble.
The finest time to go fishing is at dusk. A hazy fog is settling over the lake, and the sun sits perched just above the crown of the tree line, casting a multitude of soft colors. I prepare myself, sliding slowly into the canoe, balancing myself and making sure not to fall into the crisp dusk waters. Row after row, my paddle breaks the water’s surface and pushes me along.
I stood in my backyard, wearing the clothes that I hid from my mama. A T-shirt and jeans, with a baseball cap atop my head. Boy, would Mama scream if she saw me wearing this. But I hate itchy blouses, skirts that are impossible to run in, and dresses that are like both of those combined.
You wouldn’t think that two girls who were so different could become friends, but somehow, Litzy and I did.
I rubbed my eyes with sleepy fingers as I stared into the mirror. An eleven-year-old girl with dark eyes and wild, unkempt dark hair stared dauntlessly back.
Scars are a part of you; they never go away. All scars have a story. Whether it’s funny, sad, or scary—the story’s always there. My scar’s story is one of pain and despair; a story in which fears are faced and lessons are learned, all from one little spark.
Our summer stays at my family’s beautiful country home were always my favorite part of the year.