The Lost Chronicles

The Blue Girl Cont

 

Two hours later, after showers and changing into our pajamas, we crawled into our beds. The lamp was on, casting shadows around the room, and I had dug out some candles from under the bathroom sink and lit them on the dresser and vanity for extra light.

 

“I haven’t seen it again,” Avalon claimed. “Maybe it stayed in the forest.”

 

“She,” I corrected in a whisper.

 

“What?”

 

“The ghost is a she. I saw her face and I heard her voice. The ghost is a she, and she wasn’t happy we were there.”

 

“Well, she’s going to have to put up with it until we can figure out who she is and what she’s doing there.”

 

“Avalon, can’t we just leave it? I don’t want to end up like one of those people in horror movies who should have just left things alone.”

 

“Well, I’m going to figure it out.” I heard her roll over in her bed. “Hey, did you ever check out the attic?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, the entrance is right there.” She pointed upwards, right by the door. Looking closely, I noticed the square outline of a trap door with a small handle.

 

Avalon shoved her covers aside and climbed out of bed.

 

“Avalon,” I hissed. “What are you doing?”

 

“I’m just checking it out.” She grabbed her flash light and went underneath the trap door. Standing on her toes, she still couldn’t reach it. It took a few jumps until she managed to snag the handle, pulling open the trap door.

 

She stepped out of the way as the door swung back and forth and a ladder slid down, hitting the floor with a thud.

 

She grinned and flicked her flashlight on before climbing up the ladder. I threw my covers off and jumped out of bed as she disappeared into the dark hole at the top of the ladder, the light from her flashlight vanishing as well.

 

After muttering about how going into dark, creepy places in an old house is exactly how the people in movies end up with an axe in their head, I went over to the ladder.

 

I was considering climbing up and following Avalon – people in pairs always lasted longer in the movies – when I heard scuffling and saw her light reappear. Seconds later she was climbing back down the ladder.

 

“There wasn’t anything up there except this old book,” she told me, hopping off of the last rung. She passed me the book and her flashlight before she shoved the ladder back up. It took her a few attempts to get the trap door to latch again.

 

Standing by the lamp we looked at the book. It was the typical pocketbook size, as thick as a single finger, and bound in old leather that was stiff to the touch. The spine creaked and cracked as we opened it, as if fresh off a bookstore shelf.

 

On the first page an ink sketch of a vague face and body took up most of the space. Words were written in messy handwriting beneath it. Fernwood.

 

“Isn’t that the name of the forest?” Avalon asked, getting her map from the dresser. “Yeah, here it is. Fernwood Forest, that’s where we saw the ghost.”

 

I flipped to the next page, which was filled with writing. Some of the ink was smudged or too messy to read, but I managed to get most of it.

 

“Vengeful? Violent? How does a ghost get violent? Wait, never mind. I don’t want to know that.”

 

“She’s been there for hundreds of years, according to this.” Avalon’s voice held excitement and wonder. Mine had held fear.

 

“It says she only appears from just before sunset to right after sunrise. You just had to drag me into the forest when she was going to appear.”

 

The next page held a map, roughly sketched, but clearly of the forest. A spot was circled multiple times, with the words her rock scrawled next to it. In the corner was a rough, blocked in sketch of the same rock and flowers I had tried to draw.

 

I flipped the page once more and dropped the book, stepping back. It landed open, a snarling face drawn in blue ink instead of black like the rest of the book.

 

The sketch took up both pages and showed a face twisted with anger and rage. The same face I had seen in the forest.

 

“That’s her. That’s the ghost,” I told Avalon as she picked up the book.

 

“Someone ticked her off,” she muttered.

 

“We did.”

 

“No, a ghost wouldn’t have this much rage at us just passing through.”

 

I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold, despite the warm air. “Now turn the page. I don’t want to see her face anymore.”

 

“Alright, alright.”

 

She flipped through the pages, skimming the text while I looked at the drawings scattered throughout.

 

Most of them were of the ghost or her rock. A couple depicted her in a full length, pale and plain, tattered dress, with bare feet and long, loose hair. Her face was almost always enraged, hissing and snarling, but in some she looked almost heartbroken.

 

The book mostly told of where and when she had appeared, what she had done or said. Apparently she mostly repeated things, hissed, or screeched.

 

There was nothing on why she was there, or who she used to be.

 

Finally, when it was past midnight, we decided to go to bed. Avalon went under her covers, silhouetted as she used her flashlight to go over every detail of the book.

 

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and listened to the soft crinkle of pages. Each time I closed my eyes the ghost’s face flashed in front of me, and I snapped my eyes open.

 

It was going to be a long night.