**One of my friends also wrote this. Her name is Jessie Porter, and she is an amazing writer. I want you to love this story, like I do. So far, this is only a part of the story, because she wrote this as a short story for a writing contest. She hasn’t started writing the actual book yet, but I have a feeling she will. For now, just enjoy this portion of the story and cheer Jessie on.**
This has been happening for a while now, the strange and insistent sound that follows me every time I leave the house. It’s the noise of a clicking boot on tile and a knife scraping against metal that stalks me. If I turn around, there is nothing nor no one there to be causing the sound. That is what’s creepy. But today, the noise got even creepier.
As of habit, I go running down the trail behind my house every morning. I have money in my pockets, a cell phone attached to my arm, and running shoes tied to my feet. The air is crisp and cool– perfect for a jog. I go down my narrow path at a pace that allows me to marvel at the fauna and flora of the amazing Colorado Mountains.
I slither up the shallow incline roughly, leaping over rocks and dodging trees. The noise, the knife scraping on metal noise, intrudes on the rhythm of my music. It sends shivers through my body, like a cold finger running down my spine. I glance back from habit, but see nothing except trees and shrubs. I continue to run. The noise pierces through my sound, causing my knees to give out. I begin to fall to the ground, barely able to catch myself before the incoming face plant.
The pitch of the sound increases to a tortured whine, forcing me to cover my ears. From the pressure of the sound, it feels like my eardrums will explode. I can imagine how I would look to a passerby. A teenager with flaming red hair writhing on the ground of a mountain side forest, blocking out some unknown sound. I pinch my eyes, trying to get the agonizing sound to disappear. The sound has become unbearable. Then, like it read my mind, it stops.
It just stops. No warning, no fading, just an abrupt cut-off. I hesitantly peel my hands off my ears only to hear the soft chirp of morning birds. There is no one in sight. My head feels like a hurricane just blew through it. I make an attempt to stand, but end up on my back again. The world spins around me, and I begin to feel nauseous.
Suddenly, a shrill cry of a bird warns me of lurking danger nearby. I jolt up onto my feet and stand still for a minute, waiting for my head to catch up with me. I sprinted a few steps, but soon fell to my hands and knees. A tenacious grip yanks my hair, pulling me to a kneeling position. I gulp in a breath of fresh air, only now realizing that my throat is as dry as the Sahara. Sweat beads around my hairline. I strain to get a glance at my attacker, but end up with a sudden twist of my hair and a sting of my nerves. I lash out, clawing at the hand that holds my hair and search for the body of the assailant.
“Help!” I scream frantically. I won’t go down without a fight, or at least screaming bloody murder. “Fire! There’s a– a fire! Somebody help me! Please!” I choke out. Tears stream down my face, the acid burning my flesh wherever it touches and filling my mouth. I continue to claw at the hand, but it doesn’t loosen it’s hold.
Another hand wraps around my mouth, blocking my screams and sobs. I sink my teeth into the callused skin, until a coppery liquid flows into my mouth. The hand doesn’t move to let me go, or even flinch in pain.
A cool object skims the delicate skin of my throat, slowly getting deeper, causing a flow of a cherry-red liquid to waterfall onto my shirt. I feel a strong pull, forcing me to jump out of my body, a pale version of myself. As is right now, I am not harmed and there is no slash across my neck. It was then and there that I watched my last ragged breaths wither and dwindle down to a small number of zero. If that pale, crippled figure is my body, then what am I? I guess that I’m just a healthy ghost of who I used to be. I was dead.
~~~~~
“Young female, 5 foot 8 inches, about 15 years of age. Goes by the name of Jacelyn Carter. Red hair, tan skin, white running shoes with red stains all over.”
“There’s detritus everywhere. And you just found her lying there? No footprints or anything like that?”
I wave my hand in front of the guy’s face, but he made no movement to confirm that he saw me. “I was just running and someone slit my throat. They just ran off. Is that any good? I couldn’t see his face, but he was about this tall,” I motion with my see-through hand about five inches above me. I know I am speaking about my own murder and might as well be talking to myself, but I was still there, waiting.
“There’s two types of blood there, one from me, and one from my attacker. The attacker’s blood should give you some evidence and a clue about who you’re trying to catch. I face Forensic Officer Burtuski, who is examining the blood samples on my body and on the ground, still pooling around me.
“Found this knife two miles out, stabbed into a tree pretty far. Little specks of dried blood on the hilt, but other than that, it’s clean,” says a young man coming down the path with a complex knife, that is definitely not from a kitchen. It has a long and keen blade, coming from about my wrist to my elbow. Near the edge of the blade, it has a small triangle piece missing from the blade. The handle has a small path of beaded metal balls, making a twisting, ladder-like trail up the blade. I can’t see the patterns on the very bottom, but I probably couldn’t explain it.
The man holding the blade looks sort-of like a giraffe, with a long neck and all, so I just call him “Officer Longneck.”
“Put it in here and take it to the office, along with everything else,” ordered Burtuski. I watch as Longneck drives away in the white van that had trouble getting up my small trail. I float along after him, going at a surprisingly brisk pace. I am still not used to the speeds I can go no longer having a mortal body. I race down a highway, passing through cars and trucks, only getting the glazed eyes of the passengers. I still get freaked out over being dead, not able to physically speak to my parents and friends ever again.
I wish I got the chance to say “goodbye” and “I love you” one more time.
~~~~~
At the office, Longneck brings the bag with the evidence in it to another officer, who I name Officer Frizzles for her very frizzy hair. I follow Longneck, watching his hands sway back and forth. On his left hand, there is a scar, a fresh scar; swollen as if it had happened today or yesterday. That kind-of creeped me out.
I float through the maze of offices to find Frizzles. When I find her, she is looking at a computer. There is a look of astonishment and recognition on her face. I float onto the desk, kicking my transparent legs over the side.
“What you got there, Frizzles? Something about my killer?” I turn to the computer and almost fall off of the table. (If it were possible for a ghost to fall off a table.) On the screen is a young with brown eyes so big the brown irises are only a thin outline. His hair is dark brown with a tinge of gray. His face looks familiar. Next to him is a frowning girl with red hair flying out of her ponytail with deep gray eyes staring out at me.
Frizzles starts laughing ludicrously. The man on the screen is Officer Longneck. What is he doing on the screen showing the blood of my killer? “Kev, come in here! Looks like your knife scar got mixed into the evidence blood. It is showing you here!” So that’s his name, Kev. Longneck. I definitely like Longneck better.
To be continued…
**Well, there it is. Hoped you liked it. This isn’t all of the short story, but I’m tired and will be going to bed soon. I’ll probably type the rest on here tomorrow. Until then, you will have to wait. Vale enim nunc! <– That is latin by the way!**
