The Ghost Girl Chronicles

Teenage boy discovers he's not alone in his room

"Damn!"

The same tree root caught Michael--again--sending him and his skateboard flying. He landed hard on the old concrete sidewalk, and sat for a moment, breathing heavily before pushing himself up. “I hate those freaking maples,” he muttered as he scrambled to his feet, rubbing his painful rear.

The gentle downward slope of the street might have made a perfect ramp for skating, but in this neighborhood, the century old sidewalk was lined with big leaf maples whose roots cracked and created ridges in the concrete. An unwary skater could find himself thrown off balance and off his board if he didn’t pay attention, like today.

There was a hidden advantage to the sidewalk conundrum. The damaged sidewalk could provide a perfect launch for jumps and flips, but if he wasn’t careful, like this time, the consequences could be painful. This was not the first time Michael found himself the victim of a maple. These days, in spite of his best efforts, in the war of Michael versus the maples, the

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maples seemed to be winning. Fortunately, the damage seemed minor: he would probably wind up with a few bruises, but more painful than bruises was a blow to his ego. He hated it when anyone saw him fall.

He gathered up his pack and retrieved his board, replacing his cap brim backwards on his blond head. At fifteen he had hit a long awaited growth spurt and reached five eight, finally taller than his mother. Maturing, however, had come with a price--his voice had a tendency to crack, and his natural athletic grace sometimes gave way to awkwardness. His agility on the back of a rolling skateboard had thankfully not left him. It was the one place where he felt truly free. Maple roots aside, something he loved had not abandoned him, when all else seemed to.

It had been a year of loss. Watching his parents sell the house they could no longer afford, and moving to an old, rundown neighborhood had caused an otherwise outgoing adolescent to withdraw into himself. “Depression”, the therapist

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his parents sent him to said and suggested medication. “To hell with that”, he replied, surprising the therapist and embarrassing his mother. As far as he was concerned, all he needed was his friends, his school, and his skate board. When they left the therapist’s office, he repeated what he had said in the doctor’s office: no pills. His mother knew better than to argue, if he found himself overwhelmed, she knew he would come to her.

Sometimes in the battle of Michael versus depression, he reluctantly admitted that depression, like the maples, seemed the more likely winner. Like today for instance. For reasons he did not understand, and out of character, he hadn’t felt like going to the skate park. He didn’t react to his friends’ disbelief when he told them he was going to go home to do his homework. Something seemed to be pulling him, however reluctantly, to the hated house his parents bought in the shabby neighborhood he so despised.

"Don't worry, it's a fixer-upper, it's just

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going to take time," his parents had promised when they first showed him the old, rundown Victorian they intended to purchase. The house had been on the market a long time, and they were getting it for a song. “These old houses have character that new ones don't. And I’ve checked it out,” added his father, “This house has good bones. And look at the yard, our old house didn't have a yard even half this big.” Michael tried to understand for his father’ sake, but he could not share his enthusiasm.

They were doing their best, Michael admitted; the exterior had been painted a light grey, and the trim and columns which graced the large front porch were painted white. Old climbing roses had been trimmed back and placed on trellises. The blackberries, which seemed to grow everywhere, had been killed, and the lawn mown and re-seeded. His father built a new fence, following the design of the original, and painted it the same white as the trim. To an outsider’s view, perhaps,

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Genres:

Drama

Horror

Romance

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