Addicted

“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window…”

I paused for dramatic effect. Watching people’s reactions was a favorite past time. 2 girls in the seat kitty corner from mine leaned in closer, lapping up the words like hungry dogs. As the story unfolded, the small freshmen sitting across the aisle pushed back into her senior sister’s body. My large jean quilt pulled up over her nose.

“BANG!” I shrieked, my hands slamming the worn bus seats simultaneously to add to the effect.

Half the girls screamed, all of them jumped, and I laughed.

“Tell the white lady,” Desi’s eyes lit up as her Cheshire grin crawled up her cheeks.

Her sister Tara tried to disappear at the suggestion of further terror. Her eyes were only slits over the blanket now.

“I don’t know Desi, they seem plenty scared… maybe we should ‘play baby if you love me’’’

“Just one more!!!” several girls chimed.

“Oh, alright…. The white lady.” I inhaled, steadying my nerves for the story that I knew would turn my blood to ice. “I live out in the country, about 10 miles south of town and we have a few more houses on our road now. But 10 years ago, there weren’t as many. My 2 brothers, my sister, and their friend were driving home one night late. About a mile and a half from the house they saw a woman, walking on the side of the road. She was all in white, her clothing torn and ragged.” My eyes moistened as I spoke, chills crawling up my spine. “Her hair was long and unkempt, hanging down around her shoulders. It was a cool night, and she looked unwell. So, they stopped to see if she needed help.” I paused, my insides were crawling in panic and the nail marks on my left shoulder burned, but I paused for dramatic effect. I couldn’t let them know the panic that clawed up from the depths of my body, desperate for escape. They were still as statues, hanging on my every word. “At first, she just stopped walking, a few feet from the window, just standing there. ‘Are you ok?’ my sister, Christie, was questioning from the passenger seat. ‘Are you hurt?’ Then the white woman jerked toward the car, arms outstretched, reaching to grab Christie. She charged forward, her head snapping up to stare at them. Her eyes dark and hollow. Christie was frantically rolling up the window, screaming at my brother to drive. He sped away. As they looked back, she had just stopped, in the middle of their lane, staring at them.” I stopped, my heart pounding so loud I thought it would give away my panic. But they all just stared.

Finally, Tara asked, “has anyone seen her since then?”

“There have been rumors, that she wanders the country roads at nights. I have heard of sightings…” I shrugged casually. Yes, someone had seen her since, I had seen her… But they could never know that.

“Were they telling the truth?” Jaimie asked from the seat behind mine. I shrugged and gave my best, ‘I think so but who knows’ look.

The silence slowly melted away as voices began to chitter about the woman in white. Tossing theories around, occasionally probing me for more information, talking about other ghost stories they have heard… debating the possibility.

That night I dozed off thinking of a night walk just over a year ago. I was the same age as my sister when she first saw and fled from the white lady. It was a cool evening, my insomnia had me listening to the stillness of a sleeping household. I silently pulled open my window, popped the screen out and dropped into the rock garden. My bare feet were callous and unaffected by the rocks as I never wore shoes. I jogged up the driveway and set out at a brisk pace for a night walk. Not half a mile from my home, I could see a white shape on the side of the road slowly moving toward me. My heart ticked a little faster, but curiosity held my feet fast on the rough road. As the shape shuffled closer, I could start to make out the ragged edge of her knee length skirt, her arms limp at her sides, brushing the skirt material and shifting the fabric ever so slightly. I could make out her ashen brunette hair hanging in unkempt oily strands. “Move, she is dangerous” my heart pounded in my ears, but my reckless mind held me fast. She was now a mere 20 ft away and she raised her head to look at me. Her eyes were dark and hollow, blood trickled from the corner of one, like a violent tear. Around her eyes were dark, and sunken. Her face was sallow, steep cheek bones jutting out and pulling the skin taut. I could see her lip’s part slightly, she let out a breathy sigh. The dry skin on her lips was crusted white and peeling away in chunks. I swallowed hard.

She was only 10 feet from me now. “RUN-RUN-RUN-“screamed the thumping of my sympathetic nervous system. Adrenaline flooding my leg muscles. Suddenly her hand shot up and she accelerated toward me! I turned and ran. My powerful thighs flexing, heart pounding, and I could hear her foot fall growing nearer. I turned to look over my shoulder and there she was, her outstretched fingers grabbed my shoulder. Her nail’s, long and purple, raked across the exposed flesh. Where the skin tore ice crawled through my skin. My body turned away from the glancing grab and I fell. I hit the gravel at the side of the road and rolled into the shallow ditch. Scrambling to my feet I turned to face my phantom death, but only the wind greeted me. My heart pounded, blood soaking through the edge of my shirt where the ice still stung the skin. I didn’t wait for the apparition to re-appear. I ran the rest of the way home.

You convince yourself that horrible things are a dream. Horrible things that couldn’t be real. The scrapes on my shoulder came when I fell, the bluish bruising around them was just impact from the roll… and the skin that stayed permanently cool… It must have been a dream. I never told a soul, and I hadn’t thought much of it in months. But the night after the bus ride I dreamed of her, she was in every reflection in every mirror. Hallways full of mirrors that reflected her sunken face instead of mine. I tried to run, shatter them, screamed at them. “You told them!” a whisper screamed in my mind. My eyes shot open, and I sat up gasping. Sweat rolled down my body as the sun rose over the horizon.

I tried to shower off the dread the dream left, like insects crawling just under the skin. Steam rose in billows as the overly hot water burned through the lingering chill. My slender feet stepped out onto the plush bathmat. Water running down my waist, dripping off my full muscular thighs. I wiped the fog from the mirror and glanced at the blonde haired, green eyed, angular face that stared back at me... stared back at me with dark sunken eyes. I shrieked and jumped back. Looking back into mirror, the only thing looking back was a wide-eyed me. Panting, I left the bathroom and swiftly busied myself in my morning routine.

The truth of a small town is that tragedy travels fast. By the time I reached school a crowd had gathered and whispering rumors had started. Desi was dead, rumor was she suffered a cardiac arrest… but rumors fly fast. I shut my ears to any of the details because I didn’t want to know the details. I shut my ears because I knew the truth. The truth was that she was killed by the white woman, by me for sharing the story, for sharing her touch. I would never again tell her story. I died a little that day at losing my friend. The haunting shadow grew inside. Everyone knows that those haunting shadows feed addiction. That day I saw glimmers of her in every surface that reflected me. Her oily, clumped hair, my lips looking dry and crusted like hers, her taut sallow skin over shadowing mine. I saw her the next day too, and the next… and the next week. I stopped jumping, I had started staring in morbid curiosity, touching her face, touching my face. I continued to see her for months and months, but less than before, and by a year out she had all but disappeared again. Somewhere in the dark of my mind I started to miss her. I desired to see the dead eyes staring back at me. I longed for the thrill it gave me to see her staring back. You know how addictions work. So, my senior year, as the bus bumped home on a dark night, I told her story again. Again, not mentioning the night I saw her. Again, I woke with sweat pouring down my body. Again, I was greeted by tragedy the next day. And again, she haunted me in every glass, played with my mind in the mirror, and rippled in the water cup I stared into, losing myself in her gaze. Even though my heart broke I knew I was going to tell her story again.

My newfound power was exhilarating, and my cold dark friend caused my heart to pound, adrenaline flooding my veins, feeding my brain. I stared longer at her dark form taking shape in the mirror. My guilt was overwhelming, but I knew it would fade before she did, and I would tell her story again. It was then that I started visiting the prison, maybe if I used my power for good. It worked for years. I got degrees in fields that forced me into the justice system, and I fed the rotted human souls to her. I satiated my hunger and freed society from the scum that masquerades as human. But you understand the way addiction works. My disease exceeded my source. She fades to fast. I only could write one criminal at a time; I could only tell a small group at a time. She is oh so hungry. One day, scrolling through Facebook I saw a writing challenge… “Campfire Ghost Story”. So now you know. But you understand, I had to see her.