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There I was, tied to a kitchen chair on Christmas Eve, while Father Murphy chanted Latin over a spray bottle of sacred water. My aunt snapped her fingers near my face, trying to “jolt the demon out,” while my mother sobbed in the hallway.
It all started when I’d panicked and screamed, “I see the Ghost of Christmas Past!” at dinner after seeing my ex-boyfriend’s photo in a social media ad. Now, my Grandma insisted I was possessed by one of Scrooge’s Christmas ghosts.
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Thick fog coiled around my ankles. I kicked the whisps away from my knee-high black boots and adjusted the backpack on my shoulder. Katie and Tommy dared me to spend Halloween Night in the oldest graveyard in town. It’s a hidden-away little plot with broken tombstones and this two-foot-high fence that does nothing to keep people out. The rusted fence may have had a purpose when the graves were dug, but now the rumors about the ghosts who live there are what keep people far away from the secluded site.
The beam of my flashlight bounces to and fro as I step over the small barrier. My skin prickled immediately from the temperature change. Fog no longer swirled on this side of the fence; it was far too cold. “I shouldn’t be here.” A whisper of a thought echoed in my mind, but I wasn’t one to back down from a dare. I’d show Katie and Tommy that the rumors were stupid. Obviously, ghosts aren’t real.