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The Ghost's Tale
by Jasmine Sun
Jasmine Sun is an eight year old student at 826 Seattle.
Her piece was originally written during the "You Are Your Own Courageous Character" writing workshop.
There’s one day I remember so clearly in my mind. I was sitting outside the front door of my house—really an abandoned shed, since I have no parents and am on my own—watching the grass grow to pass the time away. I heard a soft whisper.
I thought it was a lost traveler who happened to stumble upon my property. I scanned the space about me. No one there. That’s when I realized it was a ghost.
I froze. I was horrified by ghosts, and yet I had the ability to hear and speak to them. When I was about to run inside the house, I remembered. The ghost would follow me wherever I went. I relented, and let her tell her story.
She started to speak, very slowly. When the first word crept out of her mouth the surroundings became different . . . and eerie. The wind grew still and the grass lost its color and became yellow. The tumbledown shed groaned and got more and more crooked, like an old man bending over his cane. The piney air got swallowed up and transformed into exhaust.
That’s when I knew it would be different. This ghost was not here to annoy me; she wanted help. Thoughts raced through my mind. Is this good or bad? Should I help?
I shivered, and let her talk.
“A long while ago I was merely ten. My parents had a fortune which someone was always trying to snatch from our hands. One day, my two loving parents mysteriously died. I questioned everyone I could, but always got the same answer: ’Car accident.’ I pretended to believe it, but I itched to find out what they were hiding. One day I could stand it no longer, and I put up a poster:
WANTED:
INFORMATION ON THE BENNECOTT DEATH.
LEAVE BUSINESS CARD HERE.
REWARD
“A few weeks later, there was no reply. I got desperate, and promised myself if nothing happened in two days, I would commit suicide. But I didn’t have to. There was a business card. I visited the person, and the last thing I remember was hearing a gunshot and feeling my soul slip away. He stole the money.”
I was so touched by the story I forgot that I was supposed to be scared.
“I want you to track this man down and take the fortune which he has stolen from me. Bury the cash in my grave which is under your house. The only thing I know is that this man is the realtor who sold us our house.”
“Sure,” I answered. But I wasn’t.
Firstly, I was not going to demolish my house. Secondly, I didn’t want to dig up a grave. Thirdly, how was I going to find this man that she speaks of?
But I did want to help.
Success reached me in the end, after a long hard scour of the library for articles. There were many news stories about the deaths, and the house, stories which included the realtor. The house was at 2309 Fifty-fourth Avenue Northwest in Ortonville. Just perfect!
* * *
“What do you want?” a gruff voice growled when I got there.
“I saw the OPEN HOUSE sign and wanted to see it.” (Ha! Clever approach.)
“Fine, come in. And the office is off limits.”
He was easy to spot; he had a bald head and a scar on his cheek. Apparently, the office was where the treasure was hidden. I crept into the room, and found a box which unveiled what must have been billions of dollars.
“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!” I heard the gruff voice call out..
What was I going to do? I looked around myself in a hurry. If he found me, I would be trapped. An open window! It was higher than I could reach, but I had to. I climbed up onto the cabinet and jumped out with the box. I rushed back. As I looked back, the man ran toward the police station. I suppose he thought I went for help.
“I got it.”
“Good.”
I buried it within the grave, and right before I dropped it in, the ghost said one last sentence.
“Keep this.”
She handed me a package, and then left. Something hit me hard like a rock. Where was I going to live? A tear dripped from my nose and landed on the package, tearing apart the paper.
Inside was a letter reading: “Thank you for entering the Adopt a House Sweepstakes! Inside is a ticket claiming you to the house on Thirty-fifth Place.” No house number? I rushed over, and discovered there was only one house on Thirty-fifth Place. A ginormous mansion.
And if you wonder where I’m writing this from, I’m sitting on a comfy velvet beanbag in my living room.
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