one

one of the first things she learns is that ghosts cannot cry.

this does not stop her from trying.



there's a house.

not a home. barely a building. just beyond the part of town parents don't let their kids near after dark.

it's empty. it's been empty for as long as anyone can remember.

in the upstairs bedroom, there's a queen-sized bed and a chest of drawers and a chandelier. they are covered in dust and cobwebs. they are rotting. they are bug-infested and falling to pieces.

in the upstairs bedroom, there's a girl.

she wears a long, white dress, and a shroud of grief, and a bullet wound in her chest.

she is rotting. she is sorrow-infested and falling to pieces.

in the right light, you can see straight through her.



one of the first things she learns is that even if she could cry, it wouldn't make much difference.

no one can hear her.

no one can see her.

no one even knows that she's there.

he runs away, and she isn't quick enough to follow him. she doesn't know if she can haunt a person, but she wants to. she wishes she were quick enough. she wants to make blood drip down the walls of every room he ever happens to enter.

she doesn't know whether they caught him or not.

she watches her parents slowly drown in grief.

she tells them she wishes they would stop. she tells them she wants them to move on, she wishes they would move on. she tells them they are allowed to breathe, even when she cannot. she tells them that, if they could feel it, she would slap them.

they don't hear her. they can't hear her.

she slaps them.

they don't even flinch.



two

there's a house, on the outskirts of town.

it's dark and damp and uninviting. the kind of house people talk about, kids tell stories about, no one wants to go near at night. people have claimed to hear voices, see figures in the window, there is meant to still be a bloodstain on the wall of the upstairs bedroom but no one dares go in to confirm this.

it's not for sale. it's not the kind of house someone would buy. it's the kind of house someone would demolish.

it is due to be demolished.

kids have started to dare each other inside, now there's a ticking clock hanging over the roof. no one has yet to get farther than the hallway. there's scratches, gouges in the wallpaper, like someone was trying to claw their way out. like something was trying to claw it's way out.

kids don't tend to dare each other inside twice.



it's said that, at night, you can hear a girl crying, a gun shot, a girl pleading someone to stop, a girl's last words. no one wants their last words to be 'stop'.

she just wants to stop.

not that anyone knows that. not that anyone knows anything. they never ask, just shake and shudder and mutter to themselves quietly, 'you can do this you can do this there's nothing here it's just a moudly old house it could do with a lick of paint you can do this'. she can't do this. she doesn't understand why they're so convinced they can.

it has been years. she is starting to forget her name, his name, what breathing felt like. she is starting to enjoy watching children's faces pale.

she wonders if every ghost starts out scared.

she just wants to stop. when she screams, now, people freeze and shudder and turn tail and run.

too little, too late. her parents are already far away, pretending they can breathe through the water weight of grief sitting in their lungs.

she can still remember the gunshot. sometimes, when she screams, the sound she makes is more like a gunshot than a scared little girl.

she wonders how long it will be before someone makes it to the upstairs bedroom.

she doesn't wonder what they will find here. she already knows.

they will find rotting, dust-covered furniture, a bloodstained wall and the echo of a gunshot.

they will find her. they will not see her, but she will see them. she will scream. maybe they will hear it. maybe they will hear the gunshot.

she is waiting.



one of the first things she learns is that ghosts cannot cry.

this does not stop her from trying.

after a while, she gets close. she cries gunshots and bloodstains and bullets.

they demolish the house. they build another.

it has an upstairs bedroom. the furniture is new and expensive and untouched. the wallpaper is lighter. this only makes the bloodstain that much harder to ignore.

she wonders how long it will be before someone dies. her bullet tears don't miss by much these days. she's had plenty of practise.

she wonders if they will keep her company. she can teach them to cry bloodstains.

she has forgotten her name. she no longer wants it to stop. she has forgotten it can stop.

she is waiting.