CLAIMER: Okay, this feels so different writing such a thing. *hehe* This is just to let you know that the words are mine, but the spirits the represent do not belong to me. I don't think I want to piss them off any more than I probably have.


- Chapter Two -
Whispers on the Wind


We call people insane when they commune with the wind, but are they really speaking to themselves or is there another entitiy that exists in their mind’s eye? Who really knows, except for the ones we have construed as insane themselves? Just because one talks to him or herself doesn’t make them crazy. Perhaps they see something that our eyes just cannot see; something that we do not allow our eyes to see.

It is a good quandary.

It just makes me wonder, what exactly is in my house...aside from the whispers? Sure, I feel the drafts of cold air, the feel of otherworldly beings caress my skin, the way I can go from calm one moment to paranoid about everything the next.

I’m not crazy, nor do I have an overactive imagination, but I just can’t help but wonder about what kind of things the night brings out of hiding. I’ve seen too much, felt too much, to let that wonder slip idly by me. Who lives in this house besides my family? What stood here before we built this home: a mansion back in the Victorian Era that ran the entire length of the block and at least the width of both sides of the street? What sorts of terrors went on here to cause such disturbances? Could it have been a murder? Several murders? One day, I would love to find out, but until then I will have to continue to live with these specters of the past, some filled with rage and hate, and others that just long to move on that can’t seem to stray farther than my basement door.

Yes, some are violent. One has indeed, on two occasions, tried to suffocate me at night. It seems like it tries harder and harder every time as well. That’s a part of the reason I tend to sleep on my side at night. I suppose I figure that ‘he’ can’t get to me if I sleep in such a way. Hopefully ‘he’ won’t realize it and come up with some other method of harm.

While that one in particular is violent, there are the mischevious ones as well: the little girl I spoke of in the previous chapter being one of them. She’ll draw on walls, giggle in the midnight hours, and bean my brother in the head with the things up on his headboard unintentionally. The odd thing is, that she tells him to move before he gets hit. Not like he ever does.

Signs are all around me telling me to cut this short: a rustling of cellophane in a still house, the cracking of the walls, the light footsteps, and the caressing of my hair and dripping water that I can hear behind me. Night may be upon me, and the hour may be getting late, but for these beings that I share my home with, the day is just beginning.

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