Between the Pines

"WILL YOU HANG WITH ME?" He snickered wildly. Did Riley even know what he was asking?

Destiny, a 17yr old girl is trapped in an old Victorian home for the summer. Her younger brother and older sister want nothing to do with her, but someone does. Riley, a ghost from the late 1800s develops a keen interest in her. The question is, is that a good thing?
NOTE: CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS APPRECIATED.

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5. by those who need me.

The next morning I woke with a start. I sat straight up in the bed, just sort of wondering why I was awake so early in the morning. Then it hit me; the dream, the screaming, and the weird candle from the night before. Slowly and as quietly as I could muster, I crept out into the hallway to peek down the way into the library’s entrance. Sitting there cold and undisturbed was the burnt out white candle from last evening.  I let out an exasperated sigh; this was just what I need, some silly mystery that turns this whole summer into one of R. L. Stine’s Goosebumps.   

I thumped down the stairs no longer caring when the terror duo woke. The floor boards were cool on my feet, and I briefly imagined the number of slivers I was going to get by the end of two months. The great grandfather clock ticked ever so faithfully by the entrance to the kitchen. It sounded like someone was hammering a nail, considering the house was so quiet. I passed by it on my way to the sitting room, only sparing a glance at its face. Six thirty seven am, either it was off a little or I had actually woken up at six… during the summer holidays. I cursed under my breath as I plunked down on one of the old chairs. I felt the scene called for a cup of tea considering the chairs were of antique nature.

 The small table that sat next to me was a little out of place in the house. It seemed to be the only piece of dark wooded furniture in the entire building.  Its elegant curvature legs met the light wood floor with an abrupt contrast. It would have looked pleasing if not for the sheer difference in shade. I took in the rest of the room with less scrutiny; plain faded rose wallpaper, a small book shelf lined to the brim with old photo albums sat across from me, and an aged mirror topped dresser sat sort of alone at the end of the room. Dried flowers were piled into the vases, sticking out every which way. They seemed just a little too drab from the house making it gloomier then it should have been.

Unceremoniously I stood from the “tea chair”, walking over to the dingy piece of furniture. Grasping the set of dead blooms on my hand I turned and headed towards the front door to throw them outside. Floor boards squeaked noisily in protest, and I flung the door open greeting the morning air. Inhaling the sweet country air I felt somewhat less regretful of not finding an excuse to stay home.

Cold morning fog touched my skin making me shiver; I was still wearing my pajamas. I ditched the flowers by the step and shut the door more calmly. The air of the room seemed better when I returned to it, as if a wayward spirit had possessed the plants and created a sense of despair. I gazed briefly back at the dresser just to take in the new sight, and my breath hitched in my throat. Etched into the surface of the reflective glass was a single word: BURN. The flowers hadn’t been there to “brighten” the room, they’d been there to hide the mirror.

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