A year ago today, I was sitting in Spanish class, slacking off on my phone like I normally do, when the principal comes over the loud speaker and announces the death of one of our 2015 seniors in an accident early that morning. I was shocked, we’d already lost two of our seniors from shootings in year before that. They didn’t say who it was yet, but the rumors started immediately behind me, and I got a chill up my spine. “No…” I thought. “It isn’t true, she’s just coincidentally not here.”
I texted my mother at work, who checked up on it for me. While I waited and prayed that she denied it to be true, a sudden wave of guilt overtook me.
I met her in elementary school, like most of my friends in the area. We were in the same classes until we hit highschool. We got along well, played together, and talked to each other all the time. But as we got older, we grew apart. There was no real reason, just not being around in the same classes, I guess, but I started to feel guilty about never speaking to her in recent years. And something kept nagging at me. Didn’t I just see her yesterday?Yes, I saw her the day before, at the grocery. We were going into the store, routine milk and bread kind of trip. We saw her and had a brief conversation before leaving the store.
My mother texted back. “I’m sorry sweetie, but it’s true. Tristan is gone.”
My heart dropped.
When you share a moment with someone, however small, as a child, you expect them to grow up to be as old as you are, to live to have the same opportunities. You don’t expect to attend their funeral until you are looking at retirement home brochures, no matter how unreasonable an expectation that is, no matter how uncertain the future is, no matter how good of a grasp you have on reality and the possibility that some of those kids will not make it to graduation.
I knew it could happen, but it still broke something inside of me.
And in this moment I knew far more grief than anyone would think appropriate for just an aquaintance.
I had heard some pretty nasty rumors of Tristan sleeping around, getting drunk all the time, failing her classes. Some or all of those rumors could and probably were true, but it really didn’t matter to me. Yet, it seemed to matter to a lot of the students. They justified their lack of grief by saying that she deserved to die. I don’t care if she stole your boyfriend, or called you fat or something equally stupid. She didn’t deserve to die. You know why? It’s just something kids do, ridicule each other. That’s all. She didn’s deserve to die.
And it broke my heart that they would not only say that, but say that to Tristan’s grieving mother. What kind of monsters…
Well, I happen to know that she had a kind heart, and an amazing smile. She was known for her clumsiness and her derpy sense of humor that made her likeable to most people. Even though she could be mean and incredibly loud, I also happen to know that if any of THEM died, she would not have said that they deserved it.
And you know what? I’m not super religious, but I know that there is something out there for lost souls like hers. She’s in heaven, or equivilant, I think. And if she isn’t, that’s because there isn’t one, not because she drank and called you fat when she was fifteen.
I just wanted you guys to know this, and I wanted Tristan to know that I’m still thinking of her. That’s all for now.
I was only about five or six years old when we moved from our appartment into this house that we live in now. It’s over a century old, with additions and different sections in the house that used to reflect the last decade in which they were decorated.
I don’t remember ever been “visited”- or haunted- by the man until we moved in. I don’t remember when it started, but I have many memories of him, or multiple beings even, but I just lump them all together as one.
This story will be in sections of which “man” I’m speaking of.
I was taking a shower in the downstairs bathroom. It was nighttime, and used to have dark panelling, no windows, and a single flourescent light that had to be turned on early in the morning and left on all day if we wanted light.
That said, there was a lot of shadow in the shower, and I hated how creepy it felt (there were also creepy mirrors, but I’ll get into mirrors on a different post). On one particular night, I had to hurry because some pretty nasty storms were coming. I was in the shower for about ten minutes, just finishing up, when I noticed not just my own shadowed silouette on the wall, but another person’s facing mine. They opened their mouth and had sharp teeth, and growled at me. I hopped out quickly and hurried out, to find it already storming pretty bad.
One mirror thing I’ll also address next time on my mirrors post is this guy. A brief passing shadow or glimpse of a man beside or behind me in a reflective surface off and on since we got there. It startles me, but there isn’t much else to tell.
This one will be more extensive.
I sleep in the room my parents used to have when we first moved in, alone. I often feel like I’m being watched or think I see shadows shifting while I’m there, as well as throughout the house. It’s particularly terrifying when I can identify a body shape and sometimes even eyes among the darkness.
One especially chilling even occured when I was sleeping. I dreamed of a man trying to rape me, but he was only a shadow. I was paralyzed and could not wake up until he’d had his way with me. When I woke, I saw a shadow figure, not in the doorway or lingering in the corners, but bent over my bed with beady eyes, and he growled “I am Chuck”, before vanishing.
For months and even years after, “Chuck” would come back to me. I had many dreams of being violated or otherwise harmed by him, or fighting him off, and would often wake to see him in the hallway when I went to the restroom.
The lightswitch to the overhead light is on the outside of my room, and the lamp light doesn’t help at night, as it casts a creepy glow. I haven’t seen him in a while. I just hope he stays gone, I have plenty of new spooks to deal with.
No, not African-American man. A faceless, but solid figure, often shadowed or charred, and featureless. I had many dreams of him, too. Although, they were scary, and often of a sexual nature, I never felt pain or woke up with lingering feelings of fear. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him outside of a dream. But, this man was very sinister, and raped me often. And even though I only saw him in dreams, I was always wearing what I was wearing while asleep, laying where I was laying while asleep. And unlike shadow man, he would attack when I wasn’t alone, such as sleeping on the couch, or when I still shared a room with my sister, and would follow me from house to house.
I don’t want to ever see any of these men again.