Recess started. Breanna walked to the shade of her tree and sat down.
     “It is my tree,” she thought. “No one else comes here.”
     She opened her backpack and pulled out her book. Mrs. Finley had given it to her as a going away present, and she had let a few of her friends sign the book before she left. She stared at their signatures until her eyes started to blur, then she punched herself in the leg and blinked until her vision cleared. She let the book fall open and began to scan the lines like a rock skipping over a pond. When she came to the end of a paragraph she imagined the rock skipping one final time before sinking down into the murky depths where weeds clutched at her ankles. Then she picked up another pebble, safe on the shore, and tossed it across the next paragraph. Breanna became so lost in this fantasy that she forgot to pay attention to the words her stones were skipping across. She became so lost in it that she barely noticed the droplets falling onto the page. She became so lost in it that she did not even hear the group of girls approaching until they were standing all around her.
     “Breanna, right?” a voice said.
     Breanna jolted and slammed her book shut.
     “Yeah, why?” she asked, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. The girl who had addressed her knelt beside her.
     “Are you okay?” she asked. Breanna felt a pit open up inside her, and the pit was black and empty save for the strands of memory waving in the darkness, the strands of memory that clutched at her ankles as she tried to free herself. She felt the pit open inside of her, and a sob rose to her lips like final breath of a drowning child.
     “What’s wrong?” the girl asked, putting a hand on her shoulder. The sob escaped, and Breanna began to cry. The other girls knelt down too and reached out to her with cautious hands.
     “Hey,” the girl said. “It’s alright. It’s alright. Everything’s gonna be okay.” She sat down next to her and draped her arm over Breanna’s shoulders like a warm towel, and Breanna cried and cried until she felt the memories release her, and she bobbed to the surface and could fill her lungs again.
     “I just…” she said. “I miss my friends.”
     And she cried again, but she wasn’t alone this time, and instead of weeds or memories there were hands. But they were kind hands, and they did not clutch or drag or suck her down. The memories waved in the depths and reached for her, but the hands anchored her in that moment by the tree, and the pit in her stomach was filled.


Opting Out

While the boss was with a client, Jim logged onto his university’s website and registered for classes. Registration was closing that day, so it was his last chance. It looked like his schedule would be exactly the same as it had been for the past three years: work the mornings at the library, go to school in the afternoon, then work at the office in the evening. Of course, he’d have to do his homework on top of it all – if he got around to it. He rarely did. He checked his grades for the current semester. All C+s or lower. They had steadily fallen since his first year. “Cs get degrees” was his adopted motto, and he stuck to it.

Noticing that his boss was done with the client, Jim closed the window on the computer and opened up the sales log. It was nearly the end of the pay period, and he’d only made four sales. The leading sales associate, a new guy, had made 20. Commission was only part of their pay – they received an hourly pittance as well – but Jim knew the boss would take him aside if he didn’t make at least 10 sales a month. He checked the log for last few months: in October he’d made 9; in November he’d made eight; and this month he’d made four. What the log didn’t say was that the majority of the sales he’d made were reactive; he didn’t make outbound calls anymore.

The phone rang. The caller ID read Keith. Jim sighed, and picked up the receiver. He absentmindedly doodled on a notepad as he answered the call.

“Exceptional Car Insurance, where you’re service is always exceptional, this is Jim. How can I help you?”

“Hey there Jim! How are ya?” a man said.

“Good,” he replied without inflection. “How are you?”

“I’m doing fantastic! Hey, I’ve got a question for ya! My daughter is gettin’ her license soon, and I wanna know how much it’ll cost to add her to our policy.”

Jim pressed his pen hard into the notepad, scribbling a tornado that swept his other doodles away. He was silent for a moment. If he spoke he’d probably swear at the man, and that kind of service wouldn’t be considered “exceptional.”

“Hello?” the man asked.

Jim hung up and dug his palms into his eyes. The phone rang a few seconds later. The ID confirmed it was Mr. Keith again. Jim took a deep breath and answered.

“I’m sorry about that.” Jim said. “The call must have gotten dropped somehow. What can I do for ya?”

“Oh, no worries. I don’t get the best service with this phone. If you could just pull up my policy and tell me how much it would be to add my daughter I would really appreciate it.”

“No problem. I’d be happy to help ya with that. I’m gonna need to know your name though.” Jim hated when people assumed he knew who they were–even when they were right.

“Oh!” the man laughed. “You mean you can’t just read my mind?” Jim rolled his eyes. “This is Mr. Keith. Ronald Keith.”


“K-E-I – “

“Thanks. Just a second. I’m gonna put you on a brief hold.” He muted the phone so he wouldn’t have to fill the silence with conversation. The company prided itself with genuinely caring about it’s customers. He unmuted the phone.

“Okay, I’ve got the policy here. Just one moment, let me take a look at it.”

Jim pulled out a process sheet that walked him through how to find the best rate when adding a young driver. Adding a new driver was a moment of truth because the price of the policy usually skyrocketed.The company wanted to make sure their customers were happy, so they were very thorough in these situations; it normally took about half an hour or longer to find the best way to do it. Jim stared at the paper for a moment, crinkled it up, threw it into the trash can, and asked Mr. Keith for his daughter’s information. A minute later Jim told him the new premium – about a hundred dollars more a month – listened to Mr. Keith’s amazement, said something about the likelihood of young drivers having an accident, thanked him for calling, and hung up the phone.

The boss was with another client by now, so Jim got on Facebook and liked a few paintings that had been added to his feed. He wondered how long it had been since he had uploaded a painting of his own. A quick look at his timeline told him it had been about 6 months. Six months? he thought, rubbing his eyes and exiting out of the window. Sure, he had changed his major to business at about that time, since his worries about making money had finally caught up to him, but he had vowed that he would never stop painting. Without deadlines and assignments, however, he had.

Jim resolved to begin a painting that very night, and pulled out his phone to set a reminder. There were quite a few old reminders in the app already, things like: Read pgs 110-112 in Business in the 21st Century; Make 10 outbound calls a day; and Buy Milk. He checked of the last one, and deleted the first two. Then he deleted all of them. A clean canvas, he thought, and typed a new goal: Paint Something. He set a reminder for later that evening. He knew he’d want to forget it, so he made sure it would go off every hour after 6:00.

The secretary brought him an envelope, which Jim opened. In it was a handwritten note from his boss. His heart dropped as he read the first line of writing:


I just wanted to take a minute and thank you for all the work you’ve done for our agency. It’s unfortunate that

He stopped, closed his eyes, took a breath, and continued reading.

we don’t have more employees like you. I just wanted to remind you that, since you’ve been with us for over three years, you get two paid days off this Christmas, plus Christmas day itself. Please accept this gift card as an additional token of my gratitude for all you do. Thanks, and Merry Christmas!

Jim breathed a sigh of relief and slowly brought his heartbeat back to its normal rate. He flipped the card over. On the back was a family Jim had never met with his boss in the center. They were standing in front of the office, smiling broadly. Under the Exceptional Car Insurance sign were the words: Wishes you a Merry Christmas. Jim smiled back at the faces of the boss’s family. He thought they must be proud of their father: he’d built the company from the ground up. Jim pocketed the gift card and sent the boss a thank you email.

He was actually smiling when he answered the next phone call.

“Exceptional Car Insurance! This is Jim -“

A computerized voice interrupted him.

“Hello. This is your Google Plus specialist.” Jim pounded the desk. He had to listen to the whole thing. Again. “Our records show that you have not confirmed your business’s digital listing. This process is simple, and only takes a few moments of your time. To confirm your Google Plus listing press one. To speak to a representative, press two. If this is not a business number, press three.To opt out of future calls, press four.”

He pounded the four and hung up. How many times did he have to opt out? It was 5:30 PM when Jim checked his digital calendar, moved his untouched to do’s to the following week and went to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet and played a game on his phone until an alarm told him it was five minutes to closing. Then he went back to his desk and pretended to work until it was time to leave.

“Thanks for your help, Jim!” his boss said as Jim left the office.

Jim did his best not to look guilty as he said good bye. He resolved to do better the next day. He almost made a reminder for himself when his phone vibrated. Paint Something popped up on the screen.


After he got home and changed, he opened frozen dinner and set it in the microwave. He read the nutrition label while he waited. Disgusted, he threw the empty box toward the garbage can. He was too tired to make anything else though. The microwave hummed in the background as Jim sifted through a stack of letters he’d gotten in the mail. There was a Past Due stamp on one of them. Then there was a catalog for a grocery store and a credit card offer. He cut it to pieces, annoyed. I wish they’d stop sending me these, he thought. Then he cut up the bill too.

Jim watched TV while he ate, and ended up microwaving another dinner when the next episode came on. He silenced the reminder on his phone twice when it went off in the middle of the show. He watched a shootout, and it made him want to play a video game. It was nearly midnight when he finally turned the console off and looked at his phone again. This was the fourth time it had gone off since he started playing.

“What do you want?”

He read the words Paint Something as he picked it up. His ears rang in the silence. He looked around. On his table was homework he needed to finish, and a trail of crinkled up scratch paper leading to an overflowing garbage can. He sighed, and picked up a few of the papers as he took his fork to the sink. The sink was also overflowing. Jim put the fork into a dirty pot on the side of the sink and tried to stuff the remnants of the frozen dinners into the garbage can. He pushed the pile down, gagging when the reek of rotting food was forced into his nostrils. How long has it been since I’ve taken this thing out? he thought. Jim stepped on the pile, and eventually stood on it, jumping up and down and using the wall to keep his balance. When he stepped down, the trash sprang back up and spilled onto the kitchen floor. Jim rubbed his temples and looked for spare garbage bags. He was out.

“I’ll clean it up tomorrow,” he said.

Jim’s words echoed off the silent walls and back at him, weighing him down. He sank to the floor and wept. He curled up into a ball and sobbed, saying unintelligible things and asking himself “why, why, why me?” He clutched himself tightly and rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

“No no no no no…”

After some time his rocking slowed, and he stood. He walked to the bathroom and blew his nose. He found himself looking into his own red eyes in the mirror, and he spoke.

“I can be better. I am important. I am a good person. My life is valuable. I can change.” He wasn’t sure he believed any of it, but he said it anyway. He made himself say it. He went to throw the tissue away and found a mound of toilet paper where the trash can should have been. He thought about doing it later.

“No, right now.” he said, finding the can in the mound of paper. He emptied the bathroom bin down the garbage chute and came back for the one in the kitchen. The mess he left on the way out almost refilled half the bin after he got back, but he thought the apartment would look better afterwards. It didn’t, but he felt better for having done something. For a minute or two. Until his phone alerted him again.

Paint something.

Hot tears burst from his eyes and he clenched fists tightly as he sobbed. Jim pounded his head, punching himself in the cheek as hard as he could. He had exhausted himself after a few minutes. I’ll do it later, he thought. And then the decision was made. He felt distant from the decision, as if it had been made for him, as if it hadn’t been made at all. But it had. Everything else melted away. All that remained was the decision. He stood. No. I’ll do it now.

“Right now… right now.”

Then he walked into the bedroom, opened a drawer, tasted metal, and painted the ceiling red.

Short Story from a Painting – Vincent van Gogh, Starry Night over the Rhone


I stopped at the end of the pier and gazed out across the bay.  A warm, salty wind whipped through my hair.  The sun had bowed out behind curtain of stars not more than an hour before, but the sky was still bright with lights, echoing the warm welcome of the air. Across the water were lamps from houses and shops that reached out in contrast over the deep and colored it with yellow swatches that moved like brush strokes across the water.  The stars shone out above and beneath the strokes in an arch that stretched from the sea to the sky in a blue mirror that was unbroken save for the motion of  the waves.

A briny gust from the sea whipped my hair about my head. Suddenly, I did not feel so alone. I closed my eyes and smiled, drinking it all in.  I listened to the fluttering of the breeze and the banging of the boats tied together against the dock.  I listened to the breathing of the ocean as the waves washed up and down the shoreline.  I heard the old wooden pier creek in protest against the battering waves, and felt it sway ever so slightly from side to side.

There was some magic in the atmosphere, and I spread my arms wide and laughed aloud to greet it. I looked around me for someone to share the moment with. I saw no one – till the sound of talking drew my gaze back down to the beach. A man and a woman were walking toward the dock arm in arm. She leaned on his shoulder and closed her eyes. He pressed his cheek against her forehead as they walked. I almost called out to them, but something held me back.

Realizing what that something was, I scanned the horizon one last time and inhaled deeply, then turned and hurried back up the dock to let the couple experience the scene for themselves. I hated to leave that place, but in so many ways it has never left me.

This was a piece I wrote a long time ago in an effort to practice descriptions, using different senses, and painting with words. It’s interesting to drop yourself into a painting and try to really experience it instead of simply looking at it. It’s even more interesting to try and record the experience you have when doing this.  I don’t mean simply talking about it though. I feel like it’s so easy to fall into the trap of merely telling our readers what we think instead of showing them, but having an experience yourself is always more engaging than just reading about it. Our task as writers is to use that fact to our advantage and do our best to allow our reader to have those experiences for themselves.

Research suggests that certain parts of our brain are unable to tell the difference between reality and a well-simulated reality. This means that we can make our readers laugh, cry, and be upset over events that never happened. We can even make them fall in love with people who don’t even exist in the real world – but the key is to be able to immerse them in our created worlds. If we cannot learn to master the art of showing, our readers will never be able to fully engage with our writing.

If you want to try this, find a painting that resonates with you and put yourself into it. Make sure you describe what it would be like to be there, not just what’s happening or what you see in the painting. I tried to make mine into a sort of narrative, but that’s optional. Make sure you share your finished product! Don’t be afraid of sharing your work. Not ever piece has to be a masterpiece, and  we cannot create the masterpieces unless we’re willing to sketch and try out new things.

Finally, remember that you do not have to be published to be a great writer. Vincent Van Gogh (the artist whose painting inspired me to write this piece) sold only one painting in his entire lifetime, and yet today he is one of the most well-known painters of all time. He could have decided that his work wasn’t appreciated or worthwhile. He could have stopped painting and done something else with his life, but he loved to paint. He painted for the love of painting. He didn’t let people tell him that he couldn’t achieve his dreams, and he didn’t let his lack of success stop him from trying to achieve those dreams. He is my favorite painter not only because his  paintings move me, but because his unfailing determination to achieve his dreams inspires me to not give up on mine.

5 Two-Sentence Horror Stories

  1. The night after the accident I thought I heard the squeaking of wheels and faint laughter in the unfinished basement. In the morning I found his twisted tricycle in the middle of the floor with little bloody hand prints on the handlebars.
  2. One day I found that something had gotten into the cereal in my pantry, so I set out a mouse trap for it. I had to move after I found the naked, miniature body of human being crushed in the trap. 
  3. Before she got sick, my daughter loved riding our willow tree in rainstorms. Sometimes on stormy nights I still see her shining eyes and long, wet hair swaying in the upper branches between flashes of lightning.
  4. The boy cast his line into pond and reeled quickly, like his dad had showed him before he disappeared. The line caught on something and wouldn’t budge—until the boy pulled with all his might, and out of the water flopped his father’s severed head, hooked right through the lip. 
  5. They told me a woman had been trapped and burned to death in the house, but that didn’t bother me too much. Until a particularly hot summer night when I watched in horror as paint was violently scraped from the walls by frantic, invisible fingernails.

Where’s My Mommy?

Oh, I killed her! I had to! What would you have done? I knew what she had done to Mary! Yes, I knew! I knew Gertrude had gone mad, had drowned her young daughter as she dipped the bucket into the stream to draw out the water! 
“Gertrude,” I asked my sister later that day, “Where is Mary?”
“I killed her,” she said. “I drowned her in the stream this morning.”

Oh, the horror! The inexpressible and incomprehensible horror I felt at learning that my dear sister was capable of such a senseless and evil act! It was almost too much for my soul to bear. 

“Gertrude!” I said, glaring into her eyes and shaking her roughly. “You tell me what you’ve done! Where is my niece?”

Gertrude stared at me as if unable to comprehend how I had misunderstood her.

“I killed her this morning,” she said with a look of confusion in her eyes. “I drowned her in the stream.”

I know what I should have done, and I know what you will say I should have done, but what would you have done? Gertrude was my last living family member, and I thought that she had certainly gone mad. Turn her in? It was the furthest thing from my mind! Of course I mourned for my dear, sweet niece, Mary, but how could turning in the deranged Gertrude atone for what had been done?

No, it could not atone for it. I knew how Mary had died, but I would not lose my sister too! It was an accident. That’s what we said! It was an accident, and we buried her body in the church yard. Gertrude slept easy nearly every night thereafter, but she would sometimes awaken in the dark and pierce the silence with a wailing cry of “what have I done?” I moved in with her, being a widow myself, and cared for the lifeless shell that had once been my sister.

Then, one night, I discovered what woke Gertrude sometimes in the darkness.

I stared into my mirror, thinking of all I had done as I got ready for sleep when I saw a the reflection of a figure standing behind me. I turned around and saw nothing. 

“Aunty?” a voice spoke.

My eyes grew wide with fright, and my skin prickled up in goose pimples.  No one who hasn’t heard – or thought they heard – a voice in the darkness can possibly understand what it does to you! I froze in my bed and couldn’t move. 

“Aunty?” the voice said again, and it was unmistakably the voice of my departed niece, Mary!

“Aunty? Where’s my mommy?” 

I screamed and bolted from my chair. I grabbed a fire poker and put my back to the hearth. 

“What do you want, demon?” I shrieked, tears filling my eyes.

There was no answer. I shook with fright and felt faint. I looked around the room and found nothing. After checking under my bed I stood up and saw, standing in the doorway, the pale and translucent spirit of Mary, holding the very bucket with which she had gone with Gertrude to fetch the water. Fair Mary, with her golden curls and perfect little face. Gertrude’s fair Mary!

I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe! I have never been so horrified in my life! Here was the beloved niece my sister had murdered! Here was the victim of the murder that I had called an accident! Here was Mary, back from the dead to exact her vengeance on my well-meaning soul!

The fire poker fell to the ground, and I gathered my wits to meet death with dignity. I started when the apparition spoke again. 

“Aunty, where’s my mommy? She did a bad thing. You did a bad thing,” she said, stepping toward me.

“I’m sorry, Mary, please! Please, I’m sorry,” I blubbered, hardly knowing what I was saying. “Your mother is all I have left – your mother -”

“No,” the child interjected sweetly. “No, you’ve got me, Aunty.”
Thus it began! For weeks Mary was there, in mirrors, in shadows, in the doorway at night! I couldn’t sleep! I couldn’t eat! I couldn’t live like that! Dear, dear Mary, returning from the grave each night to torment and haunt the aunt that had kept her murderous mother from being brought to justice! What would you have done if you had woken from a fitful and brief slumber each night to find the bucket – Mary’s Bucket – placed on the foot of your bed? What would you have done if you had heard the voice  that whispered every time you went to pick it up “Where’s my mommy?”

I told her Gertrude was in the other room! I told her she had gone insane, I told her to move on to that world which belongs to the dead, but Mary would not. She grew more frantic in her entreaties that I bring her her mother. I began to feel the effects of the haunting and of the lack of sleep. I began to feel irritable and tired. Tired of life, tired of Mary – tired of Gertrude.  

“Where’s my mommy!” the child yelled one night in a voice so loud it cracked the mirror in my room. 

“I’ll bring you your mommy!” I cried, getting out of bed and stepping toward the doorway. Mary held the bucket out to me and I took it. I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, then made my way to Gertrude’s room. I found her sitting on a chair facing the door. 

“I knew you’d come for me,” she said, looking past me. 
“Oh, I’ve come for you!” I yelled, and sprang upon her. 

I placed the bucket behind the chair and grabbed a fistful of Gertrude’s hair. I tilted her neck back and sliced and sawed and hacked her head off into the bucket. When I was done I lifted the bucket and held it out to Mary, who stood smiling in the hallway. 

“Here’s your mommy!” I shrieked. 
Mary took the bucket and looked inside.

“There you are!” she said happily. 

She laughed and curtsied, then skipped out of the house, leaving me panting in the room with Gertrude’s lifeless and headless body still sitting in the chair.

What would you have done? You say I’m mad – I tell you I am not! Where is Gertrude’s head? You haven’t found it! Your dogs haven’t found it! No one will ever find it, for Mary has it! The child hasn’t bothered me since. She hasn’t visited my cell, and I’ve slept soundly knowing that Gertrude and Mary are together now! I’m not a murderer! I don’t deserve to die… and yet, I already know your verdict, jury. I already know that my pleas are in vain, for I see her now! I see Mary standing there in the doorway! There! Right there, with the empty bucket in her hands! Don’t you see her? Don’t you hear her? Listen! Oh, dear God! Listen!

“Where’s my aunty?”

Would You Like to Dance?

John fell asleep at the Halloween Ball. When he woke up he felt strange, and he decided to step outside the ballroom to get some fresh air. John had danced with many girls that night and had drunk quite a bit of wine, and to these things he attributed his strange feeling. As he stepped outside he thought about the girls he had danced with, and the one girl with whom he no longer could dance.

Sarah had died on this very night exactly one year before in a carriage accident on the way to the Halloween Ball. Sarah and John had been close, and had been looking forward to the Ball and their eventual marriage. The Ball that year would have been the first time they had ever danced, but it was not to be. John had waited all night for Sarah to arrive and finally received the terrible news of her untimely death.

John still thought about Sarah often, and his missing her had been the primary reason for his excessive drinking on one-year anniversary of her death. He was now feeling the effects of his carelessness, but the fresh night air had a calming influence on his mind. Still, there was no denying that he felt rather unwell. As he stepped outside a chill ran down his spine.

“I should not have drunk so much wine,” he said aloud.

John thought about Sarah as he wandered down the road to clear his head. He had every intention of returning to the party after he did so. A sense of unease gradually grew in his mind, causing him to stop abruptly at a cross roads. He realized with a jolt that it was the very crossroads where his beloved Sarah had passed away the year before.

He had made up his mind to turn around when he saw a dark figure standing on the side of the road. He squinted at it, wondering if he was seeing things. Then heard, as if carried on the wind, the soft word “John.”

“Yes?” He replied to the woman, for it was a woman’s voice that had spoken. It sounded familiar, though he could not quite place it. “What do you need, madam?”

The woman turned around. In a mix of elation and horror, John stared into the shadowed face of his beloved – and departed – fiance.

“Sarah?” he replied excitedly.

The figure stepped forward into the moonlight and looked at him with eyeless sockets staring out from a gaunt and sunken face.

“John,” she said. “Would you like to dance?”

John’s blood ran chill, and he stumbled backward. Fear overcame him completely as the corpse took another step and repeated the question with an emaciated and bony hand outstretched toward him. He heard bones creaking and creaking as the apparition moved, and the voice was horse and airy.

“John, would you like to dance?”

He turned and ran, his heart racing and his mind reeling. He shot a panicked look behind him and saw that he had not removed himself from the terrible creature’s presence, though she was not running to peruse him. She walked slowly and with difficulty but somehow was able to keep up with John’s frantic stumbling.

“John!” She said playfully, placing a flesh-less hand on her hip and tossing her head to the side with a crack from her neck. Her lips curled up in a hideous and skeletal smile. “Quit teasing me! Let’s dance!”

John neared the ballroom and began to cry for help. He burst in through the door of the building and saw a large crowd of people gathered in the middle of the room. He screamed and pushed his way through to the center of the crowd. He broke through the wall of people and stumbled over something.When he regained his balance, he stood and looked at what had tripped him and saw – to his inexpressible terror – his own body sprawled out on the floor, lifeless.

Perceiving that he was now a spirit, John turned and looked into the eyes of his fellow townsmen and women and pleaded for them to revive his body, but they neither saw not heard him. He realized all at once why he had felt so strange when he left the house, for in doing so he had also left his body!

In horror John saw Sarah appear and stand in the crowd smiling at him. He felt sick to his stomach, but as he stared into the rotting flesh of her face a change began to come over her. Her eyes materialized in their sockets and were filled with a shining light. Her flesh regained its color and shape and crept down the bones on her fingers. Her joints jerked into place, and her grin lost all semblance of malice. Sarah was once again the same lovely girl he had known in life, and there she was, smiling at him. John felt the uneasy feeling that had oppressed him fade completely and, with a mix of relief and trepidation, accepted without a doubt that he was dead.

He stepped toward his beloved Sarah, whole now that he had committed himself to the world of the dead and held out his hand to her. He smiled, and said:

“Would you like to dance?”

The House with the Orange Walls

In the fall of 1866 I moved to a small town to work as a school teacher. I had inquired at length regarding housing, but there was only one home available. It was much larger than my need required, but cheaper than anything I had expected to find.

I took a tour of the house before I purchased it. It was mostly built of solid stone and stood like a castle on the outskirts of town. The inside of the home was neatly furnished, though it had been vacant nearly a year, and I perceived that both the carpet and the paint were relatively new. The latter of these was most incredible. Every wall of the home had been painted a bright and sickly orange. I inquired about the singular color of walls and was told that the man who had lived there previously had survived a house fire in 1865 that all but ruined the interior of the home.

The man had repaired the home, but the loss of so much of his ancestral legacy was too much for him to bear, and the general consensus was that he had gone insane. Racked with the feelings of guilt, he had painted the walls with fire to remind him of his failure. His sickness had gradually spread throughout his body, and the man died a few months afterwards.

These circumstances may have been alarming to most, but I am not a superstitious person, and, being the daughter of a wealthy businessman, I know a good deal when I see one. I purchased the home and moved in immediately.

As I have said, this move took place in the fall of the year, but I remember my first year in that house as usually cold. Whether this is due to atmospheric or mental conditions I cannot say, but the first night I spent in the home was, without a doubt, unusually cold. I moved my things into the large bedroom on the second floor, stoked the fire in the parlor downstairs, made sure the windows and doors were securely latched, and went to bed.

I do not know what awoke me that night. At first I thought it was the heat. Somehow the house had become unbearably hot, and I thought I must have fed the fire too much – until I perceived the window. The window in my apartment had been flung wide open, and the shutters clattered softly in the chill breeze. I had no idea how it had gotten open, but I resolved to leave it so and check on the fire – when I distinctly heard the distressed cry of a baby.

As I have already said, I am not a superstitious person. I have never been afraid of whip ‘o wills or ghosts or anything of the kind, but I admit that on that night in that strange and isolated house the sound of a baby crying nearly turned my blood to ice. At first I tried to go back to sleep, to hide under my covers, to pretend that I was only dreaming, that I had heard nothing. But there it was again, unmistakable and shrill: the desperate wailing of a child!

My heart pounded against my ribs as if it had gone mad, and it nearly burst at the sound of pounding on the door of my house. Immediately I sprang out of bed and lit a candle with shaking, sweaty hands. I opened the door of my room and peered tentatively down the orange hallway. The house was silent for a moment, and then the wailing commenced again, and the pounding on the door grew frantic.

I raced to the parlor leaving wet footprints on the stone floor, and as I moved the light of the candle danced on the orange walls of the house as if they were in flames. I stopped for a moment despite the crying of the child and the pounding on the door to assure myself that it was not. I smelled no smoke, but the hose was growing intensely hot. I knew not what to do, so I rushed to the parlor and threw open the door.

There, on the large rug before the blazing hearth, sat the ghostly form of an infant. I froze in terror, and the candle I was holding clattered to the ground and went out. The specter apparently heard the noise, for it turned and looked at me with tear-filled, vacant eyes. It ceased its crying – and then the banging on the door commenced again. The child started and leaned forward, placing its small hands on the floor and crying bitterly again as it began to crawl toward me. Having arrived at my feet, it reached up and pulled imploringly on my night gown.

By this time my initial alarm had somewhat lessened and was replaced almost entirely by those feelings of motherly compassion that had first induced my to become a teacher. With a lump in my throat I bent toward the poor creature and lifted it from the ground. Its crying lessened considerably, and the relative silence granted me clarity of mind. The infant, who could not have been more than ten months old, was shaking and rubbing its eyes. I held it close to my breast and tried to sooth it, but the banging at the door redoubled its cries. The flames seemed to shoot out of the hearth and dance upon the bright walls of the parlor as the banging continued.

It may seem odd that I had not as yet opened the door, but the whole of this experience had taken place within a matter of merely one or two minutes, and, not being familiar with the lore of supernatural phenomena, I had no idea how to proceed. I began rocking the child gently in my arms. I wiped my perspiring forehead and reached out with trembling fingers to wipe the tears from the small, round cheeks of the baby. I would have covered the apparition in a blanket, but the room was so warm now that I could barely stand it. The heat and the light of the fire on the walls was very unsettling, and I had to continually remind myself that the house was not burning.

I looked down at the child began to panic: I was alone in a fiery haunted house holding a ghost in my arms. I began to sing a lullaby, as much to calm the baby as myself. The silence of the house enshrouded the two of us as I sang, and the effect gave me goosebumps despite the uncomfortable heat.

Lullaby, lullaby my little one,
Lullaby my child so –

The banging at the door began again suddenly in a crazed and deafening roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. The child burst into piteous screaming, and I shook with fear. It seemed that whatever was knocking the door would not be appeased until I opened it, so I stepped hesitantly toward the door and flung it open. I fully intended to tell whatever demon entreated entrance that he could not take the child – but I found there no demon. On the step of the doorway stood the specter of a deranged woman. The sight of her grizzled hair and tear-streaked face was nearly too much for me, and I almost fainted on the spot, but the child in my arms recalled me from the brink of unconsciousness.

The child stirred and reached toward the woman with small, grasping hands.

“Ma-ma, ma-ma” the infant said as it sobbed.

Beginning to understand, I slowly lifted the baby to her with my heart pounding in my ears. Her hands took the infant gently and with all the purpose of a ritual. She gazed into its eyes through tears.

“James…” she said in a voice that sounded far away.

Then mother and child disappeared slowly into the night like a wisp of smoke. Inside, the fire had gone out, and the house was as cold as death. I re-stoked the fire and sat before it all night, reliving the incredible again and again. I have had many years of good sleep in the house since then, but that night I did not sleep at all.

The next day I spoke to the man I had purchased the house from and told him in confidence of the incident. His face was pale and his hands shook by the end of my tale, and he immediately vowed to give me a full refund should I ask it of him. I asked him what was the matter and then learned the tale of the house in its entirety.

A man had lived there with his wife and child and had enlisted to fight for the Republic in 1864. He had been on his way home from the war early in the Spring of 1865 when the first floor of the house caught fire. The mother could not get to her child, who stayed in a crib in the warmest room of the house: the parlor. She opened the window of her room and leaped to the ground. She ran to the front door of the burning house, but she could not get it open. She wildly pounded and threw herself against it – but the door would not budge. The child perished in the fire, and townsfolk said the mother had died of grief on the doorstep.

When the man arrived home he found that everything he loved in life had been taken away from him. He went mad and rebuilt the home, but he muttered always of the intense heat and of the wailing of a child in the night that would not let him sleep. In his madness he had the walls of the home painted orange to remind him of what had happened to his family. His insanity consumed him, and he died that same year.

I am not a superstitious person, and I have never been one to believe in ghost stories. It may sound strange when I confess that I was skeptical of this account despite its coinciding so well with my own experience. It would take something else to convince me that what I had seen was not the merely a dream.

“What was the child’s name?” I asked him. “The one that died in the fire.”

“James,” he replied.

I’ve tried many times to paint the walls of that house, but every time I do the color inexplicably fades to the color of flames overnight; and I will swear to my dying day that on still, quiet nights I can hear through the walls orange walls of the home the faint and joyous laughter of a disembodied mother and her infant child.