Archive for ghost

Theraisa, Theraisa

Posted in Love Stories, Sad Stories, Stories, True Stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 24, 2013 by Myra's Circle

She stares out the window, hoping he’ll come.  Hoping he’ll come shouting, “Theraisa, Theraisa, are you still there?  Theraisa, Theraisa, with thy silver hair?”  just like he used to always do.  He would always jokingly use old words instead of the new, modernized terms.  He always likes old things, because he says they are what holds the most hope inside.  Hope, she decides, is still important for her.  They may think that her mind is damaged, that it is irreparable, but it isn’t.  Theraisa’s mind is fine.  There is nothing wrong with it.  The sisters in the convent always say that contact with one from outside was obviously the behavior of one who was mentally ill.  “But I’m not mentally ill, I’m not,” she whispers quietly to herself, wanting desperately to believe it.  But how could she when she had been told otherwise for her whole life?  He would come.  He’d have to come.  Right?  She closes her eyes, wishing someone would understand her, understand that she has feelings too.  She sighs and stares sadly out the window.  All of the other girls living there, and the sisters too, would sigh when they saw her there, sitting at the window day after day.  Then they would mutter, “Poor little Theraisa.  Something must be done for that girl.”  They had banned her from seeing him, and him from coming to find her, but she still had her dreams.  She dreamed that one day, he’d come, and he’d rescue her from this place.  It was a dreary place, always raining, and filled with gloom.  There was no future for Theraisa there.  She sits there for days sometimes, refusing to move, refusing all offers of food.  She stays there and hopes.  That’s when the head nun decided that it was enough.  “It isn’t healthy.  You shouldn’t be allowed near other girls.  They might start picking up some… unseemly habits.”  Theraisa knew what would happen.  She knew she was going someplace where no one would ever see her again.  Often, when a girl misbehaved, or was seen as mentally damaged, they would be taken to a room high up, a special room.  Tears pricked at her eyes, but she held them back.  She didn’t want to display weakness in front of this woman.  She felt a single tear slide down her cheek as the nun led her up to the dark, scary attic.  It was a lot like she imagined: dark, lonely, with only a single window to lighten it.  “Here we are, it’s ok, you won’t be up here for long,” murmured the nun unconvincingly.  As she locked the door with a click behind her, Theraisa whispered, “Please don’t leave me alone.”  She weeps a little, into the uncomforting darkness, all hope has abandoned her now.  Then there was a movement, outside the window – was it- yes it was him!  She was sure of it.  She grabs a chair, the only furniture in the room, and stands up on it, to get a better look, but he had already disappeared.  As she started weeping again, she began to shake uncontrollably, and lost her balance.  The chair falls from beneath her, and she can hear a faint sound of shattering glass over the pounding of her heart.  Pain laces through her neck as the glass slits her throat, and blood gashes out, red and thick in the twilight.  Somehow, she manages to find her way to the door, and she scratches heavily on it.  No one answers.  No one cares.  The scratching is a usual thing.  “Help, help!” she feebly cries, but with too much force than her body can handle.  She coughs up blood, and in her last painful moments, she murmurs, “Cecil,” forcing her to cough up yet more blood.  Then she is shockingly still.

The head nun hears a faint dripping sound and turns.  She stares in horror at the sight of blood, pure and red, dripping through the ceiling.  She rushes up to the attic, and with shaking hands, unlocks the door.  She turns the handle and her eyes widen in shock and terror with the sight that confronts her.  Poor little Theraisa.  Poor little, sweet, mad Theraisa, lying in a pool of her own blood.  The sight is too much.  The nun can’t help but feel as if it is her fault.  “I was just trying to protect you,” she murmurs to the cold, limp body, as if it could still hear her.  The tears can’t help but flow, and the sister collapses on the ground in hysterical hiccups.

Decades later, a group of students pass by the old building and wonder about the death.  The place is now a school, and rumours are circulating about the mysterious ghost Theraisa.  The students all laugh and pass it off as a joke, all except for one.  As they are about to move on, that one student sees a movement in the window, the curtains being blown aside, and for a moment, the figure of a girl appears, still desperately trying to get a last glimpse of her lover.  And then she disappears.  The student tries to forget about that, but it keeps bothering her.  She cannot keep the thought of the girl out of her mind, or her haunting chant: “Theraisa, Theraisa, are you there?  Theraisa, Theraisa, with thy silver hair?”  

***This story is partly true.  It is based on the rumour of the Ghost of my Highschool.  Though the girl’s story is real, the ghost is still yet to be proven***

The Ghost of a Memory

Posted in Poems, Sad Poems with tags , , , , , , on May 24, 2013 by Myra's Circle

I am shattered,
Lying dead on the floor,
My mind it has scattered,
My hand’s on the door.

I scratch a little harder,
But they don’t seem to care,
“I don’t really like her”,
The truth’s too hard to bear.

The blood it pours freely,
Drips through the ceiling,
And it may seem merely,
A joking dealing.

I cry a little louder,
But nobody hears,
My blood turns to powder,
But they all just sneer.

“She’s faking, obviously, nothing is wrong,
She’s mentally damaged, that’s all,”
That shall continue to be their sad song,
When they didn’t answer my call.

The memories turn to ash,
And seep through my heart,
I only claw the slash,
That became the start.

The angry red line that pours from my neck,
The remainder, my last line of life,
All I can do now is try and forget,
The things that always gave me strife.

I cry once more,
They do not listen,
I no longer claw,
The blood just glistens.

And now that I’m dead,
They all think I was ill,
A bit dumb in the head,
Maybe I am still.

But you never remember,
The pain that surpassed,
You never remember her,
Or her troubled past.

Last Night I Saw a Ghost

Posted in Hopeful Poems, Poems, Sad Poems with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 1, 2012 by Myra's Circle

Last night I saw a little ghost,

Boy, it looked so sad.

Sadder than most,

But it wasn’t bad.

I cried all night with the poltergeist,

And weeped with the spectre.

But now I look in hindsight,

And see the little trekker.

I’ll travel with him in my dreams tonight,

I thought, leaving a lecture,

About how to do what’s right,

When there’s a ghost tonight.

Why All Glass Ghosts Are Sad

Posted in Fantasy Stories, Stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on June 11, 2012 by Myra's Circle

I looked at my reflection in the glass, and saw my glass ghost replica.  I wondered why all glass ghosts seem sad even when you smile.  I smiled.  The ghost smiled back, but for some reason it didn’t seem happy.  Perhaps it doesn’t like being trapped in the glass, I thought.  I walked forward, noting how the ghost seemed to disappear and reappear when I touched it.  It didn’t have feet; only a swaying dress.  I frowned, and something of a miracle happened.  The ghost trapped in the glass smiled.  Not a sad, or a regretful one.  It was a happy smile.  I touched the glass once more, and my finger went through the glass.  I touched the glass ghost, and pulled it through the glass.  It shimmered, becoming more solid, and hugged me.  Somehow I knew she would never speak again.  It didn’t matter.  She was happy.  She was no longer trapped in the glass.  Suddenly I knew why she used to be sad.  She didn’t have a friend.