little girls

Me and my second-grade crush

My second-grade crush has appeared in my dreams ever since I was seven. It’s not an

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The little girl who never really grew up.

everyday thing, of course. I have other things I need to frequently dream about as well: like walking into my high school and not remembering my locker combination, or wandering round and round my high school’s halls because I have absolutely no idea what classes I’m meant to attend. Those recurrent dreams cast themselves as ghoulish nightmares.

But my second-grade-crush dreams are always warm and fuzzy. I couldn’t tell you what happens in those dreams. I don’t remember. I’ll remember for a few minutes after I wake up, but then the dream gently wafts away, leaving a happy feeling inside of me. I couldn’t even tell you for certain how old my second-grade crush is in those dreams. I went to school with second-grade crush on and off until I was about 16. He was the cutest little boy in the second grade. But man oh man was he a dashing young fella at 16. I think I probably see 16-year-old second-grade-crush in those dreams.  (more…)

The Night I Killed a Ghost Child

My earliest memory, beyond false memories that can sometimes be induced whilst looking at old photographs, is from the time when I was four years old.

My father was teaching at the University of Cambridge in England for a year. One night, while I was sleeping, I woke up to the sound of footsteps coming up the staircase. They were slow, purposeful footsteps; the scary kind like in horror movies. They were footsteps that were out to get you. I froze. My back was to the bedroom door and I could not turn around to see who it was. So the thing came to me. It walked into my room, around my bed, and stood right in front of me. It was the apparition of a 40ish woman. She was transparent (as ghosts tend to be). Her hair was held up high on her head in a bun (I can’t remember the birth dates of my own children but I remember that). She looked me straight in the eyes and said, “You killed my daughter!”

My heart stopped. I knew exactly what she was talking about. The electricity cut off just as ghost lady was starting up the stairs. As the nightlight went off in my room, and just as my eyes were getting accustomed to the dark, I saw a wisp of little girl disappear underneath my bed. In my head I figured that’s what happened when there is a power cut: little ghost girls die and hide underneath alive girls’ beds.

Once I realized that I had something to do with the death of a ghost child (I still had no real idea how I had anything to do with the power cut) and her mother was standing in front of my bed looking for retribution, I shrieked, “Mooooooommy!” My mother came into my room, sat next to me on my bed, took me into her arms, and asked me what was wrong. I told her what had happened. She chuckled and told me I must have had a bad dream. Mothers! She lit a candle and led me from my room to my parents’ room. I could sleep in their bed until the electricity came back.

I have never stopped wondering what really happened that cold, damp British night some 40 years ago.