The ghost killer.

• Horror

								
	Felicity sat at the kitchen table, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the worn wood. The sunlight filtered through the window, casting an uninvited warmth across her pale skin. Her black hair hung like a curtain around her face, hiding her blue eyes that darted around the room, watching for movement. 
	“Felicity, honey, are you alright?” Melissa, her mother, asked, her brow creased with concern. “You’ve been quiet lately.”
	“Yeah, I’m fine,” Felicity replied, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. The truth was far more complicated. She could see them—the ghosts that haunted her, their hollow eyes and whispers tugging at the edges of her sanity. 
	“Just thinking about school,” she added, knowing that would suffice. The last thing she wanted was to explain the truth: how the shadows in every corner seemed to stretch and twist, how the laughter of children faded into eerie moans that echoed in her mind.
	“Don’t worry too much. Just focus on your studies,” Conrad, her father, chimed in as he poured himself a cup of coffee, his back turned to her. “You’ve got this.”
	Felicity nodded, but her heart sank. The ghosts had been growing more aggressive, following her with their cold fingers and desperate cries. Today was no different. As she walked to school, the air felt heavier, almost charged with their presence. 
	“Felicity!” a voice called from behind. It was Emma, her classmate. “Wait up!”
	“Hey,” Felicity said, trying to shake the feeling of being watched. 
	“You look pale. Everything okay?” Emma asked, concern etching her features.
	“Just tired. Didn’t sleep well,” Felicity murmured, glancing over her shoulder. There, just out of sight, she could see the ghost of a seven-year-old boy, his face twisted in a silent scream. She shuddered. 
	“Let’s hurry. I don't want to be late for English,” Emma said, and they quickened their pace.
	In class, the tension coiled tighter. Mrs. Claye droned on about Shakespeare, her voice a distant echo in Felicity's mind. The room shimmered, and the ghosts began to materialize around her—an overwhelming presence. A seventeen-year-old girl, her eyes sunken, reached out, fingers curling around Felicity’s throat. 
	“Help me!” the girl hissed, her voice a guttural rasp. 
	Felicity’s breath quickened. “No! Get away from me!” she screamed, startling her classmates. The classroom fell silent, all eyes on her. 
	“Felicity, calm down!” Mrs. Claye ordered, her voice sharp. 
	“I can’t breathe!” Felicity choked out, clawing at her neck. Panic surged. She jumped from her seat, knocking over her desk with a loud *crash*.
	“Someone call for help!” Emma shouted, fear evident in her wide eyes.
	The ghosts swarmed, their moans blending into a cacophony of despair. Felicity stumbled back, her heart racing as she felt their icy hands tighten around her. “Get off me! Let me go!” 
	“Felicity!” Mrs. Claye shouted, but her words were drowned by the chaos. 
	Felicity bolted for the door, but it felt like running through molasses. The room twisted, shadows creeping in from every angle. She could see the ghost of a twenty-five-year-old man, his face grim and menacing, blocking her path. 
	“No! You can’t have me!” she screamed, the sound raw and desperate. 
	As she pushed through the door, her vision blurred, and she collided with the wall outside the classroom. Pain shot through her, but it paled in comparison to the terror gripping her heart. She could hear the whispers now—so many voices, all demanding her attention.
	“Help us!” they cried in unison, the sound haunting and disembodied.
	Felicity fell to her knees, her hands gripping her head as she rocked back and forth. “Leave me alone!” she wailed, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. 
	The hallway filled with students, all staring in shock and horror. Felicity felt like a caged animal, her sanity slipping away like sand through her fingers. 
	“Get her out of here!” a voice shouted, and strong hands gripped her arms, pulling her away from the chaotic scene.
	She was taken to the school office, her mind swirling in a haze of fear and confusion. 
	“Felicity, breathe,” a school counselor said, her voice soothing but distant. “You’re safe now.”
	Safe? How could she be safe when the ghosts were everywhere? 
	Three days later, Felicity found herself in a sterile room, the walls painted a dull, uninviting gray. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air, making her stomach churn. She had been sent to a psychiatric ward after her breakdown, her parents desperate to understand what had happened. 
	She lay on the bed, the sheets too crisp and cold against her skin. In the corner of the room, she could see the outlines of the ghosts, their faces twisted in anguish. A fourteen-year-old girl stood closest, her eyes pleading. 
	“Please, help us,” she whispered, her voice echoing in Felicity’s mind.
	“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Felicity cried, curling into a ball. 
	“Felicity,” a voice interrupted. It was a nurse, her expression flat and clinical. “You need to participate in the therapy sessions. We can help you.”
	“Help? You don’t understand! They’re trying to kill me!” Felicity shouted, the desperation clawing at her throat. 
	The nurse frowned, stepping back. “You’re safe here. We’ll find a way to help you.”
	Felicity shook her head, feeling the walls close in. She couldn’t stay here. The ghosts pressed closer, their cries growing louder, more frantic. 
	“Help us! Save us!” They chanted, a mournful melody that twisted her insides. 
	That night, she could hear the sounds of the ward—distant moans and the soft hum of fluorescent lights. The ghosts gathered around her bed, their faces contorted in pain. 
	“You’re one of us now,” the seventeen-year-old girl said, her voice low and haunting. 
	“No! I won’t join you!” Felicity screamed, but there was no one to hear her. 
	The following day, the doctor decided to increase her medication. “It’s for your own good,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. 
	Felicity felt the world tilt, her thoughts sluggish and heavy. “You have to believe me,” she mumbled, but the doctor only nodded, a faint smile on his lips. 
	Days passed, and the ghosts became more aggressive. They would whisper in her ear, their breath cold against her skin. She could feel their fingers brushing against her, a constant reminder of their presence. 
	“Please, help us!” the seven-year-old boy cried, his voice a shrill wail that pierced through the fog of her medication. 
	“Why don’t you just go?” Felicity shouted, feeling the walls of her sanity crumble. 
	On the third night, she woke to find the room filled with shadows. The ghosts hovered above her, their eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and rage. 
	“They won’t save you,” the twenty-five-year-old man growled, his form shifting in the dim light. 
	Felicity’s heart raced. “No! You can’t have me!” she screamed, scrambling away from them. 
	But the ghosts closed in, their faces twisted in anguish. “You’re one of us now,” they echoed, their voices merging into a haunting symphony. 

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