I don’t like that my parents think I can’t understand their conversations, even though I’m almost 12. I don’t always get everything they are saying, but I can tell whether they are sad, happy, or angry. Or if it has to do with me.
I was 8 when they talked with Mr David about the woman. They thought I was too busy drawing circles with crayons, but it was just an easy way for me to seem distracted while, even then, I listened.
David owned the house we rented; I always liked him. He told my parents the house caught fire years ago, and that a lady who lived there by herself got trapped and burnt with it.
That really scared me, since I think about ghosts all the time, even though Dad always reassured me that they don’t exist.
But then I saw the burnt woman in my bedroom.
In the middle of the night, I woke up and a scream caught in my throat -- she was sitting at the foot of my bed. The moon was the only light in the room, but I could still make out how the white of her eyes shined, and how her skin looked like black coal. Her smile was huge, and also very white.
I still couldn’t scream, I was too afraid. I closed my eyes as she said: why don’t you want to see me?
“You don’t like how I look?” she asked.
She spoke softly; I could hear her smiling.
I stayed up all night. I only heard her again in the morning, as she crawled out of my window. I peeked as she closed it, and noticed her thin tangled hair trailing down her back.
My parents woke up five minutes later or so. Once I could move again, I went downstairs for breakfast. Mom and Dad asked me why I looked so tired, so I told them about the ghost.
“I know Mr. David’s story was a little scary, but ghosts aren’t real. You just had a nightmare,” my dad said.
I knew they were probably right, and I felt embarrassed while eating my toast. That night, we prayed for my guardian angel to protect me from any more bad dreams.
But despite my prayers, she came back. This time, she was looking through my closet.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the nightmare to end. But when I looked over my covers I saw she had turned at me with that huge smile.
“This was my room.”
She pulled out a sky blue dress. Mom stored some of her things in my bedroom because she ran out of space in her dresser.
The woman put on the dress over her own clothes. The bright blue popped against her burnt skin.
“Look at me… Look how pretty it looks! It should be mine because this is my room, and this is my house.”
I pulled my sheets over my head, peaking out to see if she was still there. She danced with her arms raised, a ballet of spins and little hops. I hoped my parents would hear something and wake up. They didn’t. Eventually, when the sun came up, she took off the dress and left through the window.
The burnt lady came back often, and I rarely slept. I stopped mentioning it to my parents because they thought I was lying to get attention, and it made them turn angry and impatient. I wasn’t sure anymore whether I was more scared of the woman, or of talking with them about her. One night, I got so scared I peed in my bed.
“Why didn’t you go to the bathroom?” my mom yelled. “I’m the one who has to clean this!”
I started crying. Mom looked at Dad, and without saying a word, hugged me.
That’s why I met Dr. Noel. He’s very kind, and I really miss him. I went to see him every week; we played UNO as he listened to my stories about the burnt woman, and asked me how I felt about school, friends and living in my house.
One afternoon Dad picked me up from soccer practice. He had some exciting news: “I found a new job in Miami, your aunt’s city. We’ll be moving there soon.”
I was even happier than Dad - I’d soon be free of my ghost.
The last time I saw the lady was when I was sleeping in my parents’ room. Through the crack in the bedroom door, I saw her leave my room and go up and down the stairs.
The day we moved, Mr David, who’d become really good friends with Mom and Dad, passed by to pick up the house keys. He asked me whether I liked living there. I tried smiling as I shrugged, and all the adults laughed -- I could tell my parents were a little embarrassed.
“Sorry David,” said Mom. “Ricardo loved the house, but he kept having nightmares about the previous owner. The one who died in the fire.”
I think Mr. David wanted to calm me down, but what he said next only let me know I wasn’t the only one who doesn’t understand everything. I also learned that Mom and Dad sometimes don’t understand things either.
“Oh no,” he said, “she actually didn’t die. It was kind of a miracle.”
My parents were shocked.
“Well, Ricardo kept dreaming about a burnt woman going into his bedroom,” said Dad.
Mr. David never looked as serious as he did in that moment.
He said he didn’t want to alarm us, but that some neighbors had seen the old owner walking around the neighborhood, usually at night or in the morning. Everyone recognized her because of her disfigured appearance, burnt from head to toe.
Even at 8 years old, I understood what he meant: that the woman wasn’t a ghost, or a nightmare. She was real and alive.
Mom and Dad got very pale, and very quiet. They said goodbye to David, and we left town. They stayed silent for the rest of the day.
