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by BeeJay
Rated: 13+ · Interactive · Ghost · #2259179
A family's new home has a previous occupant,... a ghost.
Chapter 1

A Ghost of My Former Self

    by: BeeJay   More by this author
My name is Bonnie Burns, and this is my story.

I was born in 1879, into one of America's wealthiest families. We owned several houses, but my favorite was the one my father had built a year after my birth. Many times, I expressed the wish that I could stay at that Connecticut home forever. Needless to say, I was overjoyed when Father told me that that house would be part of my dowry when I got married. In 1896, when I turned 17, I had two or three proposals to consider, and we went to my favorite house to give me time to think.

Unfortunately, a fever swept the land that year, and I was among those who were laid low by the illness. I honestly don't know how long I lay in my sick bed, delirious.

Then, one day - I know not which - I found myself standing in my room, fully dressed. How I came to be dressed, I did not know. I may have thought that it was lingering effects from the fever.

Leaving my room, I saw that my entire family had gathered, and that the mood was somber. I could tell that someone had died, but no one would speak of who it was. I asked several of them, but they paid me no mind.

I saw my mother, inconsolable. I went to her and asked, "Mother! It's good to see you again, after my illness. But who has departed from us? I have asked everyone here, but none will respond."

Most peculiarly, Mother would not answer me, either. I saw Clytie, one of our servants - the one assigned to me, in fact - eye me queerly, as if I were the last person she expected to see. Out of all in the house, she was the sole one to behave as though I were there. However, it was unseemly for a resident of the home to pose a question of the servants if one's parents were there, so I could not ask anything of her.

I walked to the parlor in the house, where a coffin was presented. If none will tell me who lies in state, I thought, then I must see for myself. I approached the casket and looked upon the face of the one who was mourned.

"No," I said, gazing at the face. "It cannot be. It cannot. This must be some foolish idea of a joke."

But I knew it wasn't. My father, love him though I did, was not a one for badinage. Something was at work in this, but it was not amusing to any of us, myself in particular.

The face of the one who had died... was my face.

I was a ghost.
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